Shady Lady (7 page)

C
hapter
7

N
ot far from Piccadilly House, in St. James’s Square, another party was in progress. The hostess, Caroline Walters, was feeling very pleased with herself. Contrary to expectations, Waldo had cut short his visit to Warwick and posted up to town to attend her reception. She took this as a compliment to herself and a clear indication that Waldo had decided to renew their affair.

She mustn’t appear too confident. That’s what had been Dulcie Congram’s downfall. She’d made a fatal blunder when she’d tried to make Waldo jealous by encouraging Lord Hornsby’s attentions. A duel had been fought. Lord Hornsby had come off the worse, but Dulcie’s triumph was short-lived. All she had now was an emerald pendant to mark the end of her affair with Waldo. That happened more than a month ago. Now speculations were rife as the
ton
waited to see which lady would capture Waldo’s fickle eye.

Supper was over and most of her guests were assembling in the salon, where they were to be entertained by Maria Fellini, the celebrated soprano from Milan. For those who didn’t have an ear for music, there were cards in the cardroom, and that was where she knew Waldo would be.

She couldn’t drop everything to be with him. As hostess, she had duties to perform, and she performed them with effortless grace. She liked to think that she was a woman of refinement and taste. Everything in her home had been chosen to convey that impression—the fine bone china, the Waterford crystal, the Aubusson carpets, and the ornately carved silver. Silver and lavender were the colors of her choice, because they set off to advantage the violet in her eyes and her pale magnolia complexion.

As she passed from the salon to the cardroom, she took a moment to assess her reflection in the pier glass. Tonight she wore violet silk, which rustled when she walked and set off her lovely throat and white shoulders. Vastly pleased with herself, she entered the cardroom.

Waldo was not at any of the tables. She scanned the room and found him beyond the French doors, on the terrace, smoking one of those thin cheroots with his friend Ruggles. Other gentlemen were there as well, with the same idea as Waldo. Knowing that a lady’s presence would not be welcome when the gentlemen had gathered to smoke, she turned aside and exchanged a few words with her guests, but her eyes kept straying to Waldo.

He was careless about his dress, not nearly as fastidious as her late husband, but that only added to his appeal. He looked as though he’d be equally at home in a lady’s boudoir or brawling in the stews of London. He was active by nature, and it showed in his lean, muscular frame. His limp was an indication, if anyone should doubt it, that he was a man who lived dangerously.

She watched, fascinated, as that sensual mouth blew out a stream of smoke. His hair was dark, his features were bold and chiseled, but it was his brilliant eyes that mirrored his thoughts. They could be warm and inviting or devastatingly remote.

It made a lady watch her step.

She was recalled to her surroundings by the raucous voice of the dowager Countess of Allenvale. “You look famished, Caro. Well, you won’t find supper on the terrace. I suggest you try the dining room.”

The snide remark brought a few titters from the other dowagers at Lady Allenvale’s table. Caro affected not to understand. She made some casual comment and sailed out of the cardroom.

“Old crow,” she muttered when she was out of ear-shot.

Ruggles’s admiring gaze trailed Caro Walters as she left the cardroom. “Lucky devil,” he said, glancing at his friend. “She’s yours for the taking. In fact, I’d say that most of the unattached females who are here tonight are yours for the taking. Would you mind telling me what you’ve got that I haven’t?”

Waldo’s smile was dry. “A gammy leg. They assume I got it in a brawl or a duel. For some obscure reason, it makes me seem glamorous in women’s eyes.”

“You’re joking.”

“Borrow my cane if you don’t believe me.”

Ruggles laughed. “You could try telling them the truth.”

Waldo drew deeply on his cheroot, then flicked the stub into the shrubbery. “That it’s a war injury? I have told them. You can blame Lady Tellall for distorting the facts in her column. She has made me out to be another Lord Byron—you know, mad, bad, and dangerous to know. I’d like to wring that woman’s neck.”

“Lady Tellall’s?”

“Jo Chesney’s.”

Ruggles turned away to hide his smile. They’d stayed overnight in Barnet for the sole purpose of escorting Mrs. Chesney and her friend the rest of the way to London. First thing this morning, however, when they’d called at the Red Lion, they discovered that Mrs. Chesney had changed her mind and left the night before. Waldo had said very little on the drive home, except to say that Mrs. Chesney was the most exasperating woman of his acquaintance. His ill humor had improved when Ruggles suggested they take in Mrs. Walters’s party, but all they’d done since they arrived was play cards, smoke, and drink champagne.

Waldo went on musingly, “Is she running from me or is she in some kind of trouble? That’s what I keep asking myself.”

Ruggles shrugged. He’d heard about the break-in at the
Journal
and how Mrs. Chesney had accused Waldo of being behind it. “If you really want to know, why don’t you track her down and ask her?”

“I have no desire to track her down.”

Ruggles regarded his friend curiously. “Fine. Then let her go. Look here, Waldo, you can’t expect
every
female to fall at your feet.”

Waldo made an expression of distaste. “I don’t expect it. In fact, no woman has ever fallen at my feet, and if such a thing were to happen, I would summon a doctor.”

“You’re taking me literally! What I meant was—”

“I know what you meant, and I assure you I am not sulking because Mrs. Chesney has taken me in dislike.”

“Dislike?”
Ruggles hooted with laughter. “Face it, Waldo. She
loathes
you. She doesn’t trust you. Not that you deserve it, of course. Blame Lady Loose Lips or whatever her name is. I bet Mrs. Chesney thinks you have designs on her virtue.”

There was enough inflection in the last remark to make it sound like a question. Waldo gave a snort of derision.

He refused his friend’s offer of snuff and gazed reflectively at the occupants of the cardroom. Ladies in diaphanous gauzes and shimmering silks caught his eye. He knew their skin would be soft and fragrant. Jo Chesney couldn’t hold a candle to these alluring women, and he didn’t know why he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

“It’s not working,” he said absently, voicing his thoughts. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“What?” Ruggles frowned, not understanding his friend’s train of thought.

Waldo said, “Let’s go to the Bell. I’m in the mood for masculine society, and that’s where all our friends will be.”

Ruggles was astonished. “You mean, you’d give up Caro Walters for a night of carousing with our friends?”

“I’m bored,” replied Waldo, surprising himself with the truth of his remark.

Ruggles took a moment to think about it. “What friends?” He counted them off on the fingers of one hand. “Case is married, Richard is married, and Freddie and Robert are still in Warwick. That leaves just the two of us.”

“Fine. Then let’s go to my rooms in the Albany and have a party for two.”

Enlightenment dawned and Ruggles grinned. “I see Mrs. Chesney has made quite an impression on you. My advice is to forget her. According to Henry, she’ll be married to her late husband till the day she dies.” He slanted Waldo a lazy look. “Pity, isn’t it? So much beauty and passion shouldn’t go to waste. We must hope for the best, that one day the right man will come along and he and Mrs. Chesney will live happily ever after. Don’t look so cynical. It does happen.”

“You’re a romantic, Ruggles.”

“So I am.”

Waldo left the party without Ruggles, after making his apologies to his hostess. He wasn’t the only one to leave. There were so many parties and assemblies during the Season that it was an established custom to try to attend as many as possible. He didn’t tell Caro that he was going home to a party of one. All the same, she looked at him as if she could kill him. If she’d ripped up at him as he deserved, he might have changed his mind, but she lowered her lashes, and when they lifted, she gazed at him with those beautiful limpid eyes of hers.

And he wanted to yawn.

Once in his rooms, he poured himself a large glass of brandy and sat down beside the fire to enjoy it.
He was bored
. He tested the thought gingerly and decided there might be some truth in it. After two years of indolence, two years of kicking over the traces, he was bored.

He wasn’t giving Jo Chesney the credit for putting the thought in his mind. It had been there for some time, only he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. He didn’t feel guilty about his mode of living; he didn’t want to be reformed. What he missed was the direction and purpose he’d had when he served with Wellington.

For more than seven years he’d been a soldier, and in that time he’d been completely focused. They’d been supremely confident then, he and his friends, young men all, handpicked by Wellington for special assignments or to serve as his aides. That’s when his and Ruggles’s paths had crossed, when they’d been selected for special assignments. Until then, he hadn’t really appreciated the quiet, unflappable Scot who kept to himself. It hadn’t taken him long to discover that when the going got rough, there was no one he would rather have defending his back.

Then suddenly, the war was over, and with it the sense of purpose that drove them on. Back in England, they were at a loose end. They’d tried to pick up the threads of their old lives, but there was no going back. The world had managed very well without them, and the world had moved on.

For a while, they had both continued to serve with the secret service, but he had found his heart wasn’t in it. The sense of purpose and urgency was gone. Spying in times of peace did not have the same clarity as when there was a war to be won. So he’d resigned from the service. Ruggles had accepted a position with Special Branch. This was a new venture that had been established in the last year or two, a police force within the police force, to root out subversives and assist local authorities with difficult cases. He’d been asked to join as well, but he’d requested time to think it over.

Now he had to decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He sipped his drink slowly as he considered his options.

He came awake instantly, fully alert, sensing another presence, and his hand went automatically to his holster for his pistol. Only there was no pistol and no enemy creeping up on him. This was England. He was in his library, having dozed in his favorite chair, and Mellowes, his manservant, had entered the room, no doubt to see if there was anything his master wanted before he went to his own bed.

Waldo stretched his cramped muscles, rubbed his lame leg, then frowned when he observed his manservant’s expression. “What is it, Mellowes?”

“There’s a Runner from Bow Street who wishes to speak to you.”

“At this time of night?” He got up.

He wasn’t alarmed. Before he’d resigned from the secret service, he’d had dealings with the Bow Street Office from time to time and knew most of the magistrates and officers who worked there. But this was the first time that one of them had called at his rooms.

“Well, show the officer in, Mellowes.”

The gentleman who entered looked more like a blacksmith than an officer of the law. His old-fashioned tricorne hat was stuffed under one arm. His big, fleshy hands matched the rest of him.

“It’s Officer Stoppes, is it not?”

The Runner nodded.

“What brings you here?”

“It’s about your sister. Magistrate Vine thought you’d want to know. We’ve locked her up for resisting arrest.”

Waldo was astonished. “There must be some mistake, or one of my friends is playing a practical joke on me.”

“This is no joke, sir. She’s facing serious charges—abducting a minor and disturbing the peace.”

Waldo’s jaw sagged. “What?
Maude?
”

“No, sir. Your other sister, Mrs. Chesney.”

“Mrs. . . .” Waldo swore under his breath. “It
is
a practical joke,” he said. “I’m sorry you’ve been put to so much trouble. I’m afraid my friend Ruggles—that is, Mr. McNab—has set this up.”

“I don’t know nothing about that, sir. But I can tell you that this is no joke. She’s got the Bow Street Office in an uproar, and Magistrate Vine is fit to be tied.”

Waldo was beginning to add things up. “And she’s mentioned me by name?” he remarked.

Officer Stoppes’s brow wrinkled. “Why, yes, sir,” he said. “And told Mr. Vine where to find you.”

“What else did she say?”

Stoppes shifted his tricorne to his other arm. “Only that you would stand bail for her.”

Something came and went in Waldo’s eyes—not amusement, but something close to it. “Now, this I have to see,” he said. “Mellowes, my hat and cane, if you please.”

Though Waldo plied Officer Stoppes with questions on the short drive to Bow Street, he learned no more about the circumstances leading to Jo’s arrest than he’d already been told. It was Magistrate Vine, Stoppes said, who had sent him to fetch Waldo. As for Mrs. Chesney, she was locked up in a cell until Mr. Vine could decide what to do with her.

Waldo did not believe for one moment that Jo could         have got herself into anything that could not be smoothed over. She wasn’t a criminal. He knew from experience, however, that if someone got on her wrong side, she could be a spitfire. In his opinion, tact and diplomacy were all that was required to put things right. And Mr. Vine was a good sort. He knew him well.

His steps slowed when he entered the building. It was Saturday night, and London’s criminal element had obviously been out in force. Thugs, ruffians, drunkards, many of them in shackles, as well as prostitutes and their pimps were more numerous than the officers who guarded them. The air was ripe with the stench of sweat, candle smoke, and gin. No lady of quality should have to endure these indignities.