On A Wicked Dawn (28 page)

Amelia met Miss Quigley's serious gaze. “Oh dear.” She looked to where Louise stood not far away, chatting to some others. “I must tell Mama—I doubt she's checked her jewelry case, let alone all those other little things one takes. And Lady Calverton, too.” She looked back at Miss Quigley. “Neither she nor her girls are here tonight.”

Miss Quigley nodded. “It appears we all need to be on our guard.”

Their gazes met—neither needed to specify just what they needed to guard against. There was, it seemed, a thief among the
ton
.

At eight the next morning, Luc sat alone at his breakfast table and studied his copy of that morning's
Gazette
.

He'd deliberately risen early—long before his sisters would be up and about. He'd come down to see—to stare at, to ponder—his fate, his destiny, printed in black-and-white.

There it was—a short, sensible notice informing the world that Lucien Michael Ashford, sixth Viscount Calverton, of Calverton Chase in Rutlandshire, was to marry Amelia Eleanor Cynster, daughter of Lord Arthur and Lady Louise Cynster of Upper Brook Street, at Somersham Place on Wednesday, June 16.

Laying the paper down, he sipped his coffee, and tried to
define what he felt. The primary emotion he could identify was a simple one: impatience. As for the rest . . .

There was a great deal more swirling inside him—triumph, irritation, anticipation, deprecation—even a faint lick of desperation, if he was truthful. And underneath them all ranged that unnameable force, grown stronger, more powerful—more compelling, more demanding.

Just where it would lead him—how far it would drive him—he didn't know.

His gaze fell to the paper, to the notice therein.

A moment later, he drained his mug, rose and strolled from the breakfast parlor. He paused in the front hall to collect his riding gloves.

It no longer mattered where the path led—he was committed, publicly and privately, and despite all uncertainties, he did not, not for a minute, question the rightness of his direction.

The future was his, to make of it what he pleased.

Drawing his gloves through his hands, he grimaced. Unfortunately, his future now contained her, and she wasn't a force he could completely control.

The clop of hooves on the cobbles reached him; with a nod to the footman who hurried to open the door, he strode out of his house.

Pausing on the porch, he lifted his face to the morning sunshine and mentally looked ahead, weighed up the immediate future. When all was considered, he still felt the same.

Impatient.

While Luc rode in Hyde Park, not far away, a young lady entered the garden at the center of Connaught Square, and approached a gentleman garbed in a long, drab driving coat standing beneath the branches of an ancient oak.

As she neared, the lady inclined her head stiffly. “Good morning, Mr. Kirby.”

Her voice squeaked.

Kirby stirred and nodded brusquely. “What did you get this time?”

The young lady glanced around, nervousness escalating in the face of Kirby's dismissive contempt. He watched, unmoved, as she lifted a bag—a cloth sack of the type maids used when shopping; fumbling within, she drew forth a snuffbox.

Kirby took it; he glanced around, confirming they were unobserved, then raised the box so the light struck the miniature painting on the lid.

“Is it . . .” The young lady swallowed, then whispered, “Do you think it will be worth something?”

Kirby lowered his arm; the box disappeared into one of the capacious pockets of his coat. “You have a good eye. It'll fetch a few guineas. What else?”

The lady handed over a perfume flask, crystal with a gold lid, a pair of lorgnettes, old but riddled with small diamonds, and a pair of small candlesticks, silver and finely wrought.

Kirby briefly assessed each item; one by one, they disappeared into his pockets. “Quite a nice little haul.” He saw the young lady flinch, observed her dispassionately. “Your excursion to Hightham Hall was well worthwhile.” Voice lowering, he added, “I'm sure Edward will be grateful.”

The young lady looked up. “Have you heard from him?”

Kirby studied her face, then calmly replied, “His latest communication painted a grim picture. When such as Edward are cast off”—he shrugged—“it's not easy for them to find their feet in the gutter.”

The lady sighed despondently and looked away.

Kirby was silent for a moment, then smoothly said, “I've heard rumors of a wedding.” He pretended not to notice the stricken look in the lady's eyes as she swung to face him; instead, drawing that morning's
Gazette
from another pocket, he gave his attention to the item he'd circled. “It appears it'll be held at Somersham Place next Wednesday.”

Lifting his gaze, he fixed it on her face. “You'll be attending, I'm sure, and that's an opportunity too good to miss.”

One hand rising to the lace at her throat, the lady shook her head. “No—I
can't
!”

Kirby studied her for a moment, then said, “Before you make that decision, hear me out. The Cynsters are as rich as bedamned—wealthy beyond belief. Word has it Somersham Place is crammed full of objects and ornaments collected over the centuries by members of a family who've always had the means to indulge their expensive tastes. Anything you pick up there will be worth a small fortune, yet it'll be one small item from a sprawling mansion filled to bursting with similar things. The chances are one or two things will never be missed.

“And we shouldn't forget that Somersham Place is only one of several ducal residences. On top of that, there are the residences of other family members—not all, perhaps, will be as richly endowed, but all will contain artwork and ornaments of the highest standard—of that you may be sure.

“Now, let's contrast this with Edward's dire situation.” Kirby paused, as if selecting his words, censoring his knowledge; when he continued, his tone was somber, subdued. “It would not be untrue to say Edward's case is desperate.”

Fixing the young lady with a hard and steady gaze, he went on, “Edward has nothing—as he wrote in his letter to you, his brother has refused to support him, so he's reduced to eking out a living in any way he can. A rat-infested garrett, stale bread and water his only food, he's at the limit of his resources and in a very bad way.” Kirby heaved a tight sigh and looked across the square at the houses fronting it. “I seek only to help him, but I've already given all I can—and I don't have access to the places, to the homes, to the people who own things it won't hurt them to lose.”

The young lady had paled; she swung away—Kirby reached out to haul her back, but she turned back of her own accord, wringing her hands. He lowered his arm unobtrusively.

“In his letter, he only asked me to get those two things—the inkstand and the perfume flask. He said they belonged to his grandparents and had been promised to him—they were his, all I did was to bring them to you so he could have
them.” The lady lifted her eyes, beseechingly, to Kirby's face. “Surely, if he believed those two things would see him through, then together with the other items”—she nodded at Kirby's pockets—“the ones I've just given you, and the others, too, then Edward should have enough to survive for a few months?”

Kirby's smile was rueful, patronizing, but understanding. “I'm afraid, my dear, that Edward is, in his present arena, no more up to snuff than you. Because he so desperately needs the money these items will bring, he cannot get much for them. That's the way such things work.” He paused, then added, “As I said, he's in a very bad way. Indeed . . .” He seemed to recollect himself and stopped, then, after transparently wrestling with his conscience while the young lady watched, he sighed and met her gaze. “I should not say such a thing, yet I greatly fear I cannot answer for what he will do if we cannot get him decent funds soon.”

The young lady's eyes grew round. “You mean . . . ?”

Kirby grimaced. “He won't be the first sprig of an aristocratic house who couldn't face life in a foreign gutter.”

One hand rising to her lips, the young lady turned away. Kirby watched from under hooded lids, and waited.

After some moments, she drew in a shaky breath, and turned back to him. “You said anything, any little item from Somersham Place, will be worth a small fortune?”

Kirby nodded.

“So if I take something from there, and give it to you, then Edward will have enough to live on.”

Kirby's nod was immediate. “It'll keep him from starving.”

“Or doing anything else?”

“That's in the lap of the gods, but at least it'll give him a chance.”

The young lady stared across the square, then she drew in a breath, and nodded. “Very well.” Lifting her chin, she met Kirby's gaze. “I'll find something—something good.”

Kirby studied her for a moment, then inclined his head. “Your devotion is to be applauded.”

Briefly, he told her where to meet him, where and when she should bring her next contribution to Edward's well-being. She agreed and they parted. Kirby watched her cross the square, then turned and strode in the opposite direction.

Why the devil had he decided on Wednesday?

Returning to Calverton House on Monday afternoon, Luc stalked into his study, shut the door, then flung himself into an armchair and stared at the empty hearth.

If he'd said Monday instead . . .

He'd avoided Upper Brook Street on the day the notice announcing their nuptials had appeared in the
Gazette.
Predictably, all fashionable London, or so it had seemed, had descended on the Cynsters to congratulate Amelia and gossip about the wedding. Even here, at Calverton House, his mother had been besieged by callers throughout the morning; after luncheon, she'd shrewdly decided to join Amelia and Louise in Brook Street, so the wishful could have at them all at once.

Saturday evening they'd spent under the full glare of avid—not to say rabid—scrutiny at Lady Harris's soirée, one of the last major engagements before the
ton
retired to their estates for summer. The weather had already turned warm, the ladies' gowns commensurately revealing. To his relief, Amelia had restrained herself; she'd appeared in a demure sheath of gold silk to parade on his arm, ineffably calm and courteous to all those who paused to wish them well.

He hadn't had a chance for so much as a moment in private with her. Lecturing himself that the evening was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, he'd accepted the fact with what he'd thought at the time to be reasonable grace. The intent look Amelia had bent on him when they'd ended the evening and parted, under her mother's watchful eye, had suggested that she, at least, had seen past his mask—sensed the restless dissatisfaction he'd concealed.

Deciding he wasn't averse to her sensing his impatience, he'd called the next afternoon—Sunday—expecting to whisk her away, to spend at least some moments alone with
her, moments with her attention all his, only to discover the females of her family had congregated to confer and plan the wedding.

Vane, having escorted his wife, Patience, to the gathering, was leaving as he arrived. “Take my advice—White's would be much more to your taste.”

It had taken less than a second for him to consider, and disgustedly agree. White's at that hour was thoroughly unexciting; it was, however, safe.

On Sunday evening, he and his mother had hosted the more or less traditional formal dinner for the families of bride and groom. He'd never seen his staff so excited; Cottsloe spent the entire evening beaming fit to burst. Mrs. Higgs exceeded her own high standards; despite once again being denied any chance of a private word with Amelia, he had to admit the evening had gone well.

Devil, of course, had been present. They'd come upon each other in the drawing room later in the evening. Devil's eyes had searched his, then he'd grinned. “Still not broached the painful subject?”

He'd calmly turned to survey the company. “You can talk.” He'd waited only a heartbeat before adding, “However, I can assure you no mention of that particular topic will occur before the wedding.”

“Still determined?”

“Absolutely.”

Devil had sighed exaggeratedly. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

“I won't.” Turning, he'd met Devil's eyes. “You could, of course, send me pointers . . .”

Devil had humphed and slapped his shoulder. “Don't press your luck.”

They'd parted amicably, their common difficulty a bond. The fact had only served to raise the issue more definitely, embed it more firmly in his mind.

He would have to tell her sometime.

The knowledge only fueled his impatience.

He'd called in Upper Brook Street that morning, early
enough, so he'd thought, only to have the butler, old Colthorpe, gravely inform him that Amelia and Louise were already in the drawing room with four other ladies.

Swallowing his curses, he'd considered sending in a note, asking her to slip away. Then the front door bell pealed. Colthorpe had caught his eye. “Perhaps, my lord, you might prefer to wait in the parlor?”

He had, listening as the bevy of elegant matrons who'd come to call were shown into the drawing room. In to see Amelia.

With a growing sense of disappointment, and a hollow, indefinable unease, he'd accepted the inevitable and departed the house. He hadn't left a note.

He'd gone to his club; various friends had taken him to lunch. Some would travel down to Cambridgeshire tomorrow, as would he; that afternoon had been the last time they and he could celebrate as all bachelors. And celebrate they had, yet although he'd laughed and outwardly enjoyed their company, his mind had already moved on—his thoughts had been fixed not on old friends, but on the woman who would be his wife.