Barbara Metzger (24 page)

“Really, Lee? Marie Flambeau is boring?”

He grinned and swept her into the waltz just beginning. “She’s not you.”

Chapter Twelve

Sir
Parcival was wrong, Senta decided. He must be an angel after all, for this surely felt like heaven. She drifted in her husband’s arms and didn’t even notice when he signaled the orchestra to play the waltz again without intermission. She didn’t notice, either, how many high-strung young girls in white gowns were swooning as Sir Parcival moved among the ranks of those debutantes not permitted the waltz. Wheatley did, having left his post by the door to announce supper as soon as his lord and lady ceased acting like mooncalves. He ordered the windows opened onto the balcony. Sir Parcival went to see if the rain had stopped.

When the waltz was over, Lord and Lady Maitland led their company into the supper room, which was, in fact, two parlors thrown open and filled with small tables and huge buffets. Every delicacy imaginable was offered, mounded into heart shapes, colored with cherry or raspberry sauce, decorated with spun-sugar cupids. Numbered lace valentines were handed out to all the young people as they entered, the youths from Lord Maitland’s red basket, the girls from Senta’s. Matching numbers denoted partners for the dance following supper. By some odd coincidence, the viscount pulled the same number as his wife.

There was teasing and laughter and a few good-natured groans as when Lord Hathaway discovered he’d been partnered to his sister. The chaperones smiled indulgently, pleased with Lady Maitland for guaranteeing at least one dance for the least favored chits. There would be no wallflowers at Senta’s ball, she’d vowed.

But she’d saved the best partner for herself.

The dance was the quadrille, whose intricacies required concentration and precision. Senta was tripping along gaily, pleased with how well Lee’s steps and hers matched, when he whispered in her ear, “Don’t look now, but Teddy’s brother and the baron have arrived.” She stumbled; he stepped on one of the chiffon panels of her gown; there was a loud tearing noise.

“You did that on purpose,” Senta accused, holding her skirts up as he led her off the dance floor. “You didn’t want me near those men, so you made sure I’d have to go pin my hem up instead.”

Lee just smiled and kissed her hand. As soon as she was out of the ballroom, Senta raced to the ladies’ retiring chamber, where her own maid would be waiting to assist any of the guests in need of just such repairs. She didn’t notice the inordinate number of young chits having smelling salts waved under their noses, but she did smile when a few of their friends asked why they hadn’t been introduced to Lady Maitland’s most attractive guest.

“Oh, your mamas would not see the wisdom of it.” They would not see Sir Parcival at all. “He’s not suitable company for unattached females. Too dangerous by half,” she told them, increasing by fourfold their desire to meet the mysterious stranger.

While Senta was having her gown mended, Lord Maitland was playing host.

“Sorry you missed my wife, Sir Randolph, Baron. She’s gone upstairs for a moment. I’m sure she’d bid
me welcome you to our home and direct you to the dining room. Supper is over, but refreshments are laid out there.”

The two men protested that they’d just come from dinner.

“The musician’s are in fine form this evening if you care to take the floor. No? Cannot say as I blame you—I usually find it excruciatingly tedious myself—but with the proper partner…” He let his words trail off like some besotted newlywed. Let them think he had nothing on his mind but his pretty young bride.

“If I cannot interest you in the food or the dancing, I suppose it’s the cardrooms. We have two chambers set up. One’s for silver loo and chicken stakes, and the other is for more serious gaming. I hate trying to play my hand when ladies are chatting over their cards, don’t you?”

Lee was leading them out of the ballroom as he spoke. Sayre was quick to agree, but Northcote held back. “Odd to find such arrangements at a ball,” he noted.

“Yes, but my wife is a remarkably understanding woman. Besides,” the viscount added confidentially, “she’d rather see me enjoying myself with the pasteboards than with another female.”

They laughed, buying his explanation, so he went on: “Truth to tell, I aim to get there as soon as Lady Maitland returns to oversee things in the ballroom. Be honored if you save me a seat.”

The two men nodded, happily calculating how much blunt they could extract from the viscount’s deep pockets. With all the extravagance they saw around them, he’d never notice. Lee was just about to steer them into the hall when he stopped abruptly. “Oh, but you’ll want to greet your brother first, Sayre. He tells me he’s been recuperating in Bath. The waters must have finally done someone good, for he seems right as a trivet to me. Except for the sling, of course. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to see how he’s come along.”

Lord Maitland held Sir Randolph’s arm so the baronet couldn’t demur as Lee led him back through the ballroom. “I’m sure you’ll want to see young Teddy, too, Northcote. He told us what great service you did in seeing him home.”

Northcote tried to shrug off the praise, but Lee was having none of it. “I only wish I’d been able to do as much for my young brother.” A shadow passed across his face, but then he smiled when they reached the rows of gilded chairs. “Here we are. Doesn’t our lieutenant look fit? Oh, and may I make you known to Señora Vegas, my wife’s companion?”

The two men made their bows, asked after Teddy’s health, and made a beeline for the cardrooms as if the pigeons would all fly away before they could be plucked. Behind their backs, Mona nodded.

*

A middle-aged dandy who appeared to be half in his cups called out to Sayre to join his table in the more private cardroom. Lord Dunbarton hailed the baron. “I say, Northcote, good timing. We need a fourth over here. Cantwell lost his purse and went back to try his hand with the heiresses.”

The two men’s eyes locked in silent communication, then they split up and took their seats. There were only four deal tables in the paneled room, and a well-filled sideboard of liquid refreshments presided over by two liveried footmen. Play was quiet and deep. Occasionally a gentleman would throw in his hand and leave in disgust, or check his watch and mutter about returning to the ballroom to escort his wife home. Empty seats were quickly filled, as were empty glasses.

The two men were not to know that Wheatley himself stood at attention outside that room, directing the casual gamblers toward the much larger cardroom. Only a select group of well-informed, well-prepared gentlemen were permitted to enter this particular chamber.

Neither were Sayre and Northcote to know that they were being allowed to win in order that they might grow overconfident, that they were being deliberately separated, or that Sayre, whose penchant for the bottle matched his pursuit of the baize, was being deliberately plied with spirits. The baronet’s eyes took on a feral gleam, from the piles of coins and counters in front of him and from the alcohol inside him. He kept licking his lips, like a snake flicking its forked tongue in and out. He barely acknowledged Viscount Maitland when Lee finally slipped into a seat at the table, and paid no attention to the crowd of spectators who had gathered round to witness the play, or the additional servants carrying trays, fresh decks, and cigars. Sayre certainly never noticed Sir Parcival drift through the room and out to the terrace.

The stakes went higher; likewise the pile of coins and notes and markers in the center of the table. And then the real wagering began.

Lee raised the ante and pushed his bid to the middle. The man to his right, the foppish, inebriated Honorable Mr. Bradford, made a great show of deliberating over his move. Lee took the opportunity to say, “Señora Vegas recalled meeting you in Spain.” He spoke softly, so as not to be heard at the other tables. Only three were in play now, Maitland’s, Northcote’s, and one other, the members of the fourth having abandoned their game to watch this higher-stakes contest.

His eyes shifting from the pot to the cards in his hand, Sayre snickered. “I met a lot of señoras there. And señoritas, too.” A few of the men around them chuckled.

Lord Maitland went on: “Mrs. Vegas was a friend of your brother’s over there.”

“They still are, from the looks of things,” Mr. Bradford volunteered, slurring his words. “He hasn’t left her side all night.”

The baronet was getting impatient. “Your play, Bradford. My brother is old enough to keep his own company.”

Bradford made his wager, but Lord Maitland wasn’t finished. “Mona was a better friend of my brother’s.”

“That the way of it, eh?” Sayre managed to get a leer into his tone. “Surprised you let her companion your wife.”

“The lady”—Lee emphasized the
lady
—“has been a great help to us in our time of sorrow.”

Some of the other gentlemen murmured words of condolence, and the play continued around the table. When it got to Maitland’s turn, the viscount spoke again. “You must be proud of your brother, Sayre. Getting decorated on the field, mentioned in the dispatches.”

“Yes, yes, he was a bloody hero. Are you going to blather all night or are you going to bet?”

Lee ignored Sayre’s vexation. “I was proud of my brother, too.”

Mr. Bradford, half falling out of his chair, mumbled, “Thought he shot himself cleaning his gun. Doesn’t take a lot of courage, I’d say.” He was immediately hushed by Lord Sinclaire in the seat across from him.

“I don’t believe that’s what happened,” Lee said. “Neither does Mona, that is, Señora Vegas. What do you think, Sayre?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Dash it, are you going to play? My cards are growing cold.”

Lee just stared down at his own hand. “Oh, but you must have thought about Michael’s death. You were with the army at the time. There had to be talk.”

Sayre’s tongue darted in and out. He finally lifted his eyes from the table to look at Maitland. He obviously didn’t like what he saw there, for he was quick to utter: “I didn’t listen. Didn’t concern me.”

“Oh, but I think you did. I think you know a lot more about my brother’s murder than anyone.”

“Murder?” Sayre’s voice rose. “No one said anything about murder.”

“Did they mention treason then?”

Sayre looked from side to
side. All the men were avoiding his eyes. “I heard something, yes.”

“And blackmail. Did you hear about that, too, or was the extortion all your idea?”

The baronet’s tongue was doing double time. He looked longingly at the fortune in the middle of the table. “I don’t know anything about blackmail.”

“A man fitting your description was seen in Olney Street the day I was attacked while attempting to deliver the payoff. Attacked from behind, too.”

“That’s absurd. No one saw— That is, no one could have seen me, for I wasn’t there.”

“No, but you were at Mother Nattick’s bordello that afternoon, which just happens to have a rear exit on Olney Street.”

Sayre tried to laugh. It came out as a croak. “A chap has certain needs. Not all of us are so lucky as to have a pretty young bride.” He looked around for understanding. There wasn’t a friendly face in the crowd.

Maitland was on his feet. “You will leave my wife out of this, you scum.” He nodded to Mr. Bradford, who was no longer slouched in his seat

The dandy, currently attached to the Lord High Magistrate’s office, pulled a legal document out of his pocket. “I hereby arrest you in the name of the Crown for the crimes of extortion, bodily assault, and treason. You are under arrest.”

Lord Sinclaire on Sayre’s other side made to grab his arm, but the baronet pulled away, still eyeing the booty on the table. “What, go from a jackpot to a king’s warrant? I’m hurt,” he claimed, one last bluff. “Yes, that’s it. I’m hurt that…that suspicious minds could accuse me of such heinous acts on the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence from an abbess and a Spanish whore.”

Major Lord Sinclaire, currently out of uniform, threatened, “Just give the Home Guards one night with you and you’ll be singing a different tune.”

“And the last refrain from my fists,” claimed Maitland, pushing the others aside to land Sayre a facer, then another. “That’s one for the money, and two for the blow to my head.” He was about to start enumerating the other crimes on Sayre’s hapless body, with none of the others the least bit interested in interfering.

Sayre held his hand up. “You’re right, but I’m not going to be left holding the bag. Northcote was the traitor. He killed your brother.”

“And he’s gone!” one of the men at the other table yelled, shoving his chair aside.

From the circle around Maitland and Sayre, Mr. Calley shouted. Taller than the rest, he looked over their heads. “He’s headed for the door!”

Where Wheatley was positioned with Teddy and three other young officers from his and Michael’s unit. Senta was hovering nervously nearby, awaiting the outcome of their machinations.

Northcote saw the soldiers ready to pounce on him or give chase. They had dress swords and pistols, and twenty years less of dissolute living. No escape there. So he pulled a pistol out of his pocket, snatched Lady Maitland against his chest, and dragged her back with him to the cardroom, warning her that he’d bash her over the head if she made so much as a peep.