Dangerous to Kiss (24 page)

Deborah reinforced that message with her own flinty eye. At this rate, she would never hear the salacious details of Lord Kendal’s private life. Soon, the gentlemen would be joining them and the opportunity would be lost. Convinced that Meg had got the message, she turned back to the countess.

“A single man,” she repeated encouragingly.

“Yes,” said the countess. “But you must not think that, when the time comes, Gray will not make a worthy husband. He hasn’t met the right woman yet, ’tis all. When he does, the house in Hans Town will become ancient history. You may take my word for it.”

Meg made a sound that suspiciously resembled a smothered snort.

Gussie shook her head. “Mama, you are not explaining this very well. May I?”

“Please do.”

“What Mama means to say is that Gray does not lack for female companionship. That is why he has a house in Hans Town. Oh, you need not fear Gray has designs on you. His mistresses are all experienced women of the world. He would never dream of taking up with a virtuous girl. Governesses and so on are not his style.”

“What exactly,” said Deborah, unashamedly fishing, “do you mean by ‘women of the world’?”

When Gussie hesitated, Meg said, “Mrs. Brewster
for one. Mama, you need not look so shocked. I am practically eighteen years old. These morsels of gossip are bound to get back to a man’s sister.”

“That
is not what shocks me,” said the countess. “But Mrs. Brewster! Oh dear! She is so
vulgar
, though she is an actress. What on earth does Gray see in her?”

“She is probably
inventive,”
said Deborah acidly.

This contribution to the conversation meant nothing to the others, and after a moment Gussie went on. “That’s old history, Meg. Last I heard, Mrs. Brewster was sporting a bracelet with a ruby clasp, and the new tenant of the house in Hans Town was Caterina Cesari. She’s an opera dancer at Covent Garden, and there is nothing vulgar about Miss Cesari. No, really, Mama, she speaks with a cultured accent, and since Gray has the dressing of her, she is quite elegant. Even Hart says so.”

“That’s something, I suppose,” said the countess faintly.

“A ruby clasp?” said Meg. “I would have thought Mrs. Brewster would have rated a diamond. Still, it’s better than a plain gold bracelet.” To Deborah’s questioning look, she responded, “You can tell a lot about what Gray thinks of his mistresses by the bracelets he gives them when the affair is over. Some few are rewarded with a diamond necklace.”

The countess moaned. “You ought not to know about such things, Meg. Nor should we be talking like this. What would Gray say if he knew?”

“Nonsense, Mama,” said Gussie. “All young girls are curious about such things. I was no better at Meg’s age.” She turned a very direct gaze upon Deborah. “The point is, Gray has a way with women. He can be charming, he can be kind, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. It would be a mistake to read too much into it.”

Deborah relaxed against the back of the sofa. Her face was flushed. “You are telling me all this because you think I stand in danger of losing my heart to him?” Their solemn expressions answered for them, and she gave a start of laughter. “I promise you, I won’t fall in love with him.” She knew that for a certainty. “Lord
Kendal and I are not exactly the best of friends. To be perfectly honest, I find him a mite autocratic for my taste.”

The countess’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “I believe you mean that.”

For two pins, Deborah would have put these ladies wise to the true colors of the charming degenerate who had a way with woman and whom they seemed to revere. She couldn’t tell them, of course, because she was here for a purpose, and that took precedence over everything.

She forced a smile. “You forget, Lord Kendal and I are Quentin’s guardians. We have a business relationship. In plain terms, we do not always see eye to eye, and when Lord Kendal is thwarted, his ‘charm’ flies out the window. He has a temper, ma’am, which he has never tried to conceal from me.”

“Now this is truly interesting,” said Gussie. “I never yet met a woman who was unaffected by Gray’s considerable appeal.”

“You have met her now,” said Deborah. “Might I have more tea?”

When the gentlemen entered the drawing room, Deborah was at her most gracious. She knew that Gray’s mother and sisters were watching her closely, and she schooled herself to appear quite unaffected by the worldly earl. She didn’t ignore Gray, but she never allowed her gaze to wander to him when she was in conversation with someone else.

And she was unaffected, she told herself. Nevertheless, as soon as she could manage it, she excused herself to go to Quentin.

“A toast, gentlemen. Here’s to a glorious British victory with the French on our own shores!”

The group of noisy celebrants, who were seated at a corner table in the dining room of White’s Club, the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in St. James’s, loudly seconded the speaker’s sentiments before draining their glasses. Gray and his companion watched for a moment in silence before turning their backs on them.

“I’d say,” said Lord Lawford, “that the war fever is beginning to sound hysterical. A toast to a French invasion! Young Leathe should know better. He, at least, is a real soldier.”

“Do you think so?” said Gray. “I hear that when he sold out, he saved his commanding officer the trouble of a court-martial.”

Lawford was surprised by Gray’s lack of charity. He glanced again at the table of young men, some of them in officers’ uniforms of the militia, Britain’s reserve army of volunteers and amateurs. “Those coxcombs don’t know one end of a musket from another. I suppose they expect to repel a French invasion with a pair of dueling pistols. If they get their wish, they’ll learn that it will take more than fancy uniforms and empty boasts to frighten Bonaparte away.”

Leaning back in his chair, Gray studied his companion. Oliver Lawford was in his early fifties, with stooped shoulders and a face with the features of a monkey. His clothes were shabby. Lawford’s looks, however, were deceptive. His relatives included two dukes, a marquess, and an earl. His mind was razor sharp and his memory phenomenal. His field of operations was intelligence, but whereas Gray was affiliated with the Foreign Office, Lawford was affiliated with the War Office. They were not exactly friends, but they trusted each other. And as Gray had discovered when he was looking for Deborah and Quentin, Lawford was a useful man to know.

Lawford was making his own appraisal. He liked Kendal, though he wasn’t sure why. The earl was not really his type. He was too glamorous, too wealthy, too much a man of the world. Lawford was none of those things. His tastes ran to fine port and quiet evenings spent at home in the company of his dogs. Yet, he enjoyed these dinners with Kendal and supposed that it had something to do with the fact that the earl did not take himself too seriously. Some called him cynical. Lawford suspected that Kendal was bored, and that only his work at the Foreign Office meant anything to him.

Gray raised his glass of burgundy and took a small sip. “Now tell me what you’ve discovered about this traitor of ours.”

“Damn little, if you want the unvarnished truth. There are too many people to investigate, too many people who were in the know, and all of them above reproach, pillars of the diplomatic corps. These people have influence.” Lawford paused to marshal his thoughts. “I agree with you about trying to work from the other direction. You suspect the informer is the person who murdered Barrington, and I think you are right.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you think I’m right?”

For a moment, Lawford appeared to be nonplussed. “Because … well, because everything points to that conclusion. Lord Barrington knew something and made
an appointment to see you. You received a note canceling the appointment, a note that, in my opinion, is highly suspect. I don’t believe Barrington canceled that appointment. My instincts tell me that the murderer got to hear of it and decided to keep it himself. And so he sent you that note canceling the appointment.”

“That’s what my instincts tell me too,” said Gray. “That means he must have been someone close to me, or close to Gil.” He glanced over his shoulder as a burst of laughter came from Leathe’s table. Turning back to his companion, he picked up a new thread. “Let’s talk about alibis. Where was everyone on the night Gil was murdered?”

“Who knows? Everyone was trying to get out of Paris. Take yourself, for example. Where were you, Kendal, when Lord Barrington was murdered?”

Gray almost laughed. “I was halfway to Calais.”

“Can someone verify that? Your secretary, for instance?”

Slightly taken aback, Gray said, “I was alone. My secretary and I became separated in the confusion. I was in London when the report of Gil’s death reached me.”

Lawford smiled. “That’s what they all say, more or less. You see the problem? We’ve got hardly anything to go on. Most of those who could tell us anything are behind French lines where we can’t get at them right now. All we’ve got are Lady Barrington, your ward, Quentin, and his governess.”

Gray did not respond to Lawford’s speculative look. He had confided the essential facts of Gil’s murder and Deborah’s flight to Wells with Quentin. The only thing he had left out was her abduction and the time she had spent as his captive, not because it showed him in a bad light, but because he wanted nothing to tarnish Deborah’s spotless reputation.

“Are you sure Miss Weyman has told you everything she knows?” asked Lawford.

“Perfectly sure.”

“And there’s no evidence that the boy’s memory is coming back to him?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then you know as well as I do that there’s only one thing to be done.”

Gray took a moment to refill their empty glasses before replying. “I won’t have my ward used as bait. The boy has been through enough already. Besides, the whole point of displaying him is to let the murderer see that he poses no threat to him.”

“If I were the murderer,” mused Lawford, “I would always fear that the boy’s memory would come back to him.”

“He is well guarded. And that’s exactly why we have to find our traitor, so we’ll have the murderer, and Quentin will be safe.”

“And how is Quentin?”

There was a pause as Gray thought about his reply. “He’s doing remarkably well. He’s at Channings right now-you know, Hart’s place.”

“Yes, I know it. It’s right next to your estate, isn’t it?”

Gray nodded. “Hart took Quentin along with his son to get in some riding and fishing. Gussie stayed on in town. Ladies weren’t invited.”

“It’s good to get away from females sometimes,” said Lawford with a laugh.

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Gray.

But it had caused the most almighty row between Deborah and him. She’d wanted to go with Quentin, in spite of the fact that it was supposed to be a male-only event and the rest of the family would be going down there in a week or so. He’d said some harsh things, accusing her of wanting to keep the boy in leading-strings. In the end, he’d told her to discuss it with Quentin. Whatever they decided together would be fine by him. The look on Quentin’s face when he realized Deborah meant to tag along had settled the argument. Deborah made light of it, saying it was only a suggestion, but he could see she was hurt to the quick. He’d gone after her, but she wasn’t in the mood to be comforted, at least not by him. So he’d sent Quentin to her. They’d spent an hour together, and though he had no idea what they had talked about, it had made all the difference to Deb. But
he knew she was counting the days till they would all go down to Channings.

“And Miss Weyman?” said Lawford. “How is she?”

“Very well,” said Gray, and smiled to himself.

Lawford lounged back in his chair and surveyed Gray curiously. Just that morning, his nephew had casually mentioned that Lord Kendal was turning respectable now that he was the guardian of Lord Barrington’s boy. The house in Hans Town had stood empty for quite some time, and no lady’s name had been linked with the earl’s since someone had seen him leaving Helena Perrin’s house on the afternoon of Lady Melbourne’s reception. That had been more than a month ago, right before the earl had gone off secretly to Bath to find the boy and his governess. In the weeks since they had taken up residence in Kendal House, the earl had given up his old haunts. When he wasn’t at the Foreign Office or at his club, he was at home, in the bosom of his family, or he was seen squiring one or another of his female relatives and Miss Weyman about town. Lawford had assumed that Kendal was keeping a close eye on Miss Weyman and his ward as a precautionary measure, but he wondered now if there was more to it.

“My nephew,” he said, “tells me that Miss Weyman is making discreet inquiries about the possibility of finding another position once your ward goes off to school.” This was a blatant lie, but like any intelligence officer worth his salt, Lawford knew how to fish for information.

Gray’s head snapped back. “Your nephew is mistaken.”

Behind his sleepy-eyed gaze, Lawford studied Gray’s hard, blue-eyed stare, the bunched muscles that were tensed for action. “Really?” he asked mildly, smiling to himself. “I expect you are right. I am only repeating what Roger told me.”

Gray signaled to a waiter to bring the bill. “I’d be obliged,” he said, “if you would keep your eyes and ears open. Something may cross your desk that will give us a clue to the traitor’s identity.”

“I’ve already alerted some of my key operators,”
said Lawford, “but I don’t hold out much hope unless your spy becomes active again. Thank you for the dinner. Next time, it’s on me.”

No more mention was made of Miss Weyman, nor did Lawford expect it. He had touched a raw nerve, and now he could hardly wait to make the lady’s acquaintance. Though he wasn’t one who enjoyed the social scene, he had made up his mind that for Deborah Weyman, he was willing to endure the tedium of sprucing himself up and braving the perils of drawing-room conversation. In his desk drawer were several invitations to parties and receptions. One of those invitations bore the earl’s seal.