Kate Moore (17 page)

He was a strong fellow for all his fair looks and threadbare corduroys. If the girl did not see him stare, his companion did and gave him a friendly elbow in the ribs. “That one’s never for you, my lad, for all your golden looks.” When the younger man continued to gaze after the girl in the passing carriage as if he had been struck deaf and dumb, the older man spoke crossly. “Pick it up, man. Best be looking to Molly inside for what you want, she’ll give it to you right enough.” The shining vehicle disappeared around a corner. Only then did the young man heft one of the weighty sacks onto his shoulder and turn from the street.

At Margaret’s door, the viscount left his curricle in the care of his tiger, who was waiting for them on the steps. Her companion coldly insisted on accompanying her inside. “Your mother will have callers,” he warned quietly as she looked to flee up the stairs. As the butler opened the doors to the yellow salon, Margaret endeavored to compose her face at least, for she feared she must give a very singular appearance if her looks reflected any of her agitation. Even in her shocked and unhappy state it was clear to her how her entrance on the viscount’s arm would lend credence to rumors of an attachment between them.

He hardly seemed to notice and led Margaret to a seat with his customary cool civility. “I must speak with your mother about these plans of hers for a Vauxhall entertainment,” he whispered. “I hardly think it is quite the thing for you to go tomorrow. Too large an element of the vulgar present, who may be inclined to offer insult to a young woman like yourself.” Powerless to protest among her mother’s acquaintance, Margaret glared at him. So this was to be his revenge. How had she dreamed that she could reach the better part of his nature?

***

She had reasoned and pleaded in vain. Futilely, she had reminded her mother of all that Lady Somerley had told her of the wonders of Vauxhall—of the fire-works, dancing, and cascade, and the romantic corner where her parents had once dined tête-à-tête under bright lanterns among great Corinthian columns—all that had been promised Margaret in her turn. In the end, wearied beyond thought, she had refused supper and declined to accompany her parents to the theatre. They would be ruled by the fashionable Cyril Durant, and all Margaret’s plans would come to nothing. The earl and Drew would stumble around in the dark and wonder at the urgent notes each had received. The dreadful announcement of her betrothal would appear in the papers, and Drew would fall into the viscount’s hands to be offered to the French. She could think no further about what must inevitably follow. She was quite blind with the sting of it in her eyes and paralyzed with the ache of it in her heart. There could be no greater misery.

Yet her first thought the following morning was that things might indeed be worse. Cyril Durant might connect the note she had sent him with his suspicions of her plans. Purporting to be an anonymous informant, she had promised the viscount news about his brother if he would meet the black domino at Vauxhall. Cyril would not need to publish an announcement in the papers. He could lay a trap for Drew at Vauxhall, and Drew would go to his death imagining that she had betrayed him, for hadn’t she pleaded that he meet her at the gardens. It was an appointment she must keep.

Impatiently she waited, praying for Ned to appear at his corner, and when he did, she chafed under the tedious delay of donning her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves. She barely concealed her haste in collecting Betsy and excusing herself to her mother. As they passed his corner, she whispered her message to Ned and then all but ran to the park and back. Only once did she slacken her pace—at the sight of Croisset’s black traveling chaise slowly circling Grosvenor Square. What did it mean? How close was Croisset to acting against the viscount?

In the stable she fairly flung herself into Ned’s arms.

“Here now, miss,” he protested, holding her at arm’s length. “What’s happened to overset you?”

“Did you deliver my messages?” she cried.

“Every one,” he assured her.

“Oh, Ned,” she exclaimed, “my parents have canceled our party to Vauxhall.” She poured out her fears, ending with the greatest, the ever-present threat that Drew would die. “So you must take me, Ned, for I must get to Vauxhall tonight.”

“It’s a bird-witted idea, Miss,” said Ned, “to go without your mama and papa. How are we to get there? Did you think I could bring round my coach and four?”

“We’ll go by hack and scull. I’ve brought the money for the hack with me, so you can hire one and meet me at your corner.” She fished in her reticule for the coins. “Admission is only a shilling, and I’ve got that, too.”

“And how are you to get out the door of your papa’s fine house, miss? And suppose someone sees you there that knows you, even Cy?”

“I shall contrive, Ned, and I mean to wear a domino, too, so no one will remark my appearance at all.”

“I don’t like it,” said Ned flatly. “I should go and warn Drew off, and you should stay home, right and tight in your bed.”

“But Ned, together we will have two pairs of eyes and ears with which to find him, and I could never bear to wait till morning not knowing if he lives or dies.” It was unfair, but Margaret had learned that she need only mention the possibility of Drew’s dying to win Ned over to any plan. “You don’t have a pistol, do you, Ned?”

“Lord,” said Ned.

17

D
REW STOOD IN
the shadowed alleyway, observing the entrance to the gardens. It had been at Vauxhall that he had met Lydia Denham, he reflected. In retrospect, of course, he realized that their meeting had been carefully contrived by the lady. What he had believed a chance encounter had been part of her scheme of revenge. How well she had picked her instrument, for nothing could have wounded Cy more than yet another comparison to himself. Of course, it had been no part of Lydia’s scheme that he be disinherited or disgraced, but he doubted that the events had caused her any regret. And he could not blame her for his own impulsive nature that had allowed him to be played upon as he had been.

Here he was again, yielding to yet another impulse. He should not allow himself to see Meg tonight, and he would not if she had not used his name in her note and if he had not seen her only the day before in Lions Lane where he should have been safe from temptation. She had been looking down, smoothing her skirt, and in his mind’s eye he had seen that little gesture of feminine dignity a thousand times since. Every instinct he had sharpened in play and war told him he was walking into danger, yet he paid his shilling and entered the gardens.

He drifted in and out among the crowds, never straying far from the entrance. He might be in rags, but his appearance was hardly remarked in the midst of dominos and more ambitious forms of masquerade. The crowd had such an air of gaiety, that if he did not know better, he would have supposed even the thieves and Cyprians to be on holiday. At last his vigilance was rewarded for he saw his brother enter, escorting a diminutive lady in a black domino.

The lady in the domino was like Meg in size, but he could not see her face or hair. Whatever plan Meg had made to meet him, he was sure it did not include her coming to the gardens with only his brother as escort. Still the lady in the domino could be Meg. He remembered well Cy’s threat to act against her, and he had seen Cy’s rage and Meg’s fear as they passed him in Lions Lane. So Drew followed them as they made their way around the main grove, past the dancers under the great kiosk, and up one of the colonnaded walks through the third arch, just as Ned had described it to him. The bell for the fireworks rang.

He continued to follow them up a smaller path, lit dimly at intervals by the colored lanterns for which Vauxhall was known. And he turned as they did into a grove and approached a small replica of a ruined temple with its steps leading to a dais and its columns festooned with strings of lanterns. He felt for the pistol in his coat pocket. Cyril was gone. The lady in the domino stood alone in the center of the dais, her manner shrinking and uncertain. He remembered how Meg had trembled in his arms at seeing the Viper. Because the girl on the dais could be Meg, he must go to her.

“Ned,” whispered Margaret, removing her mask and pushing back the hood of her mother’s lavender domino, “whatever
I
do or say,
you
must stay concealed until the last possible moment.” They had reached the gardens in time to hear the bell for the fireworks, and it had been easy enough with her mother’s remembrances fresh in her ears to find the little path to the grove of the temple. They had seen no one come the same way, but Margaret could not risk any further speech, for she did not know who of her cast had already assembled in the mild darkness. Ned mumbled something about harebrained and bird-witted notions, but he subsided as they moved cautiously forward through the trees.

***

Drew stepped out of the shadows into the lantern light and called softly to the silent figure on the dais, “Meg?” The girl turned to his voice, lifting her face. As like Meg as she was in stature and figure, her face was startlingly different—thin and pale, framed with black hair, and made catlike with green, glowing eyes. Drew whirled, but Cyril was already there, pistol leveled.

“Run along, my dear,” he said to the frightened young Cyprian. “You have played your part admirably.” With his free hand he offered the girl some coins that clinked solidly in her palm. His gaze never left Drew. “Come, brother,” he said, “we must have you take the stage in this little drama your love has arranged.”

“Where is Meg?” Drew asked, backing up the steps to the low platform.

“Meg, is it?” mocked Cyril. “You do have the common touch, don’t you, brother. She’s betrayed you. She quite enjoys her success, you know. In the clubs they’re saying she might catch herself a viscount.”

“Betrayal is not in her nature, Cy. What have you done with her?” Drew tried to quell a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that his brother might have harmed her. Perhaps he ought not to have counted on Cy’s rationality and fastidiousness.

“What a touching faith you have in women, brother,” Cyril continued. “I’ve done nothing with her, of course. I merely suggested to Lord and Lady Somerley that I could not quite like their Vauxhall scheme. Too free and easy a crowd for my taste. I imagine Miss Somerley is spending the evening in her chamber, most distraught over your impending demise.”

Drew almost laughed. “You relieve my mind, Cy. I take it Meg has not accepted an offer of marriage yet and you have grown impatient with the delay?”

There was a moment of silence. “But you knew that when you came here tonight,” said Cyril in a puzzled tone. “Indeed, you must know the girl will hardly promise herself to another while you live, and so, you see, you have not played fairly with me, brother, and you cannot blame me if I now play to win.”

The only sounds in the little grove were the faint tinkle of distant music and from somewhere a burst of brittle laughter. To Margaret, coming upon the scene at this moment, the two men might have been stone—Cyril, a lean figure of elegant malice; Drew, marble unconcern—the composition held in place by the glinting steel in Cyril’s hand.

“Am I about to die then, Cy?” Drew asked.

As imperfectly as she understood what had passed before on the dais, this Margaret understood. “No!” she shouted. It was a cry of the heart, and both men turned toward the sound, the viscount stepping back a little, brandishing his pistol against any sudden move the younger man might make. Margaret started forward in her pale, shimmering domino, stumbling a little in her haste.

“Stay in the shadows, Meg,” Drew called, but it was too late.

She caught up her skirts and took the steps to the little platform. It was indeed like a stage, at the edge of which she stopped, held back by the viscount’s gleaming pistol. She would have to pass him to reach Drew.

“Well, Miss Somerley,” said the viscount, “how determined you are to keep your appointments. I see I quite underestimated you, but I am afraid the elopement is off.”

“My lord,” said Margaret, “there was never to be an elopement.” She paused to catch her breath. “But there must be an end to this mad game you are playing, and the truth must be told.” This last she addressed to Drew, looking at him directly, but his gaze scanned the darkness beyond her, and he seemed intent on the cry of bird.

“Oh, I mean to end the game, here and now,” the viscount assured her. He raised his pistol arm a fraction of an inch higher. “My brother, you see, is about to be wounded . . . by footpads, I think. Because he is out of favor with my father, I will have him conveyed to my own quarters where he will receive the best medical care.” He paused. “Of course, it will be a terrible shock when a second, successful attempt on his life is made.”

“Why do you tell me this, my lord?” Margaret asked. “Do you think I can witness such acts and remain silent? Do you think me powerless to stop you?” She lunged forward. If she could do nothing else, she meant to throw her body in front of Drew’s, but the viscount caught the hood of her domino and yanked her back, nearly choking her. He pressed his pistol sharply into her side and secured a hold on her with his other arm about her shoulders.

Drew had moved too, springing forward to meet her, but unable to cover the distance in time. “Damn you, Cy,” he swore. “Let her go. You have me.” But Cyril shook his head and jabbed the pistol in Margaret’s ribs, emphasizing his command of the situation. Again Margaret saw Drew’s quick glance at the trees.

“Interesting,” came another voice from the darkness. There was a rustling of leaves, and then an enormous man in black stepped forward. Like Cyril Durant he held a pistol. He was accompanied by two men of quite ordinary proportions similarly armed. At a quick order in French these moved to flank their master.

“So this is how it was done, how Croisset was tricked,” the fat man mused aloud. “I had not known there were brothers.” He lumbered closer to them so that Margaret could see the black pinpoints of his eyes in the white, bloated face. For a long moment he said nothing but stared closely at the two men on the dais. “So one is a hero, the English patriot who tries to make a fool out of Croisset and the Viper, and one is the spy who steals the father’s papers. But which is which?”

No one spoke. Through the layers of thin silk and taffeta she wore Margaret could feel the circle of steel pressed against her side, concealed from Croisset’s view by the folds of her domino.

“Croisset,” began the viscount, “my brother here is the man you want. Your fortuitous arrival saves me the trouble of bringing him to you.”

The fat man did not answer for some time. “So you say,” he at last replied. “But the man who met me at Highcliffe was an elegant gentleman, like yourself, and like yourself he had his arms about this girl. Oh, yes, I remember well.” Margaret stood perfectly still, amazed at the irony that Cyril’s threat to her now endangered his life.

“Perhaps,” said Cyril, “the gentleman you met merely impersonated me, and the girl is no more than a scheming whore who has played us both false.”

“Perhaps,” said the Frenchman, with a shrug that rippled down his huge frame. “I would like to hear the other gentleman speak.”

“What would you have me say, Croisset?” asked Drew coolly. “Would you like a third possibility? Perhaps you have been deceived not by one man, but by two, working together. Perhaps you have walked into a trap.”

A fierce silence followed this suggestion, the Frenchman’s displeasure apparent not in words but in the hostile concentration of his gaze, as if he could burn away the disguises of those before him. Then he smiled with awful satisfaction, and that common expression of goodwill further distorted his unpleasant face.

“I will play Solomon,” he announced. “You,” he addressed Cyril, pointing his gun, “release the girl.” Margaret felt Cyril’s hold loosen, felt the press of the gun against her ribs disappear and Cyril’s hand drop subtly to his side. “You,” Croisset commanded her, “move to the center.” Cautiously she stepped away from the viscount. “More,” said Croisset. She took another step. She dared not look at Drew lest she betray him as the man the French wanted. Should she call on Ned, or would such action only alert Croisset? Was the earl out there somewhere in the darkness? In the distance the fireworks began, pops and booms and bursts of delighted applause from the crowd.

Croisset seemed to listen for a moment. “Good,” he said. He pointed the pistol directly at Margaret and advanced a couple of ponderous steps in her direction. “I will count to ten,” he said, “as we do for the duel, gentlemen. At ten, I shoot the girl. This man I want, he loves the girl, he will step in front of her before I fire. It is your English way, is it not? So, I shoot him. My honor is restored. The Viper’s honor is restored.” He began to count.

“Stop!”

The brusque command, ringing out from the darkness behind Croisset, had, ironically, the opposite effect on all the actors of the little drama. Croisset jerked, turning his head toward the new voice. Too large for swift action, he staggered heavily, struggling to maintain his balance, his pistol firing wide of its mark. Cyril, who shifted his aim to meet the new threat, gasped as the other’s bullet hit him before he could fire.

Even as the stranger’s cry diverted his enemies, Drew sprang for Margaret and pulled her behind him. “Ned,” he yelled before she had time to think it. He slipped the pistol free of his pocket and returned Croisset’s fire, hitting the Frenchman in the neck. A second shot from the man in the trees brought Croisset down. The felled spy’s two henchmen crouched low, guns still aimed at the brothers when Ned came hurtling out of the dark, knocking down the man standing behind Cyril. For an instant the two brothers faced each other across the dais. Drew’s weapon hung at his side. His other arm held Margaret behind him. Cyril smiled faintly, steadied the gun pointed at his brother, and fired. There was a sharp cry from Croisset’s second accomplice behind Drew, who crumpled to the ground an instant before the viscount himself collapsed.

Drew released Margaret and rushed to his brother’s side. “Where did Croisset hit you, Cy?” he asked, kneeling and attempting to pull away the viscount’s intricate cravat. Cyril’s hand on his stopped him.

“It’s no use to inquire,” Cyril said in a faint, breathless voice. His eyes closed momentarily, and Margaret, kneeling also, took his other hand in hers. It was icy cold.

“I owe you my life, Cy,” Drew whispered.

“No,” said Cyril, opening his eyes again. “I just missed. Never was as good a shot as you were . . . Drew.” The hand holding Drew’s tightened momentarily, then went slack.

“Get away from my son,” came a gruff voice. Then the earl stood over them, pistol in hand, glaring down as if with his gaze he could annihilate them. Margaret rose and stepped back a step. Drew stood more slowly, facing his father.

“Is there no end to the pain and disgrace you would bring upon your house, sir?” the earl asked. Margaret saw Drew flinch at his father’s words. “Get out of my sight.”

“No,” Margaret cried, reaching out to him, but he had begun to back away. He looked up once from the foot of the dais, all the blue lights in his eyes quite out.

“Good-bye, Meg,” he said softly. Then in two strides he disappeared among the trees. She started to run after him, but Ned caught her and stopped her.

“You won’t catch him tonight, miss.”

“Drew,” she called helplessly, her cry lost amid the deserted groves of the least pleasurable garden she had ever entered.