Dangerous to Kiss (2 page)

“Helena,” said Gray gently, breaking into her train of thought, “you mentioned Miss Weyman. When and where did you meet her?”

“There was a picnic on the lawns of Lord Barrington’s rented house in Paris. All the children and their parents were invited. Miss Weyman arranged the thing for Lord Barrington’s boy.”

She and Eric had been there with their own children, but Helena said nothing of this. She never mentioned
them to Gray unless he particularly asked about them. This was not because she did not love her children. What she wished to avoid was anything that might detract from her image as a desirable woman. A mother who had two growing sons at Eton and a daughter in the nursery was not the impression she wished to create.

“When was this?” asked Gray.

“Now
that
I do remember. It was in May, you know, just before His Majesty declared war on France. Well, you must remember the confusion with everyone trying to get out of Paris before Bonaparte closed French borders?”

“Oh yes, I remember. I should. I was there.”

Lady Helena did not know what to make of Gray’s odd tone or his interest in Deborah Weyman, but she knew that she did not care for the suspicion that had begun to take hold in her mind.

Gray set down his glass. “I have a particular reason,” he said, “for asking about Miss Weyman. Perhaps I mentioned that in Gil’s will, Miss Weyman and I are both named as Quentin’s guardians?”

“Lord Barrington named a woman as one of his son’s guardians? How very odd.”

“Yes, isn’t it? And since I hardly know her, and we are soon to confer about the boy’s future, I wondered what manner of woman I must deal with. Oh, not that it matters. In English law, as Miss Weyman will soon discover, if she does not already know it, a female’s title to ‘guardian’ is a mere courtesy.”

“You hardly know Miss Weyman? But I thought … well … Lord Barrington was your friend, was he not, and a colleague at the Foreign Office? And you were both delegates at the peace talks in Paris. You must have formed some impression of the woman?”

Gray shrugged. “I never went to the house in Saint-Germain, and to my knowledge, Miss Weyman was never invited to any of the receptions at the British Embassy. Well, she wouldn’t be, would she, a mere governess?”

“But … since then? After she brought Quentin home to England?”

Gray was beginning to regret that he had raised the subject of Deborah Weyman. Helena was no sloth, and if he did not watch his step, she would soon divine that he had never set eyes on the woman. “What I want,” he said, smiling, “is a woman’s impression of her. She struck me as … no, I don’t wish to put words in your mouth. How did she strike you?”

Her suspicions collapsing, Lady Helena immediately began on an animated recital of all she remembered about Deborah Weyman. It was soon done, for she had met the girl on the one occasion only.

“Is that how she struck you?” she asked, teasing him.

Before he could reply, a voice from the door said smoothly, “I trust I don’t intrude?”

Gray rose as Eric Perrin walked into the room. He was of an age with Gray, dark, darker than his wife, and remarkably handsome. He was smiling, but it was a polite smile, with no warmth in it.
Civilized
, thought Gray cynically as they exchanged the customary pleasantries. He knew from a remark that Perrin had once made to him that he was aware of his affair with Helena. If Helena had been
his
wife, Perrin’s smile would have been marred by a few missing teeth.

He did not like Eric Perrin any more than Perrin liked him. This had nothing to do with Helena, but with their work at the Foreign Office. He had been promoted over Perrin’s head and Perrin had never forgiven him for it. Gray did not linger, but mentioning the lateness of the hour, soon took his leave.

Nothing was said for some few minutes. Helena sipped her sherry. Perrin went to the sideboard and poured a drink for himself.

“You’re back early,” she said.

He shrugged and took the chair Gray had vacated. “A man is entitled to take dinner in his own home once in a while.”

This was a jarring note and she hardly knew how to answer him. She made light of it. “Have all your flirts deserted you, Eric?”

There was no rancor in his reply. “Something like that. Is Kendal your new flirt?”

There was no rancor in her reply either. “Something like that. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason. No reason at all.” He bolted his drink and rose. “I shall be with Gwen in the nursery if you want me,” he said, and sauntered from the room.

When Gray arrived at Kendal House in Berkeley Square, he made straight for his library. For some reason, Helena’s perfume clung to his clothes and he had no wish to explain himself to his mother, the dowager countess, whose nose was infallible, or to his young sister, Lady Margaret, who had a penchant for ferreting out scandal. His brother, Nick, was even more obnoxious. The young pup would immediately wager a large sum of money that he could tell the lady’s identity from one whiff. And what was even more obnoxious was that he could do it too. The thought made Gray smile, but the smile faded when it occurred to him that Nick was in Bath, waiting for him to arrive so that they could finally settle accounts with Miss Deborah Weyman.

On entering the library, he strode to a side table between two long windows meaning to pour himself a glass of sherry. Before he could do so, a cough alerted him to the presence of his secretary, Mr. Philip Standish. He glanced round, and seeing the look on Philip’s face, he said with distaste, “You are right, Philip. I smell awful. Women should learn to be more discriminating in their choice of fragrance. That reminds me. See that Lady Helena Perrin receives a … oh, whatever … as a token of my esteem.”

“Very great esteem?” inquired the secretary, forcing a blush to recede.

“Moderate esteem,” corrected Gray. He had already parted with a diamond pin in Paris, and was annoyed that ridding himself of a woman could prove so costly.

Mr. Standish dipped his pen in his inkpot and duly noted that the lady was to receive a bracelet with a ruby
attached to it. One could tell a lot from the gifts Lord Kendal dispensed to his women.

“Do you have those letters for me to sign?” asked Gray.

“They are on your desk.”

“How’s the vicar?” asked Gray, as he perused the letters.

Philip was gratified by the question. His lordship’s interest in his employees was quite genuine. He removed his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. “He is very well, thank you, sir, and sends his compliments.”

Gray noticed the smile and his brows lifted.

Philip laughed and shook his head. “I received a letter from him today in which he took me to task for burning my hand with sealing wax. I felt like a small boy again.”

“Parents will do that to you every time,” said Gray. “How is the hand, by the way?”

“It’s as good as new.” The injury was three months old, and long healed, but Philip refrained from pointing this out to his employer.

As Gray went back to reading his letters, Philip’s thoughts wandered, as they often did, to their Oxford days, when he and Gray had first met. Even then, Gray had cut a glamorous figure, tall, athletic, and into every sport that was going. He, on the other hand, had a weak chest. He kept his nose in his books. He did not have Gray’s advantages to fall back on if he did not do well in his studies. He had never run with Gray’s set. They had too much money and were too wild for him. But the two young men had formed a friendship of sorts when Philip had undertaken to tutor Gray in Homeric Greek for his final examinations. Gray never forgot a good turn, and when, a year ago, he discovered that Philip was eking out a living as a junior clerk in the Admiralty, he had immediately offered him the far more lucrative and prestigious position as his private secretary at the Foreign Office.

Philip’s father, the sainted vicar, had tried to persuade his son to stay on at the Admiralty. Even as far
afield as Chester, rumors of Gray’s sexual exploits circulated among the gentry, and the vicar feared the influence of such a man on Philip’s morals.

There was another side to Gray, Philip had written to inform the vicar. Gray was one of that elite group of young men who had been singled out by the then prime minster, Mr. Pitt, and groomed to take their places in government service. Gray’s natural bent was foreign affairs, and so he had ended up at the Foreign Office, where he had made quite an impression on the Secretary. He worked long, hard hours, especially now that the war with France had been resumed. And lest the vicar think that his only son was wasting his talents, he had pointed out that his duties involved far more than domestic trivia. By and large, he worked with Gray at the Foreign Office. His work was highly confidential. He rubbed shoulders with men who were becoming legends in their own time. Under Lord Kendal’s sponsorship, there was no saying how far he might go. The vicar was persuaded and the matter was dropped.

“What else needs my attention before I leave?” asked Gray.

Philip picked up a document and cleared his throat. “The lease on the house in Hans Town has fallen due. Do you wish me to renew it or allow it to lapse?”

He couldn’t be bothered with these trifles, not when other more weighty matters were pressing on his mind. “Renew it,” he said. “Is that all?”

“One other thing. Where might I reach you in the next week or two if it becomes necessary?”

“Gloucestershire,” said Gray.

“How is Quentin?”

Gray was already rising to his feet. “As well as can be expected. I shall see you at the reception tonight, Philip?”

Philip knew better than to argue when Gray employed that particular tone of voice. “I look forward to it,” he said simply.

“Good.”

There was a thoughtful look on Philip’s face as he stared at the door Gray closed on his way out.

On entering his own room, Gray threw off his coat and flung himself down in a stuffed armchair. His thoughts were grim, and at the same time, he was possessed of a restless energy. For three months, he had been playing a part, living a lie, promoting the fiction that all was well with his ward and his governess. The playacting would soon be over, and everyone would know that Deborah Weyman had abducted Quentin and gone into hiding. It had taken his agent more than a month to track her down, and almost a month after that to verify information and observe her movements.
But by God, they had found her!
And this time, she would not escape him; this time, he would be there in person to see that nothing went wrong.

Rising, he strode to the bell rope beside the fireplace and yanked impatiently. When a footman arrived, Gray bade him go to the cellars and bring him a bottle of his finest cognac. This was soon done. He drank the first glass in one long swallow. Shaking his head at his intemperance, he poured himself another and, seating himself, sipped it slowly. Then, closing his eyes, he focused all his thoughts on the sequence of events that had led to the present moment.

Paris. It had all started in Paris during those last frenetic days when war was declared. They had known it was coming, and those attached to the diplomatic corps had taken the precaution of sending their wives and children home before the French decided to close French borders. He had been one of the last to leave, as had his good friend, Gil Barrington. Gil had delayed because Quentin was not fit to travel. All the same, he had been onto something before he met his death, close to unmasking someone who was betraying sensitive information to the French during the peace talks.

Gray had known that information was being leaked to the French, but he had failed to discover its source. He’d had an appointment with Gil on the night he was murdered so that they could compare notes, an appointment
that Gil had subsequently canceled. At the time, Gray had thought nothing of it. He hadn’t been thinking clearly, of course. Everything was in chaos. Everyone was trying to get out of Paris. He’d expected to meet up with Gil in London. Instead, a week after he returned, Talleyrand sent word that Lord Barrington had been tragically murdered by a thief whom he had surprised in the library of his house in Saint-Germain.