Barbara Metzger (19 page)

“It’s a good thing I arrived when I did. This place certainly needs a woman’s touch.”

“You are not staying,” he uttered through clenched teeth. She could see the muscles of his jaw spasm.

Just then another long line of footmen, all in Maitland’s blue-and-gold livery, entered the hall. One short fellow was hidden behind a tall pile of parcels, but there was no hiding the man’s wooden leg.

“What the devil?”

“Oh, we knew how you wanted to keep an eye on the man, so we brought him along.”

Keep an eye on him? Lee wanted the fellow bound and gagged. He started forward, but felt an arm at his elbow.

“He’s given his parole not to escape, and really, you’ll find him quite useful.”

Lee was about to tell her how he could use the old trooper as bait when he went fishing next, when a woman entered through the open doors. She was dressed in black from head to toe, with a veil hiding her face, so all Lee could tell was that she was of average height. She curtsied in his direction, then followed a maid up the stairs.

“Who the blazes was that?”

“Oh, that was my new companion,” Senta gaily replied. “You wouldn’t want me traveling alone, would you? It’s not at all the thing.”

He didn’t want her traveling, period, but before he could utter the words, a maid in a gray uniform with a gray cape entered, with a blanket-draped bundle in her arms. Wheatley had a footman escort her above.

“And that? That…?”

“We’ll discuss that later, my lord, when you’re feeling more the thing.”

“We’ll talk about it now.” He took her arm in a none-too-gentle hold and half dragged Senta down the hall.

She could only be glad he hadn’t seen Sir Parcival, who’d gotten hold of a medieval lute somewhere in the
ether and was trying to fix its strings. He was dressed today in some iridescent silver suit, with ruffles on his shirt collar. And his legs were twitching.

“What’s wrong with you?” she mouthed at him behind Lee’s back. Did ghosts get rabies?

“Well, bless my soul,” he replied with a wink, kissing the instrument. “I’m in love.” He disappeared through the wall, leaving Senta feeling somewhat bereft, somewhat relieved.

And more than somewhat nervous as she faced her angry husband in his library. She was pleased to see that this room, at least, was in excellent repair, with a fire going in the grate. She started toward the warming flames, but her husband took her arm again and swung her to face him.

“What is the meaning of this, madam?” he shouted. “Don’t you know this will make it twice as hard to get an annulment?”

Of course she knew. Senta’s heart rejoiced that he hadn’t seen the deed done already.

Just then someone cleared his throat. They both turned to find Mr. Calley, his lordship’s secretary, standing red-faced behind his desk.

Senta nodded to him, having met the man when he came to the Meadows to help with the wedding arrangements. He was quite the tallest man of her acquaintance, taller than the viscount, taller than Sir Parcival, who had entered the room through the ceiling and was studying the secretary’s long frame. He was wearing that remembering look Senta was beginning to know quite well, half-hopeful, half-confused. Trying to see if a name could jar his memory, Senta began, “Good day to you, Mr. Cal—”

But his lordship interrupted. “That will be all for today, John.”

“Very well, my lord, Lady Maitland. And may I take this opportunity to welcome you to—”

“No, you may not. Her ladyship is not staying. You are excused, John.”

Senta had taken the opportunity to remove her fur-lined cloak and seat herself near the fire. Let the viscount shout across the room if he wanted; Senta was not going to budge.

To which end she informed her husband, “I am not leaving.”

Lee took three deep breaths to calm himself. Then he started pacing. “What happened to the sweet young thing I married? In two weeks you’ve turned into the most hardheaded of women.”

Sir Parcival’s legs started having tics again. Senta couldn’t watch the poor man’s palsy anymore. She turned back to her husband in time to hear: “I could have you picked up and carried home bodily, you know. A wife is a husband’s property, to do with as he will. But I am not a tyrant. If you are so determined to be here, say your piece now, before I move to one of my clubs.”

“What, and make a laughingstock of both of us? Is that why you married me?”

Things were bad enough already, Lee knew. He was well aware that they were the butt of every kind of malicious gossip going the rounds. The bridegroom appearing in London within days of his wedding, sans bride, was a natural target for conjecture, if not outright insult. As a matter of fact, he had not been going to his clubs for that very reason. Nor Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Parlor, Manton’s Gallery, or any other of his usual haunts. He hadn’t brought himself to seek out his solicitor yet either.

So he wouldn’t move out. Rather than concede, however, he growled, “That’s better than why you married me, I swear.”

Senta wanted to tell him that she’d married him because she loved him and wanted desperately to make
him love her. Instead she quietly told him, “I married you because I thought we could be happy together.”

Lee ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, now you can see that we don’t suit. You’d be better out of the marriage.”

The best offense being a good defense, Senta went on the attack. “You wouldn’t betray your country, would you?”

“Of course not. What’s that to the purpose?”

“The purpose is that your brother would no more commit treason than you would!”

“My brother? What do you know about my brother? Oh, you’ve been talking to the old gaffer with the wooden leg.”

“No, I’ve been listening to Private Waters. There’s a difference, you know.”

“And what did that mawworm try to get out of you, to insure his silence?”

“All he wants is to clear your brother’s name, my lord. Why can you not accept that?”

Lee turned from his pacing and pounded his fist into the mantel. “Because it’s impossible, that’s why. Dash it, do you think I could accept that my brother was a traitor without proof? They showed me, his general, his field officer, his major, the colonel who treated Michael like his own son. The man had tears in his eyes, by Jupiter.”

Sir Parcival had tears in his eyes now, too.

“But what if they were wrong?” Senta asked quietly.

“If they were wrong, then Michael would be alive.”

“Unless someone killed him in such a fashion to make him look more guilty.”

“Killed him? You and that…relic have concocted a murder out of this?” He finally took a seat in the chair facing Senta’s, with his head thrown back.

“Would you rather believe your brother was a traitor or a murder victim?”

For the first time, Lee began to doubt what he’d been
given as truth. “Do you have proof? Damn, just a shred of evidence would give me hope.”

“You’ll have to speak to Private Waters for yourself. I was convinced, I admit.”

“And that’s what brought you to London?”

Senta didn’t answer. She just asked how far he’d gotten with his search for the two wellborn civilians who were at army headquarters at the right time, who won Michael’s gambling chits the night before the ambush.

“Half the War Office staff is away on holiday still, but I’ve managed to get a list of what wounded officers were sent home on leave that sennight. I have men making inquiries as to how they were transported, who met them, et cetera.”

“If they were Londoners, Mona could recognize them for you.”

“Mona? Wasn’t Mona the name of Waters’s Spanish, ah, convenient? Please tell me that the woman who entered my house dressed in black, your new companion, is not a common camp follower.”

“She was no such thing. She was Michael’s fiancée.”

Now he reached across the space between their chairs and took her hands in his. “Senta, you have a kind heart, but people will tell you what they want you to believe. That doesn’t make it so. Michael would have written to me if he was betrothed.”

Squeezing his hand, trying to make him see, Senta asked, “Would you have approved? Was Michael a frequent correspondent? Were the mails from Portugal always reliable?”

“No. No. And no. But that doesn’t prove this female even knew Michael. She and Waters could have cobbled this hubble-bubble for your sake. They want your sympathy, don’t you see, so you will come down heavy with conscience money. Or convince me to.”

Senta touched the heavy gold signet ring that never left his hand. “She has Michael’s ring. And no, don’t even think of saying that she could have stolen it. According to Private Waters, some of the evidence against Michael was that he was found with a great deal of money. That would have been easier to take, easier to get rid of, than his distinctive ring. I really believe she loved your brother. She wants to help find his murderer.” Reluctantly she removed her hands from his. “We all want to help.”

“What, get another female involved in this? Never. It was bad enough trying to shield you from possible scandal, Senta, but now… If there really is a murderer loose, I don’t want you or any other woman anywhere near. No, you and your, ah, companion are going home in the morning.” Lud, how could he keep her here, when just the touch of her hand had him yearning to make her his?

“Without anyone to protect us? You wouldn’t.”

Deuce take it, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t let her go again. Bad enough there were highwaymen and bands of unemployed soldiers on the roads, now he’d have to worry about murderous traitors, too. Besides, he could see that Senta was struggling to hide her yawns and drooping eyelids. The journey must have been wearisome. “We’ll speak of this again in a day or two, when you have rested.”

That was more than she’d hoped for. Senta hurried to her feet before he could mention the two words she wanted least to hear.

“But this changes nothing between us, you know. I still intend to seek an annulment.”

There was one of them.

“Oh, and perhaps you might spare me a last moment to explain that other item you thought we’d discuss later.”

“Item? I don’t recall anything else that we needed to discuss, as long as you agree to speak to Private Waters and Mona.” She scurried toward the door, knowing that a footman would be on the other side waiting to show her to her room, where she’d be safe. If Lord Maitland
was going to have the marriage set aside, he certainly was not going to be visiting her this evening.

“The baby, Senta.”

There was the second word. “The, ah, baby?” She turned at the door and took a deep breath. “The baby. Yes, well, she has your smile. When you smile, that is.”

“What?” Lee bellowed. He was not smiling now. “Are you accusing me of leaving my butter stamp around the countryside?”

“Of course not. That is, I hope you shan’t be bringing baseborn children home, except if you do not intend to make our marriage a true one, and you still wish heirs, I suppose—”

“Senta!”

“Very well. She is Mona’s baby, and Michael’s. The sweetest, dearest infant you can imagine. Her name is Vida.”

Lee shook his head. “You did say fiancée, didn’t you, in reference to Michael’s inamorata? Not wife?”

“These things happen, my lord.”

“Oh, I am well aware that they happen. They just don’t usually happen in noble households in the middle of London, where gossip is as pervasive as the fog. Your so-called companion is no better than she ought to be, and her child is a bastard.”

“And your niece.”

He ignored that for now. “Just what kind of acceptance do you think you’ll find in London, or anywhere in the whole country for that matter, if it’s spread about that you associate with soiled doves and their illegitimate offspring?”

“About as friendly a reception, my lord, as I would get if your brother is named a traitor, which he might be without Mona’s help. And as cordial a greeting as I would receive if you cast me aside like an old shoe. Good night, my lord.”

With that, she made good her exit, before her husband could issue any orders.

“Bloody hell,” Lee muttered to himself as he poured a glass of brandy. “Does a man ever win one of these arguments?”

“Once in a blue moon,” Sir Parcival answered. “Once in a blue, blue moon.”

Chapter Eight

It was even more important to find the blackmailer now, Lord Maitland thought. If there really was a murder, then the blackhearted extortionist might lead him to Michael’s killer. He might even
be
Michael’s killer, so confident that he’d gotten away with his heinous crime. Lee
would
find him, and make him pay.

But it made no difference, he thought, sitting by the fire, whether Michael was exposed as a traitor or exonerated as a victim of foul play. Senta would still be better off with the man of her dreams.

The man of her dreams—fuddled nightmare, more like—was having girl trouble of his own. Sir Parcival was in the nursery playing with little Vida, but she wanted to be picked up. The infant could not understand why her friend with all the glittery rings and gem-studded belts would not lift her out of the prison of her cradle.

“I’d rock you if I could, buttercup, all night long,” he told the unhappy child, “but my rocking won’t work any better ’n my memory. Now, roll over and go to sleep.”