The Diamond Key (11 page)

“Us?”

Wynn wondered what Rosie meant by “us.” The frail sisterhood? Herself and her babe? Fallen women and their keepers?

Perhaps it was all for the best. Now Lady Torrie would be convinced that he was no fit consort for her, which was fine. He had no desire to be her friend, not when she was proved to be just another well-bred woman ready to believe the worst of a man. Of course, he admitted, having an armful of weeping Rosie would have been hard enough to explain under the best of conditions. He might have tried, gone traipsing after Torrie in the park as he’d vowed never to do, but he had promised Rosie an ice. He was not going to go back on his word, by George. He was a man of honor, no matter what the
ton
thought, no matter what Lady Victoria Ann Keyes thought.

Then he thought again. Where was the lady’s father? A footman or a groom? She and her maid seemed to be alone in the park, which would have been fine later in the day when the paths were full, or if someone had not set the dressmaker’s shop on fire with her inside. Dammit, did the earl not care for his daughter’s welfare that he left her unprotected, or was he so trusting of his fellow man that he ignored Wynn’s hints about arson? Thunderation, Wynn would have to warn her.

He called Barrogi over and introduced him to Rosie. “You take Miss Peters to Gunter’s and buy her an ice,” he ordered, handing over a handful of coins. Then he added a few more, recalling Rosie’s condition. “Buy her two. And whatever you want. Then see her home in a hackney, and make sure she is comfortable, all right?”

When Barrogi nodded, Wynn told Rosie that he would come see her soon. “And try not to worry in the meantime, which cannot be good for the baby, for I will come up with some solution to the dilemma. We still have two months. Oh, and Barrogi, make sure you treat the lady like fine china.”

Barrogi bowed to Rosie and offered his arm. “Me, I will treat the
signora
as if she were fine Roma.”

* * * *

“We should not have run off like that, without waiting for an explanation. Perhaps the woman was his cousin.” Torrie did not know anyone in London whose cousin wore such outlandish bonnets with such bright pink ribbons. For that matter, no respectable woman, cousin or otherwise, would be out in public in such a state of incipient motherhood. “Perhaps the lady was his cousin from the country.”

“Cousin, hah.” Ruthie was panting to keep up with her mistress. These morning constitutionals were never the maid’s favorites, but this mad rush had exhausted her. “And she is no more a lady than she is Lord Ingall’s cousin. Her name is Rose Peters, and she is the light skirt he fought the duel over.”

Now Torrie gasped. “How do you know that?”

“Everyone knows Rosie. Her picture was hanging in the print shops all the time, when she was in looks. She’s a dealer at McGillicuddy’s Gaming Parlor, and they say she made a fortune for him. She’s one of the pretty women who get men to drink more than they ought, you see, so they gamble more than they can afford. Rose Peters used to be the prettiest, and the most in demand when she was not at the faro tables. She was in Lord George Post’s keeping last. The one who just married Miss Goodwin.”

Torrie felt sorry for Miss Goodwin. Lord George had little hair, less chin—and a mistress. Then she felt sorry for herself and her crumbling air castles. Lord Ingall was back, and back to his old ways. The babe might not be his, but the woman appeared to be.

* * * *

At least one person in the park that morning was having a good time. Lord Boyce was congratulating himself on his foresight in having the Scarecrow watch Lady Torrie’s house to monitor her movements. He was more proud that he looked so complete to a shade so early in the day. Why, even the nursemaids smiled in approval of the picture he made in his yellow trousers and curly-brimmed beaver hat and tasseled Hessians.

Usually Lord Boyce was still abed at this time of the morning, but today he had arisen soon after dawn, it seemed. He had sacrificed his sleep so that he might spend an hour or so at his toilette and still get to the park on schedule. Certes, it was not every day a fellow became affianced to an heiress, and Boyce wished to look the part. The hours were worth it, if he had to say so himself, for the ensemble that ensued.

Today he would be betrothed to the earl’s daughter, by hook or by crook, by fair means or foul, by noontime, by Jupiter.

He followed the path Scarecrow said she took most clement mornings, she and her maid. He passed a lowbred pair who were leaving the park, thank goodness. Females in that condition ought not be seen by delicate gentlewomen. Then he passed a young pageboy in a wig who was shouting at an ill-dressed lout whose back was toward Boyce. The bigger, older man’s dog, it seemed, had raised its leg on the boy’s satchel—which contained a change of clothes for his mistress, who had spent the night with her lover. Boyce shuddered. No wonder the quality did not patronize the park before midday. Lady Torrie would not, once they were wed. Boyce would insist on that.

Swinging his walking stick in what he considered a jaunty manner as he strode down the path, he looked up, pretending to admire the birds in the newly leafed trees. Lord Boyce would not know a pigeon from a partridge, and would have thrown his stick at the noisy creatures to stop their infernal racket, except his cane might have become scratched. Besides, there was Lady Torrie up ahead, speaking with her maid.

He walked closer, then stopped short. “Oh, my, what a surprise! Well met, my lady. I did not think to find any of my acquaintance in the park this early. I would never have guessed that you shared my interest in this, ah, refreshing time of day.”

“Good morning, Lord Boyce, and yes, I like to come to the park before it is crowded, to have a few moments alone with my thoughts before the day’s rush begins.”

The hint was so broad it could have hit a barn door. But not Lord Boyce. “I feel exactly the same! The, ah, empty spaces are so conducive to contemplation, aren’t they? And the air”—he sniffed delicately, inhaling the aromas of coal smoke, stagnant water, and horse droppings—”is so, ah, refreshing, do you not agree?”

“Yes, quite. Now, if you will forgive me—”

“Oh, think nothing of it, my lady. Perhaps we should continue our strolls together, to share our admiration of Nature’s bounty.”

“Thank you, but my maid and I are fully refreshed, as you say. We were about to leave the park.” But not by the way they had come, with its stale, sordid scenery.

“What, and miss this glorious sunshine?” Boyce prayed his hat shielded his face enough so his nose did not turn an unattractive pink. He raised his quizzing glass to inspect Lady Torrie’s skin and noticed the foolish chit was developing freckles, of all abominations. He would certainly put an end to these hoydenish morning walks. He replaced the glass in his pocket and held out his arm in invitation. “Surely you can walk a bit farther?”

“Do go on, ma’am,” Ruthie urged. She was still out of breath but, worse, the pace Lady Torrie set had roiled the maid’s uncertain digestion again. If she could pause a minute, maybe the spell would pass. “I’d be that grateful to rest right here on this bench, where I can keep sight of you and his lordship.”

Torrie saw that her maid was indeed looking sadly pulled again. She’d thought Ruthie fully recovered from her malady, or she would have taken one of the footmen for escort this morning. Torrie vowed to send for the physician herself as soon as they reached Duchamp House, which she intended to do as quickly as possible. “No, you will be better off at home. We will walk back slowly and hire a carriage at the park gate.”

“I regret I do not have my rig standing by.” Boyce regretted not having the blunt to hire the job horses that pulled his carriage. As soon as the betrothal was announced.... “But the woman might recover with a rest, as she says.”

Ruthie was nodding. Torrie was undecided—until she saw a tall, bare-headed figure coming up the path behind an older couple. She turned to Boyce. “Very well, sir, I will be pleased to accept your escort for a short stroll.”

Lord Boyce had trouble keeping up with her, she was walking so fast. His corset was too tight and his boots were more fashionable than well-fitting. Besides, they were going in the wrong direction. How could he hope to compromise a female when there was no one to see her fall from grace? The maid did not count, for she would be loyal to whatever her mistress wished her to say. Boyce did not have enough of the ready to bribe her to say Lady Torrie had given her virtue to him in the park.

If he had to, he could pull the earl’s daughter behind a bush and rip her clothing. Lady Torrie would be forced to wed him after indulging in what everyone would believe was a passionate tryst. But his own clothing might become disordered in the struggle. Besides, the strong-willed female was just as liable to complain of being attacked. Her father would horsewhip him.

No, his first plan was better: one kiss, suitably passionate, in front of witnesses, then a declaration. While she was too stunned to challenge him, Boyce would say that he had been overcome with emotion when his beloved accepted his proposal. If she denied the engagement, her reputation would be in tatters for allowing such liberties in so public a venue. He thought he ought to put his hand on her breast to guarantee her disgrace. With his gloves on or off?

Torrie wanted to walk down a side path, behind the bench where Ruthie sat. Boyce wished to head back toward the entrance, where the riders gathered before setting out and knots of people gathered, no matter what the hour. He pulled toward the left. She pulled toward the right.

“But I saw a particularly attractive bird in this direction,” Boyce said.

But Torrie saw a particular dog darting among the shrubbery where he was pointing. She tugged on Boyce’s arm, hard enough to wrinkle his sleeve.

“Very well, my dear. We will walk this way.” His lordship considered himself too much the gentleman to wrench a wench’s arm, but he was too needy to let go. He’d just have to hope that the elderly couple who walked toward them on the path were of enough consequence to blacken her name sufficiently, finding her
in
flagrante delicto.
Or as flagrant as one could get in one’s clothes, in the park, in a hurry.

He let her lead him off the main walkway, but then he stopped as if to admire a flower, to let the couple catch up. Instead they seemed to get into some kind of altercation with another man who had come up the path, the same lout whose dog had misbehaved earlier. Botheration.

Needing to delay, Boyce decided to give his chosen bride one last chance to choose him.

“Lady Torrie,” he began, then decided the occasion required a more formal form of address—before he tore her dress, if necessary. “Lady Victoria, you must know how much I admire you. Your beauty and your spirit are the epitome of womanhood. Your very smile can bring the strongest man to his knees.” Of course not on the dirt, no matter the protocol. “I must beg you again to make me the happiest of men.”

Torrie was looking back toward her maid, trying to figure out what was happening. The elderly man was shouting, waving his cane, and the woman was pointing with her parasol to where the dog was running off with a sack of something in his mouth. Oh, dear. The man started flailing ineffectively at Lord Ingall with his cane, and Torrie could not help the smile that came to her lips. She’d like to give the viscount a few good raps herself. “Yes!”

“Then you will?” Boyce almost fell backward in shock.

“Will what?” Torrie asked, turning back to him.

“Marry me, of course.”

“Don’t be more foolish than you need, George. I have told you endlessly that I shall never wed you. I shall not change my mind.”

“Oh yes, you shall, my fine lady.” And he grabbed for her.

Torrie was so surprised that she did not resist for a moment, until she felt his mouth on hers, and his tongue trying to force itself past her lips. She could not decide whether to employ her knee, her fist, or the tiny gun her father had insisted she carry in her reticule. When she felt his hand on her breast, she decided on all three, in whichever order they came. Before she could draw back her arm, or raise her leg, though, Lord Boyce was flying through the air, headfirst, into a newly planted border garden.

Boyce picked his head up out of the primroses, which he could not tell from parsley, and moaned.

His plan was ruined. His clothes were ruined.

And a filthy mongrel was mangling the tassels on his boots.

Boyce spit out a leaf, and then he spit out: “You!” His attacker had been the same busybody who had foiled Boyce’s attempt to look the hero in Lady Torrie’s eyes: Ingall. The same reprobate who should have been driven out of London. The same no-account who ...

“Yes, it is I.” Wynn really wished he had bought himself one of those quizzing glasses, like the one broken in Boyce’s fall. He could have brought it to his eye and scrutinized the maggot like the insect he was. If he ever found a proper valet, Wynn swore, he’d send the fellow out to purchase one. Meantime, he raised one eyebrow and said, “And I am enjoying the coincidence of our meeting again as little as you are, I am certain.”

Boyce, however, was the one struggling to his feet while Ingall did not seem the least discomposed.

“How dare you! I’ll call you out for this, sirrah!”

“Save your breath, Boyce. You are already looking apoplectic. And I will not duel you or anyone else.”

Boyce curled his lip. “Of course. Dueling is for gentlemen, and you no longer classify as such, I recall.”

“While you are refreshing your memory, you might remember that the last man who challenged me is worm-fodder. My aim has only improved, of necessity. Wolves, crocodiles, and man-eating tigers, you know, do wonders for sharpening one’s marksmanship.”

Now that was a hint Boyce did recognize. He brushed down his floral-embroidered waistcoat and conceded, “Well, I do not suppose any harm has been done.”

Wynn turned to Torrie. “I think that is for the lady to decide.”

Torrie was mortified. To be found in such an undignified situation, by this of all people, was outside of enough. “I can explain,” she began.