Kate Moore (16 page)

Ned shrugged. “County girls have. I couldn’t speak for the ladies. But in London there was this Miss Chilton. She was something else, everybody said, an out-and-outer, with a fortune, too. ‘Angel-face,’ they called her. I guess both Drew and Cyril paid her some attentions.”

“Oh, no,” said Margaret.

“Well, all the gentlemen did, but Drew stopped. He met this other one, not a lady, I’m sure. A highflier though. Lydia Denham was her name—a black-haired, scheming jade. She was that quiet about her connection with Drew. Then there was this masquerade at Lady Somebody-or-other’s, a regular high stickler, and this Lydia got Drew to take her.

“Meanwhile Cyril had cut out all the others with Miss Chilton, and there was an announcement in the
Gazette
, and the earl handed out extra horns of ale for everybody. So it seemed everything was all right and tight. But you see this masquerade brought them all together.” Ned was warming up to his story now. “So this Lydia, bold as brass, takes off her mask smack in front of the beauty and Cy and introduces herself as his lordship’s last fancy piece. Then she says—” Here Ned altered his voice. “‘It is a pity you have not been able to compare the two brothers as I have, Miss Chilton; you might have chosen differently.’”

Margaret stared at him, trying to comprehend the effect of such a public moment of humiliation on a proud, cold spirit like the viscount’s.

“It was in all the print shops,” Ned said solemnly. “And Miss Chilton sent a notice to the papers that she and the viscount wouldn’t suit after all.”

“Cyril must have taken some revenge,” Margaret prompted.

“I think he did, but no one knows really, except Cy and Drew. I know Cy bought up Drew’s vowels and bills. Lydia choused Drew out of a pretty penny, you may be sure. Then the old earl called Drew down to Haddon, not straightaway though. Didn’t shout or rage at him at all, just icy cold, and Drew went to Humphrey. The old man called the household together and told us Drew was not his son anymore and no one was to speak to him or help him in any way and we were to report him as a trespasser if he showed his face on Haddon land.”

Margaret was puzzled. She considered what she had heard in the brothel. “So the earl did not disown him immediately?” she asked, certain that somehow there was more to it.

“No,” said Ned, “that’s the strange part. It was about a month later. The prattle-boxes in the kitchen were talking about other gossip already.”

“But everyone thought the earl disowned him over the scrape with Miss Denham?”

“Yes, what else?”

Margaret sighed. “I think there must be something else, but now you must tell me what happened after he was disowned and how he knew that Cyril was going to steal the papers.”

“Well, he gave up women, said as he had neither love nor money to give ’em, he wouldn’t be taking anything either.” Ned shook his head doubtfully.

“Is there something surprising in that, Ned?” Margaret asked. “I should think he would very much dislike my sex after Miss Denham’s betrayal and the trouble she caused him.” She thought it no wonder he had not wished to see her again.

“Oh, aye, miss, but it’s not that easy to say no to a skirt.”

Margaret wanted to press him for further explanation, but she knew she must get to the heart of Drew’s present danger. She looked at Ned, encouraging him to go on.

“Well, this part I know. A fellow in the War Office told Drew—because whatever the rest of the quality thought, the swells in the War Office aren’t easily taken in—anyway, this fellow told Drew that recent leaks had been traced to the earl. It seems that Hookey divides up his information, sends a bit to one fellow, some other bit to someone else, and never tells the whole of it to anyone, and the bits that were getting to the Frenchies were coming from the earl. So Drew figured out the rest, and you know what happened after that,” Ned finished. He stood and stretched and said he must be going.

“Going?” said Margaret. “But we haven’t made our plan to save him yet.”

Ned groaned. He opened his mouth to protest, and Margaret opened hers to forestall him.

“I know,” he said ruefully, “if we don’t do something, he’ll die.”

Margaret smiled appreciatively at this sign of understanding. “Do you think he could be persuaded to leave London?”

“Now? No. Where do you think he would go?”

“To America, to make a new life,” Margaret offered.

“Even if you could persuade him, and I don’t think you could, he has none of the ready,” said Ned dampeningly.

Margaret loosened the strings of her reticule and drew forth the sapphires and the ring. “We could sell these, Ned,” she suggested, “and he would have a grand sum.”

Ned stared at the glittering jewels. “You must be dicked in the nob—begging your pardon, miss, but we couldn’t sell those without somebody saying we stole ’em. Besides, he wouldn’t want ’em sold. He gave them to you?”

“Yes, that first night, in Humphrey’s cottage.” She had a sudden recollection of that very strange moment when Drew had fastened the sapphires around her neck and she had first seen herself as someone else.

“Then he must be in a bad way about you, miss. Those were his mother’s.”

“His mother’s?” She was stunned, remembering what she had thought about him at the time. How wrong she had been from the beginning.

“Aye. Didn’t you see the big painting of her in the hall?”

“I suppose I paid no attention, but the necklace can’t mean that he loves me. He gave it to me before we ever . . .” Her voice trailed away. “If he loves me, why would he want me to marry someone else?”

“You think a man’s going to ask a woman to share his disgrace? I didn’t think so, miss, but maybe you’ve got more hair than wit.” Ned really did make to leave then, and the fear of it made Margaret quick. She leaped to her feet and scurried around in front of him to block his path.

“Ned,” she began warningly. “We have to get Drew out of disgrace to save him. We have to convince the earl that he was wrong to disown Drew, and I know he’d be convinced if only he had heard them in that brothel.”

“Convince the earl he was wrong!” Ned scorned the proposal as he would have scorned a suggestion that they fly. “The quality don’t admit to being wrong much, miss,” he said. “Besides, we don’t know what really happened to make the old man do it, so we don’t know what we have to prove.” He halted, a little bewildered by his own logic.

But Margaret was suddenly inspired. “You are right, Ned. We don’t know. Only Cyril and Drew know. They are the only ones who can convince the earl, so we must get them to do it.” Ned looked at her as if she were quite mad. “We need to bring them together where the earl can overhear them. It’s like a play, Ned. Like
Lear
, or
Othello
, or
Hamlet
.”

“I don’t know who any of those fellows are, miss. Swells, to be sure, but I don’t think they know the earl or Cy.”

“No, of course not, Ned, for they are all characters in Shakespeare’s plays. Cy and Drew are the characters in our play, and the earl, of course.”

“Our play?” said Ned, looking quite baffled.

“Yes, Ned,” said Margaret firmly. “You and I are going to write a play.
Truth Triumphs
or some such nonsense, and we’re going to set it in . . . in Vauxhall,” she finished. “Meet me here tomorrow morning, as soon as you are able, and I’ll tell you your part.” She gathered up the remains of Ned’s food and drink and pulled her cloak about her, preparing to dash to the house.

It was still raining, and Ned wished he hadn’t lost his hat. He turned up his collar.

“What am I going to say to Drew tonight?” he asked.

“Lie,” said Margaret, smiling a brilliant smile at him. Then she was gone.

“Lord,” said Ned, and stepped out into the rain.

16

T
HOSE OF THE
ton
who remarked Margaret Somerley’s vivacity at Lady Nevin’s ball attributed it to various causes. There were young ladies who believed it quite selfish and perhaps wicked of Margaret to attract so many partners, and there were matrons of Lady Somerley’s years who were inclined to believe Margaret’s dress had wrought the change. It was of a yellow sarcenet so pale it might have been distilled sunlight. The bodice was simplicity itself, gathered into a darker yellow cord, threaded like a garland across her white shoulders, and the layers of dainty pin tucks at the hem, ornamented with a single white rose, lent the whole quite a note of elegance.

The young men who found themselves vying for the lady’s favor could scarcely have said why. Miss Somerley seemed to be so interested in whatever a fellow had to say. It was the easiest thing in the world to talk to her about one’s horses or guns or military tactics or mills or how the fireworks at Vauxhall were accomplished. She listened attentively and asked just the sort of questions that allowed one to say more about one’s favorite topic. Still the young man who attempted to explain all this to Viscount Lyndhurst could not help but feel uneasy at his lordship’s deepening frown. Perhaps the wags at the clubs, who were saying that Cyril Durant meant to fix his interest with the girl, were right.

Margaret did not realize that she had made a tactical error in appearing so lively until the viscount, with calculated charm, invited her driving. Even then she would have refused him had he not extended the invitation in the presence of Lady Somerley. Before her mother Margaret could not refuse an invitation from a man to whom, in her parents’ eyes, she owed so great a debt. His insistence that they drive at an unfashionably early hour confirmed her fear that his suspicions were aroused. Blindly she danced two more sets, and the young men, who had counted themselves fortunate to have secured her as a partner, were left to wonder at the sudden change in her manner. The girl had wilted faster than a man’s shirt points in a hot ballroom. Lady Somerley, alarmed at the sudden listlessness of her daughter and concerned that Margaret be in her best looks for what promised to be a significant morning interview, sent for the Somerley carriage.

A faint mist was rising from the rain-soaked roofs and pavement when Margaret left the cold stables. Ned had not appeared. Reluctantly she returned to the house. She could not afford to annoy or upset her parents should the viscount arrive and she be found missing. Everything had gone as she wished until Cyril Durant had maneuvered her into driving with him. Her parents had been only too pleased to organize a party for the gardens. Her mother had supplied the names of a dozen or more guests they ought to include. Her father had readily agreed to the renting of a large supper box. In the interval between her meeting with Ned and their departure for the Nevins’ ball Margaret had searched her father’s volume of Shakespeare’s plays, looking for those scenes of eavesdropping that might suggest to her how she was to assemble her own cast of characters at Vauxhall.

She knew very well that a message to the earl that he would hear of his missing papers at Vauxhall would bring that gentleman, and she had no doubt Cyril would come to the appointed place for the information she offered him. She believed she had assigned Ned a role even he could perform without confusion, and she had provided for him a domino of her father’s. Only her message to Drew had taxed her invention. It was one thing to tell Ned to lie to him and quite another to do so herself. In the end she had settled for a direct appeal.

Dear Drew
, she had written, blushing as if he were there to hear her first use of the intimate address.

Please come to me at Vauxhall. Ned will explain when and where
. Signing this brief epistle occasioned further agonies of indecision, but at last she simply wrote
Meg
as that was what she most wished to hear.

These were the messages she must now entrust to Betsy to deliver into Ned’s hands, if indeed Ned meant to keep their appointment.

***

Cyril Durant’s curricle with its bottle-green trim was a sleek, shining equipage, as elegant as the man himself, the tiny tiger as proudly liveried as one of the prince’s own. Margaret suspected that in all of London there could not be a female more reluctant to enter it than she was. But she accepted the viscount’s hand and seated herself with as much assurance as she could command. She would not, however, speak first. She contrived to look about her as if she had nothing to fear and could truly enjoy the freshness of the morning.

Thus, as they passed through the northwest corner of Grosvenor Square, she received a painful shock. A man of enormous proportions was being assisted into a black traveling chaise. The dangerous tilt of the vehicle as the man’s weight rested upon the steps immediately recalled to Margaret’s mind the last time she had seen Croisset enter his carriage.

The realization of all that the Frenchman’s presence in London must mean deprived her of further awareness of her surroundings. The viscount had turned his curricle into the park and had instructed his tiger to jump down before she recovered in some measure from the apprehension that had seized her at the sight of Croisset. One adversary must not make her weak in the face of another.

“Miss Somerley, do not think to fool me as you have the
ton
,” the viscount began, directing a penetrating stare at her. He set the horses into easy motion through the nearly deserted park. “Your remarkable vivacity last night can only mean you have met with my brother.”

“But I have not, my lord,” said Margaret, with just enough presence of mind to speak calmly. “I have neither seen him nor heard from him.”

“Then perhaps, my dear, your happiness last night was the happiness of anticipation,” he suggested. This was harder to deny, and it required great strength of will for Margaret to meet his gaze.

“Ah, of course,” said the viscount. “The Vauxhall gardens scheme. Your mother mentioned it to me last night. An ideal spot for a lovers’ tryst.”

Margaret looked away. If he thought that, he might still accompany them to the gardens in the hope of catching Drew, but not if he guessed her true purpose. What would he think when he received the note she had sent through Ned?

“Perhaps,” her companion continued, “more than a tryst. Perhaps an elopement?”

Margaret turned to him in amazement. “Your brother, my lord, will keep his word to you. He will not run away from the game.”

“But you have made me no such assurances, have you, Miss Somerley? You would run away and leave me to be shot by the French, would you not?” He flicked the reins, sending the horses into a brisk, jarring trot.

There could be no conversation at this pace, and Margaret found herself curiously unsettled. She must tell him she had seen Croisset. She could not in conscience conceal his danger. But she thought the bitterness of the man beside her would destroy him even if Croisset did not. As soon as the carriage slowed, she spoke.

“I do not wish you to be shot, my lord,” she said, but he only laughed.

“Then you must name a gentleman whose attentions you particularly wish to encourage.”

“There is no such gentleman, as you well know,” Margaret confessed.

“Think, Miss Somerley. Nearly all your mother’s hopes for you are realized. Is she to be disappointed when her expectations are highest?” he asked.

It would be of no use to plead the unfairness of his tactics, for Margaret understood too well that she must choose between Drew and her parents. She remained silent, wondering if anything she could say would heal the breach between the brothers.

“You will not name the man?” the viscount continued in his indifferent way. “Alas, I can wait no longer.”

“So you have not been able to find him,” said Margaret. Her plan might succeed after all, in spite of her adversary’s suspicions.

Then, as if he had read her thoughts, he said, “I, too, have plans. It seems I cannot rely on the greed of my fellow Londoners to deliver him into my hands, so I must lure him out of whatever unholy sanctuary he has found.”

They had nearly completed their circuit of the park, moving again at the languid pace that characterized the viscount at his most controlled.

“An announcement of our engagement in tomorrow’s
Gazette
, which can be corrected later when we decide we do not suit, should suffice to bring my brother out of hiding.”

“He won’t believe it, my lord,” Margaret ventured, trying to conceal her alarm at the deception he proposed.

“Miss Somerley, you underestimate the rage a man feels to think of his love in the arms of another. The barest possibility that I might have you in my bed will make my brother quite reckless.” The tone of this speech was much stronger than any she had heard from him before, and she was reminded of the scandal that had ended his engagement. His mistress had played him false and taunted him with it publicly. His betrothed had deserted him.

They had reached the entrance to the park. Margaret must tell him about Croisset, but if she did, would he not publish the announcement of their engagement as he threatened and would it not bring Drew out of hiding at the very time of greatest danger? Her conscience would not be denied, yet she scarcely knew how to begin.

“I do not wish you ill, my lord,” she said, knowing how little likely he was to believe her, thinking she must, nevertheless, win some measure of trust from him.

“Yet you wish my brother well?” She nodded. “It cannot be, my dear. One cannot wish both sides well in a duel, a battle.” He spoke as if he regretted his enmity toward his brother, and Margaret allowed herself a measure of hope.

“Yes, one can,” she urged, “for one can wish for peace, for brothers to be reconciled.” In her eagerness to be believed, she reached out and touched his arm. A look she could only describe as hungry crossed his face fleetingly. But when he spoke, his words were those she had ever heard from him.

“How well-suited you and my noble brother are,” he mocked, “dreamers both. Do you know how much satisfaction it gives me to keep you apart? To watch you pine for him, to imagine his misery at having given you up? And the ultimate satisfaction, to taunt him with the prospect of you in another man’s bed—do you think I could give that up?”

“I don’t believe you,” said Margaret, trembling. She had to deny his words, as much for his sake as for hers. It was too painful to look on this man, in face and form so like her love, yet consumed with hatred. “I think you wish to love your brother,” she dared to say, though she could not be sure he heard her.

They had reached North Audley Street, and the moment for honest speech was at hand, yet Margaret feared to speak for she had only stirred the viscount’s temper with her efforts to prepare him for her revelation.

“My lord,” she said, summoning her courage, “you must know—Croisset is in London.”

His hands on the reins gave a little jerk, so that the horses sidestepped abruptly, startling a passing gentleman, who frowned fiercely at the viscount.

“What’s this, Miss Somerley?” her companion asked, recovering his ease of manner. “A little piece of the truth? Why so forthcoming now?” he continued, his voice cold. “Is it a desire to taunt the condemned man? Or is it that having made your plans for escape with your lover, your conscience pricks you at my fate?”

“Please, my lord,” Margaret pleaded, “you must believe me sincere. You and Drew could stop Croisset. I know Drew would be willing to put aside the past if you would join him now. He did suggest it, you know, that night in the brothel.” Too late she understood how her words confirmed his suspicion that she had met with his brother.

Though he didn’t speak, she sensed the terrible rage in him. They had reached her parents’ door, but instead of reining in, the viscount unexpectedly cracked his whip so that the horses bolted. Margaret clutched the side of the vehicle.

The particular peril of careening down the streets of Mayfair, where at any turn they might run someone down or collide with another carriage, passed soon enough. The viscount brought his startled and no longer fresh team under control, and Margaret did not venture to say anything lest she enrage him further. Still he did not turn back toward the fashionable quarter of London as she hoped, but toward the city. Nor did he speak until they entered narrower, busier streets.

As before when Drew had brought her into the town from the docks, Margaret lost her bearings. One minute they had been passing down a wide thorough-fare of respectable shops amid the cheerful bustle of prosperous Londoners doing business, the next they had entered a dim and noisome street, where the press and jostle of the crowd was no less energetic but decidedly sinister.

“Do you recall the neighborhood, Miss Somerley?” the viscount asked. “Is there someone on whom you would wish to make a morning call? May I drop you somewhere?”

Margaret met his taunting gaze directly. Here their carriage and clothes seemed to draw greedy and calculating stares from every side. She felt the strings of her reticule give and the little bag slip from her arm, but, turning, she could not see anyone near who could have taken it from her. A miserable young woman with a babe in arms, a crippled man bent over his cane, vendors with wares in hand crying out to win a purchase from their fellows. In all there was an air of desperate striving, of predatory alertness. It was to these very streets that the most practiced thieves of London retreated with their booty, and the law, such as it was, did not follow. Grimly she waited for the viscount’s rage to cool and his rational powers to reassert themselves.

Just when she thought them hopelessly lost, a turn or two, no more, brought them to a shabby but less menacing district, where the energies of the populace seemed to find their outlet in honest labor. Two young men were painting the bright trim of a shop front; a row of costermongers’ stalls appeared to attract as many honest buyers as thieves; a drayman’s cart piled with grain sacks stood ready to be unloaded at the sign of a public house. Margaret looked down and found she had made tight fists of her mittened hands. She uncurled her fingers and smoothed the folds of her skirt, but she could not calm her mind as easily. Thus occupied, she did not see the arrested expression on the face of the young man at the back of the drayman’s cart.