The Scandalous Life of a True Lady (37 page)

Gorham was all for driving to London, too, despite the late hour, to see if he was needed at Parliament, and to check at his town house. He had to know if his wife, her butler, and her belongings were really missing. Comden wanted to go with him, to discuss the Jamaican property, and to purchase a special license. Sir Chauncey thought he might toddle along with the others, and Ellsworth decided he ought to confirm his wife’s interesting condition. They’d all be back by mid-morning at the latest, for the final competition and settling of debts.

Claire ordered the talent contest vote also put off to the next day, since tonight was so chaotic.

Three of the men joined Gorham in his coach. Harry rode Fidus. Still dressed in his costume, but with a caped greatcoat thrown over his shoulders and a pistol stuck in his waistband, he looked more like a highwayman than a Gypsy. He stopped first at the village to drag Daniel out of a barmaid’s arms, then rode into the woods, trusting Fidus to avoid hanging branches and fallen logs.

The men he had stationed there were mounted and ready to ride, awaiting his orders. They had more news than the messenger had brought to the manor, although still incomplete. According to their information, Major Harrison was not the only subject of assassination that day. None of the others were successful, thanks to the bodyguards Harry had set in place and the precautions he’d taken.

A firecracker had gone off near the prince regent’s carriage. The horses were frightened, but the extra Horse Guards held them under control. The Prime Minister was fired at; his armed escort shot the man, who was identified as another of Eloise Lecroix’s brothers, Jean Casselle. A fire set in the visitor’s gallery at Parliament was quickly put out, with no one injured. So was a blaze at the Royal Exchequer. A female was arrested with a jug of lamp oil. She turned out to be Madame Lecroix’s maid.

There was no panic, no run on the banks, no riots in the streets. There was no sign of Fordyce, either. Harry’s men never spotted him on the road to London, nor did he return to his watched rooms at Mrs. Olmstead’s. The report indicated he had been wounded by Major Harrison’s guards. They were special services officers, trained and ready…for him to collapse on the steps. They had fired back, but Fordyce got away.

Harry was furious at himself. He’d thought the plot against the government was foiled with the arrests of Eloise, Gollup and Spenser. He’d thought Ford, or Fordyce, would be detained, so only his own demise had yet to unfold. He’d thought wrong, dammit. Now a man, a trusted aide, was dead instead of him. How could he live with that on his soul?

Harry set Fidus on the road to London, quickly leaving the three soldiers behind him. While he rode, he thought about the dead man, who had no family, thank goodness, and the live man. Fordyce could not go back to his rooms, nor to any surgeon in London, who would have been warned to report a bullet wound. He hadn’t been paid for his filthy work, according to the conversation Simone had overheard. So where would he go?

*

Alice was put to bed by Maura and Ruby, who decided to stay the night with her, lest she grow more disturbed with Comden gone. In truth, they were all upset and wanted to comfort each other. Who could not be disturbed, with a blackmailer on top of a traitor, and now mayhem in London?

Sandaree was consoled by Mr. Anthony, who moved to Danforth’s rooms. Daisy and the captain disappeared together, and the others went up to bed too.

Simone refused to retire until Harry returned or sent word as he’d promised. How could she sleep not knowing what danger he was in? She put on a warmer gown and went downstairs, where she could hear the door. She kept the dog by her side.

Claire was already in the little used front parlor, the one she kept for callers she did not wish to entertain for long. Simone almost left when she heard Claire’s description of the room, but Claire urged her to stay. She was hoping Gorham would send a message, not about the nastiness in London, but his nasty wife, and she welcomed the company during her anxious vigil.

Claire dismissed the servants to their beds after they brought tea, since she was quite capable of opening the door herself. There was no reason for anyone else to stay up so late. Or to overhear their conversation.

“How did you know my daughter played the violin?” she demanded, as soon as she filled Simone’s cup. “Did Harry tell you that, too? Does he have a friend in Cornwall?”

Simone set the cup down. “I do not understand how it works, but I just saw a pretty girl with the instrument in my mind. And Harry did not tell me about her at all, remember? You did. He would never betray a confidence that way.”

Claire poured brandy into her own tea. “Why should I believe that? Harry Harmon is a rake and a rogue, a notoriously unreliable combination. I do not see why you trust him at all.”

“Harry is the most honorable man I know. Besides, Gorham has been forsaking his marriage vows for a decade, yet you trust him, do you not?”

“I love him. Oh, I see.” Claire sipped her fortified tea and looked at Simone. “It is unfortunate when a female falls in love with her protector. Did no one tell you that? It is too easy to have your heart broken. I know. Still, I wish you well. You have done me the biggest favor of my life, if you told the truth. I cannot imagine how you knew—I do not believe that Gypsy nonsense one whit; you might as well be reading tea leaves or chicken entrails—but if you are right, I will be the happiest female in all of England. Yes, even if I can never be Gorham’s wife.”

“Perhaps Lady Gorham will expire soon. It is sinful to wish for another’s death, of course, but anything is possible.”

“Well, I have been praying for the old bat to choke on a bone any time these past years, so I suppose I won’t go to heaven. But tell me, can you see her future?”

“No, not without physical touch. That’s how it works. And that’s why I have no idea if Gorham is your child’s father. Some things must remain secret.”

Claire poured another dollop of brandy into her cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

*

They both heard the pounding on the front door. Claire rushed out of the parlor to open it, but neither Harry nor Gorham nor a footman in Gorham’s livery stood there. Fordyce did, a gun in his right hand, a bloody bandage wrapped around his left shoulder.

The dog growled, and Fordyce told Simone to muzzle him, or he’d shoot. He looked at her. “I know you, don’t I?”

She wished she was not wearing a dark gown, with her hair held back in a loose knot. Her appearance was too reminiscent of the boarding house. “Of course you know me. You saw me dance, remember?”

Claire was furious that an armed man had dared to shove his way into her home. Worse, he was bleeding onto her carpet. “What do you want?”

“I want Spenser. He has my money.”

“Not that I owe you any explanation, but Mr. Spenser was taken away by the authorities after the ball. Something about funding a plot.” Claire finally realized that she was most likely confronting the man responsible for carrying out that plot, for shooting a man in London. She fainted.

Fordyce stepped over her and lifted the crystal brandy decanter. He shifted the gun to his left hand, so he could hold the decanter to his lips. “You were at Mrs. Olmstead’s. The priggish female in the attics what wouldn’t give me the time of day. Miss Simone Ryland, the governess.”

“You must be mistaken,” she said, in French, hoping he’d think she was a foreign
fille du joie
.

“You’re no French whore. You’re the governess, all right. Mrs. Olmstead said you were smart and educated,” he answered in the same language. “No one else has hair that—” Then he realized he’d given himself away, after a decade of speaking English on this accursed island. Not that it mattered. He was a wanted man anyway, if he didn’t die of the gunshot.

“I need money. Now.”

“There is a fortune in Gorham’s safe, the money for the competition.”

Fordyce kicked at Claire’s skirts and had another swallow of brandy. “I doubt he’d tell his doxy how to open it.”

“I have an expensive bracelet upstairs. You might have seen it, the prize in the dance contest. I’ll go get it for you.”

Claire groaned, but they both ignored her.

“You’d like to go, and raise the servants or fetch a pistol at the same time, I’d warrant.”

Those were her precise plans, but she shook her head, no.

“I’ll go with you, then. And if you scream, you’ll never get back downstairs.”

Simone looked at Claire, hoping she was waking up enough to sound the alarm.

Fordyce must have had the same thought, for he brought the butt of his gun down on Claire’s head.

Simone screamed. She couldn’t help it. Fordyce grabbed her, the pistol pressed to her neck. The dog snarled and snapped at Fordyce’s leg. He kicked it away, then waited to see if anyone came running. No one did.

“All right. Up we go.” He released her, but kept the gun pointed at her back. When he turned to close the parlor door behind them, the dog inside, Simone reached for a vase on a hall table beside the door. She held it over her head, ready to throw.

“You can shoot me,” she said, “but everyone will hear. The servants are not that far away, likely cleaning the music room down the corridor. Some of the gentlemen are playing billiards.” She knew Harry would forgive her the lies. “You might get away, but without any money, and they’ll go after you. Go now, while you have a chance.”

Fordyce was undecided.

Simone heard the dog throwing himself against the parlor door. And something else. Someone was outside, galloping closer. Fordyce heard it, too. He turned toward the front door. Simone brought the vase down on his head just as Harry burst into the house, pistol drawn.

Fordyce staggered, but stayed on his feet. He shook his head and peered at Harry through the water and flowers that dripped down his face. “You! They told me to watch out for you, that you were connected to Harrison. I watched, but you were nothing. A useless drain on your useless society.”

“Strange, I do not feel so useless, now that I have a gun.”

Fordyce’s hand at the back of his head came away bloody. He cursed in French, then turned fast and pulled Simone in front of him. “But I have something you want. What I want is gold. Drop the gun and reach for your purse.”

Harry put the gun down carefully. He slowly reached inside his coat, and came out with a knife. He shouted “Down, Simone,” and threw it.

Fordyce’s gun went off and shattered an Egyptian burial urn. Then he fell backward.

He stared up at Simone through eyes that were quickly clouding over. “Black eyes. I knew you were that governess.”

Claire gasped, holding onto the parlor door frame. Harry pulled his knife out and threw his greatcoat over Fordyce. Footsteps thundered down the stairs, the dog barked, women screamed, men shouted from outside, servants raced down the hall, Daniel pounded in from the rear of the house.

And Claire gasped again. “You’re a governess?”

*

Simone wasn’t worried that Claire would reveal her secrets, not Claudinia Colthopfer with a hidden daughter. No, she worried that Claire’s brains were addled by the blow to her head. Why else was she being so nice? Simone was suddenly courageous and valiant. Harry was instantly a hero. Together, Claire told everyone who would listen, they had saved them all, and Griffin Manor. As if Fordyce had enough bullets to shoot everybody, as if the servants hadn’t come running. No matter, Claire ordered Champagne for the rescuers, and for the surgeon who put three stitches in her scalp without cutting her hair off.

Simone worried about Harry too. He never came back that night after the soldiers took Fordyce’s body away. He’d held her until the magistrate came, and while she gave her deposition and he gave his. Simone doubted she could have stood up without his arms around her. Then he hugged her tightly, rocking her in his embrace, and said, “Lord, I will never leave you again.”

And promptly did.

Chapter Thirty

The men returned at noon. Most of them were jubilant. The plot was foiled, the perpetrators all captured or killed. Gorham’s wife had truly decamped, and her father released her funds without an argument. Comden had a special license, and two tickets for passage on a ship. Ellsworth’s wife was indeed bearing his child, so he merely came back to Richmond to fetch his things and settle his wagers. Sir Chauncey checked a year’s worth of old obituaries and found good news. Not for the deceased, of course, but for his second chance with his first love. He was eager to be on his way, and he was still sober. He’d leave right after the final judging, the presentation of prizes, and the wedding.

Claire was planning a grand celebration for that evening: the crowning of the queen and Alice’s marriage. It was to be her last lavish entertainment of this sort. With an impressionable young girl coming to live in the house, she’d no longer be entertaining the
demi-monde
. She was not ashamed of what she was, but neither was she going to let her own daughter experience the fast life. Bad enough the child would have to face the scorn of some in the neighborhood because of Claire’s career, but she’d have every other advantage the ward of a marquis could have.

They all gathered first in the Egyptian Room. Everyone was talking about the recent events, making plans, speculating about the contest, laughing at Alice’s excitement and Comden’s nerves.

Simone was happy for Alice and the others, but had they forgotten what just happened? Men had died, and more might have, so how could anyone care about the foolish contest? Worse, Harry looked exhausted, as well he might, saving the world or whatever it was that he did when he wasn’t being a here-and-thereian.

“A bit of work for the Regent,” he told the others when they asked how he knew so much of the plot. “A chap has to do something to earn his keep, don’t you know.”

Claire clapped her hands for their attention. First she wanted the men—only ten were left of the original twenty, to vote for the most talented female. She reminded them of all the performers and their varied artistic expressions.