Kate Moore (17 page)

It was then that Ann got her inspiration. “Oh, I wouldn’t blame him, he’s lost his convenient.”

“Do tell,” invited Ann’s friend.

“It’s obvious really. Susannah Lacy, ruined by Price, moves in with her uncle. What, ten years in Berkshire? It’s a wonder that he let her come to town, knowing her character.”

“She’s left him for a new protector, you think?”

“Didn’t you see her go off with Warne tonight?” Ann asked. “Well, he didn’t come up. I suppose Lacy won’t allow Warne in the house.”

“Does Evelina know, do you think?” asked Mrs. Chaworth-Musters, looking at their hostess.

“That she’s been harboring her husband’s
cher amie
? She must not. She’s so trusting.”

“What can we do?”

Ann laughed. The evening was no longer dull.

19

Juliet expected a bit of an argument from the jarvey when they reached the address she had given him. The neighborhood was far from her own fashionable street, but she stepped resolutely from the hackney and offered the man a brisk thank you and what she hoped was a generous gratuity.

“Miss,” he called after her, but she pulled her cloak tightly around her ball gown and hurried up the steps to the lodging house. The door was open, and light and laughter poured out from the lower rooms. She paused briefly, waved at the still-waiting driver, and stepped inside.

“Oh ho, what have we here?” said a tall, stout man from an open door. He swayed toward her and rocked back unsteadily on his heels. “Draycot, are you expecting a princess?” the tall man shouted to someone within.

“I’m expected upstairs,” Juliet said quickly and dashed past the man as he tilted toward her again.

“Hey!” he called, but she tripped lightly up the stairs, slowing her steps only when it appeared the tall man would not follow. She wound her way up to the third story where Kirby’s letter indicated he had his rooms. On the landing there were two doors, and the one on the right was open.

She stuck her head in and found a comfortable drawing room, far more opulent than what she had imagined his lodgings to be. “Kirby?” she called. She heard a muffled “hello” and turned to the sound. A hall led away from the drawing room to the rear of the suite.

She headed toward the sound. Another door was open at the end of the hall, and she could see the glow of lamplight on a fine carpet. It struck her as she reached this far door that the way had been made too easy as it is in the fairy tale when the princess finds the spindle and pricks her finger. But she crossed the threshold and then it did not matter, for there on a richly hung bed lay Kirby, stripped and sprawled, ominously still.

With a cry she ran to him, and she scarcely registered the door shutting behind her or the key turning in the lock.
He breathed.

***

Susannah did not return to the ballroom at once. Warne had stunned her, and it took some moments for the turmoil of regret and wonder to subside. She paced the breakfast room restlessly, until she recalled Juliet’s situation. Then, admitting to herself that she was hiding, she left the little room. In the hall, she encountered Mrs. Chettle, who begged Susannah’s help directing the setting out of the food in the supper room.

When she finally did return to the ball, she saw Eastham take a terse leave of Uncle John. She looked for Juliet but did not see her. Juliet must have refused him, and Susannah’s spirits lifted. There was hope after all.

“Where is your charge, miss?” Uncle John demanded, coming up to Susannah. “You put her up to this, I warrant, and you’ll pay. Find her.”

Susannah bowed and went in search of her cousin, not to bring her back as Uncle John wished but to keep Juliet from further encounters with her suitors. But Juliet was not in any of the rooms set aside for the guests, not even the ladies’ retiring room. The girl wasn’t in her bedroom either. There Susannah felt the first hint of alarm. Juliet’s wardrobe hung open, a piece of carelessness Aunt Evelina’s abigail never committed. She was gone, the voice of alarm whispered, but Susannah could not believe it.

It was too like her own elopement. She had gone in her gown and slippers from the Ravenswood ball to Price’s hired chaise and her inevitable ruin. Perhaps Juliet had missed her below and come looking for her. She turned to her own room. A lamp was lit on her sewing table and tucked under it was a piece of pressed paper. Even before she picked it up, she knew what the brief message would tell her. Juliet had gone to her highwayman. Love had conquered reason, propriety, and prudence. And if the man did not love Juliet in return, she would be ruined.

Susannah could not help emitting a cry of anguish. It must not be. Her cousin must not suffer as she had. She took up the little note and read it again. He had not come to the house. Juliet was going to him somewhere in town. Susannah grabbed her own cloak and warmer gloves. She took the servants’ stair and went in search of Chettle. Someone must have helped Juliet get away. If the girl went by hack, someone might know what address Juliet had given the jarvey.

Halfway down the stairs a vision came to her that sapped her limbs of strength. She sat down hard and willed her legs to stop trembling. But the memory could not be dispelled. In a room in an inn on the Great North Road, Price had shown her how very ungallant a man could be. She had still believed he meant to marry her and had not screamed or fought him, and over the years that had hurt most of all.

Susannah told herself that Juliet’s highwayman was not Price; still she did not want to go after them alone. She wanted Warne, and Warne must help her. He had encouraged Juliet’s meetings with the man.

***

A disapproving butler showed Susannah into Warne’s library. Warne stood at the mantel, leaning an elbow on the marble shelf, staring down into the fire. He straightened when she entered, but made no move toward her.

“Did I conjure you?” he asked, setting aside a glass of amber liquid he held in one hand. “I must have. Can I offer you some refreshment?”

She shook her head. “I need your help,” she said.

“If’s yours.”

“Juliet’s gone to meet your thief.”

He swore and crossed the room to her. “When?” he demanded.

“Perhaps an hour ago,” Susannah answered. “She left me this note.” Susannah held it out to him, and as he scanned it, she said, “I know the address she’s gone to. I talked to the footman who handed her into the hack.”

Warne strode to the bellpull and gave it a vicious tug. “We need Bellaby.” When the butler reappeared, Warne ordered him to send two footmen in search of his friend. Then he turned back to Susannah, and she tried to compose her face. “Blame me in this and not yourself. Believe me I will do what I can to see that Miss Lacy is not ruined by this night.”

“If I had helped you catch the man . . .” She feared it was true. Her distrust of Warne had kept her from aiding him until it was too late.

He took her hands. “Do not blame yourself for my failure.”

“As you are blaming yourself for mine?” She ventured a smile.

“Damn,” he said, running his thumbs across the backs of her hands, his eyes searching hers. “You wouldn’t reconsider my offer?”

She averted her gaze. The fire burned steadily in the hearth, its hiss and snap the only sound in the room.
Trust
, she told herself. “There are things you don’t know. Lies. I am not . . .”

Warne waited, suspended, clasping her hands, willing her to trust him, to continue.

A knock interrupted them. They stepped apart, and Pedrick entered. “Another visitor, my lord,” he announced. A Mrs. Hayter. She offers this card and insists that you will see her.”

Warne took the card and held it out to Susannah. She wanted to question him, but his face had become a mask of hatred. He strode to a door in the opposite wall, opened it, and motioned for Susannah to step into the next room. “Wait here,” he told her. “You wanted to know what made the Iron Lord? Listen.”

Susannah slipped into the darkened room and stood where the door was left ajar.

Warne relied his cravat and donned his coat. His visitor was ushered in. Time had hardly altered her, he thought. She was a serpent in a woman’s body, fine white skin, green eyes, deep red hair, and indolent motion—beauty and malice. And she would make a game of it, a nasty game, whatever she came for.

“Good evening, my lord.” She strolled past him, her scent coiling round him in her wake, and ran her fingers along one of the shelves. “Nice library.” She stopped and pulled out a book and let it fall open. “Cut pages, too. Not like your father’s library, after all. He had things other than books to amuse him.”

“What have you come for, Molly?”

“I have something of yours, Warne,” she said, looking at him slyly, her hands stroking the book.

“I doubt it.”

“But you saw the card?”

“Where did you get it, Molly? Maitland?” He watched her moves.

“Straight from the thief, my proud lord. Stole your rig the other day, didn’t he?” She came up to him then. “I can lead you right to him. For a price.”

“That was always your way,” he said, holding back the rage building inside him. He wanted to shake her, so he put his hands in his pockets and balled them into fists.

“Yes. It is my way. It has to be. Men are all cheats and liars, as you are, as your father was. You owe me.”

“I owe you,” he shouted, unable to contain his fury.

She turned from him and slammed the book down on a table. “You were glad enough to learn from me, my too-proud lord. Every day. And your father put a gold boy aside for me for everything I taught you, but I didn’t get the blunt. You ran away with your milk and water bitch, and when your father went to bring you back, your mother kicked me out. All my work for nothing. I got nothing and no one.”

“You trusted my father. That was your mistake, Molly.”

She shrugged. “I intend to make up for that tonight. I want ten thousand pounds, my lord.”

He laughed. “You will be in hell a long time before I pay you such a sum.”

“I don’t think so, Lord Warne.” She was suddenly serious. “You see, I have your Miss Lacy in a most compromising position for a young lady. She and your thief are intimately acquainted, you might say.”

He was careful to show no reaction. She had assumed as most of the
ton
did, that he was one of Juliet’s suitors. This was her revenge, this holding something over him, but he already knew of the link between the thief and Juliet. The puzzle was how Molly Hayter had come to know it, or to claim that she had Miss Lacy. Was she behind the thief’s actions? It made little sense. He knew her indolence and doubted she would have troubled herself to arrange the thief’s attacks on him. Besides, she could have acted against him any time in the last few years.

“Ah,” said Warne. “The ten thousand pounds is for your silence?”

She nodded.

“And how am I to be sure that you have Miss Lacy?”

“You must accompany me to—”

“—Tavistock Street?” He named the street Susannah had gleaned from the Lacy footman.

She started and made a recovery. “You should have called on me, Warne, if you knew the place. Other gentlemen have.”

“How do I know Miss Lacy is there?”

“She came straight from the ball in her white gown with roses in her hair.”

“And why not apply to her parents in the matter of her return?”

Again he drew a reaction, a quick change in her expression that told him she was holding something back. She laughed, and he thought how very cruel a sound some laughter could be. “I told you. I have something of yours, and I want to show it to you. Really, it’s quite generous of me.”

It was a riddle he could not solve, and he wondered if she were a little mad, or if she had a pistol. She had not removed her cloak, and she must have anticipated some resistance from him. Bellaby would be here soon. If Warne could keep her talking and get her to face him with her back to the door. “And if I don’t want to pay your price?” he asked.

“The girl will be exposed and ruined, and I promise you, Warne, your name will come into it.”

He turned away from her, strolling slowly toward his desk, drawing her gaze, speaking over his shoulder. “You must know, Molly, that your visit is unexpected. I haven’t such a sum about me.” He took his empty hands from his pockets and held them out. “Perhaps you should come back another day.” He thought he heard a door open.

“I think not, Warne, I will get what I want.”

“How?” he asked bluntly, striding straight toward her.

“This way,” she said and drew a little pistol. He checked.

Behind her the study door opened, and Bellaby entered.

“Warne, what the devil!”

Warne kept his eyes on Molly Hayter’s. The instant her gaze flickered away from him, he lunged, grabbing her wrist, twisting and squeezing, until she screamed and dropped the gun. Her other hand came up to claw his eyes, and he seized it and wrenched it down. Bellaby picked up the fallen gun and leveled it at Molly.

“Here now, ma’am, be still,” he ordered.

Molly looked at him with a sneer, but ceased her struggles.

“Who is she?” Bellaby asked.

“Molly Hayter,” said Warne.

“The maid,” he said. “And you haven’t killed her yet?”

“No,” Warne answered. “We’re going to pay a visit to Molly’s lodging, but first Molly, I want you to meet Mrs. Bowen, who is a witness to your extortion attempt.” He crossed to the door he’d left ajar for Susannah.

She entered as he said her name, and he reached out and took her hands. Her face was drawn with worry, and he whispered, “Let’s go find Juliet.”

20

The chaise halted in the pre-dawn blackness out side a dark, brick-fronted building of severe Palladian design. Warne did not have to prod Molly Hayter to lead the way. She descended from the carriage, swept up the few steps, and entered the building. From the moment he’d disarmed her, she had been all acquiescence, and he could not escape the feeling that he was playing into her hands. Her smug unconcern was a sign she had some further trick planned.

They passed a first-floor apartment where several stuporous gentlemen sat among empty wine bottles, and climbed until they reached the third story. “My humble rooms, my lord marquess,” Molly-said, indicating an open door with a sweep of her arm. “You’ll find what you’re looking for in my bed.”

Susannah flashed him a quick apprehensive glance, and he tightened his grip on her arm, ushering her into the entry. Molly followed with Bellaby behind her. The small vestibule opened on an opulent drawing room, definitely in Molly’s style. “Where?” Warne demanded.

“Down that hall,” Molly answered.

Before he could caution her, Susannah dashed ahead, calling for Juliet.

The girl’s voice answered from behind the far door. “We’re in here.”

Susannah tried the door. “It’s locked.”

“The key,” he said to Molly.

She grinned then. “Of course, my lord marquess.” She pulled the strings of her reticule, fished in the small bag, and produced a key. He snatched it from her and applied it to the lock. The door swung inward.

He entered and halted abruptly. The room was cold and smelled faintly of sour wine. Juliet Lacy stood at the foot of a large bed, looking as if she had just left the ballroom. But beside her, leaning weakly, half-supported by the disordered bed, coatless, his shirt hanging but, only one foot booted, was a youth who might have been Warne himself.

Sounds rang hollowly in his ears. Susannah Bowen gasped. Bellaby cried, “My God!” And Molly Hayter laughed.

The young man straightened. His face was ashen as if he’d been ill, but his eyes regarded Warne with burning anger.

“Who are you?” Warne demanded. He took two steps and stopped, his feet suddenly too heavy to move.

“Francis Kirby Arden,” the pale youth said. He shivered in the draft from an open window.

“It’s a trick,” Warne cried.

“Nae, no trick,” the youth answered, his voice an echo of Warne’s.

“It must be,” Warne protested. He thought he must be mad. “Ellen died in January of ‘97. I saw the grave. The sexton gave me her ring.”

Something flickered in the boy’s gaze. “She died in February of ‘13 of a fever.”

Susannah was no more than an arm’s length from Warne, but she knew she must not touch him. He and the boy stood frozen, like two of Elgin’s marbles, carved by the same hand.

Warne struggled to make sense of the truth before his eyes. How fate had mocked him. His young bride had not died. He had a son. He couldn’t take it in. He had thought the wounds of that time no longer pained him, but his chest suddenly ached. Ellen had lived for sixteen years and never sought him. “She didn’t come to me?”

Anger flared in the blue eyes that matched his own. “You abandoned her. You abandoned . . .” The boy took an unsteady step toward Warne, his fists clenched.

“No,” Warne answered. “I was . . .” he broke off, unwilling to describe the humiliation of his own youth to this hard-eyed young man.

Bellaby stepped forward. “Your grandfather put him in chains, boy,” he declared hotly.

The young man’s bleak gaze shifted to Bellaby then back to Warne. After a moment the youth said. “Mother feared the old marquess. She was waiting for him to die.”

It was a concession, Warne thought. But the old man didn’t die soon enough. Ellen must have escaped his father, hidden herself somewhere. “Where were you born?”

“Stratford,” the boy said. “In September of ‘97.” He struggled to stand proud. “My christening is in the church records,” he added defiantly.

It was the only time a son of his and Ellen Kirby’s could have been born. And the place was one that only his scholarly Ellen would choose. She had given birth to her Arden where the son of Mary Arden had lived.

“And then?” he asked, his voice less harsh, as he watched the young man who claimed to be his son.

“We moved from place to place. When I was six, we came to Glenryn near Dumfries. Mother got a situation there as a housekeeper.”

He forced himself to ask. “And when she died?”

“I joined a traveling theatre company and worked my way here.” It was a proud answer.

Molly Hayter laughed again. She strolled to the fireplace, tugging at her gloves. “Ask him what he was doing in London, my fine lord. In my bed.”

“Oooh, of all the shabby tricks,” Juliet Lacy interjected. She strode forward, taking a stand beside the youth. “He was drugged,” she said pointedly.

Warne cast a savage glance at Molly. She shrugged. “This time. There was no laudanum the last time you came to my bed, was there, Kirby?”

The young man looked at her for the first time. “I trusted you. I thought you were a friend.”

Bellaby snorted. “Blackmailing b—”

“Bellaby,” Warne said sharply. He needed time to think. The events of the last month were tumbling in his mind, rearranging themselves in a new pattern. The handwriting on his cards had been familiar because it was so like Ellen’s. The bitter, resentful boy before him had not attacked his business interests because the boy had known only the scandals attached to Warne’s name and had wanted only to prove what Warne had been ignorant of—their kinship. There was, as he had guessed, no mercenary motive in the thief’s acts—only revenge.

But Molly Hayter had not been part of the plan. No doubt she had seen and recognized the boy. The boy did not know her role in Warne’s past and had not arranged this meeting. At Vauxhall Juliet Lacy had said the thief would come to him. You abandoned, the boy had said. He had not said
me
, but Warne knew he meant it. He knew what he would want from such a father—to make that father, suffer humiliation and powerlessness and rejection.

He kept his gaze fixed on the youth. “I know what . . . Kirby was doing in London. He was avenging himself on the father his boyhood lacked.” At the words of the old story Kirby stiffened, a sudden alertness in his eyes.

Warne felt his heart constrict. This was Ellen’s son. He searched his mind for the rest of the passage where the boy Telemakhos meets his father for the first time. “No other Odysseus will ever come,” he said.

The words seemed to stir some inner struggle in Kirby. His frame shook. “You never looked again. You lived in your fine house while she . . . labored for fools who thought themselves above her. You spent thousands of pounds while she made shillings. She was so good . . .” his voice faltered. “. . . and you took mistresses.”

Warne said nothing. He was suddenly conscious of Susannah Bowen at his side. She had reawakened his heart. He would not be feeling the boy’s pain if he had not come to love Susannah. Even now when she was silent he felt her warm sympathy for him and for the boy. Susannah, to whom he hoped to offer his name, free of the past, but perhaps a man was never free of the past.

Kirby went on. “I know it all. Her father wrote to her, and she saved every scrap of news about you.”

“Did she send you to me?” Warne asked.

Again Kirby’s eyes gave away the battle raging inside him. “She made me promise I would present myself to you.” It was plain the boy had intended to do just that and walk away.

Warne let a long moment pass. “You’re free then, aren’t you,” he suggested gently. He wanted to save his son from the hatred that had consumed his own life. Already the boy was fortunate. He had Juliet Lacy by his side. “Unless you would like something more from me.”

Kirby’s blue eyes narrowed warily, but he turned to Juliet, and put his arm around her waist in an unmistakably possessive gesture. “I want to marry Miss Lacy.”

Warne nodded with swift comprehension. “So, you need to be my son, and heir, to have Miss Lacy for a bride?”

Kirby remained silent. Juliet Lacy gave his arm a tug, and the two exchanged a look. It was apparent there was some agreement between them that had to be honored. Warne waited.

It was a long wait, some final resistance holding Kirby silent. “I will be your son, if you will have me,” he said at last.

“Even if you must be Earl of Dovedale?” Warne asked. “I suspect you’ll have to take the title to get Lord Lacy’s approval for this match.”

Then Molly Hayter laughed. “How affecting! Father and son reconciled. You’ll never get Lacy’s approval. You think Byron was disgraced. What a story I’ll have to tell about this little father son war and the girl ruined between you. Who had her first?”

“Witch,” Kirby yelled and sprang at her. He drove Molly against the wall and held her pinned there, a shaking forearm across her throat.

Warne reached them in two quick strides. “She won’t do any talking, Kirby,” he told his son, gently pulling the boy off their enemy. “I promise you.”

Kirby stumbled back, his energy drained by the sudden outburst. His knees buckled and Bellaby rushed forward to catch the boy under one arm and shoulder his weight. Warne exchanged a glance with his friend and saw that Bellaby understood him. It was time to get the others home so that he could deal with Molly.

“Ladies,” Bellaby said. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is a rescue. Follow me.”

When they had gone, Warne faced Molly Hayter. “You betrayed us to my father, didn’t you, Molly,” he said, surprised that he felt no desire to hit her. “You’re the one.”

“Your father promised to pay well.” She rubbed her injured throat and regarded him sullenly.

Warne glanced at the luxuries of the room. “If he didn’t, others did. What do you know about money, Molly?”

“How to get it and spend it,” she told him.

“Do you know how to use it to destroy another’s fortune? I do. You have a week to get out. Follow Byron and Brummell to the Continent.”

“And if I don’t?”

“No score left unpaid.
I’ll ruin you, Molly, and any protector you take.”

“I hate you.”

Warne smiled. A bit of revenge was satisfying after all. “Don’t you know, Molly, the gods punished the nymph for clinging to the hero.” He turned and strode from the room.

Her voice came after him down the hall. “I had him, Warne. I had your son. What if he’s got a son on me? Then I’ll have something of yours, Warne.”

At the door he stopped and glanced back at the woman trailing after him. “Good day, Molly. One week.”

***

They descended from Warne’s carriage under overcast skies. A bitter wind pressed Susannah’s cape around her, making her appear vulnerable. He held her hand a moment longer than was strictly necessary. He had wanted to take her hand in the carriage but so much remained unresolved between them.

He had set Bellaby down at the house on Upper Brook Street to begin the steps necessary to secure Kirby’s position as Lord Dovedale. Now it was his plan to have a private word with Lord Lacy, assuring him of his daughter’s safety and Kirby’s honorable intentions. Arranging this marriage would be the first thing he could do for his son, and he wanted to achieve it without delay. He would persuade Lacy to accept the boy’s suit. Then he would ask for just a few words with Susannah Bowen. She looked exhausted, but he wanted to let her know that he would marry her, whatever secrets she had.

The ladies were shivering before a footman could be roused to answer the door. He took one startled look at them and disappeared into the house. Juliet Lacy started forward when her father appeared, striding toward them, a wrapper around his evening clothes, a nightcap on his head. He filled the doorway, his robe flapping about him in the wind.

“My girl, what have you done?” he demanded of his daughter. His narrow gaze swung to Susannah. “Away, hussy,” he yelled. “Be gone. You’ve disgraced this house.”

“Papa,” said Juliet. “Susannah came to find me.”

“She’s a wanton, a whore.” He came out onto the steps, his hands shooing Susannah away. She retreated, shock and pain in her eyes. Warne caught her and clasped her to his side, trying to understand Lacy’s accusations.

“I took you in, Susannah Lacy, when you sinned with Price. Ten years I gave you shelter when you were no more than a stale. Ingratitude. Drag my name into it. Bridewell is too good for you, hussy. Go. Go. Walk the streets.”

Warne put Susannah behind him, holding her firmly. “Enough,” he commanded. “Calm yourself, Lacy. Mrs. Bowen has been maligned.”

“She’s not Mrs. Bowen. She never married. Soiled goods. No man would have her then, or now.”

“Enough, I say,” Warne repeated. “Whatever her name, she is above reproach. We will clear up any misunderstanding about her reputation.”

“I will not have her in this house.”

“Let me go. Please, Lord Warne,” Susannah pleaded, pulling away from him.

“No.” He gripped her arm tightly. He would not let her give in to her mad uncle’s ravings. “What is being said against her? By whom?”

“I refuse to answer that question,” said Lacy. “And that’s my daughter, sir. Come in at once, Juliet.”

“Papa, no. Why are you doing this to Susannah?” Juliet cried.

“Do not be deceived by her, girl. Get that woman out of my sight,” he shouted.

“Mrs. Bowen rescued your daughter tonight, sir,” said Kirby quietly.

“Who are you?” demanded Lacy.

“Francis Arden.” Kirby cast a quick glance at Warne. “Earl of Dovedale. I intend to marry your daughter, sir.”

“Marry my daughter?” Lacy looked from Kirby to Warne, incredulity and resentment giving way to a calculating gleam in his eyes. “Then take that woman away.”

An icy blast of wind hit them, and Susannah shivered. Warne felt a hot, dry rage threaten to consume him in spite of the cold. He held it in check. He was momentarily powerless to spare Susannah the humiliation of Lacy’s words. He could see now how her proud spirit had been subdued in her uncle’s house. He helped her to his carriage and settled her inside.

“Coachman will take you to Brook Street. Bellaby’s there, and my housekeeper will find a place for you to rest. We will clear up this false story. Wait for me,” he urged her. There was a blind look in her eyes that he did not trust, and he wanted to kiss her but not with her uncle frowning down on them. He stepped back and waved the coachman on.