Three Heroes (34 page)

“What did she say?”

“Whom are you to marry?”

“Was it frightening?” Althea asked. “You look a little pale.”

Clarissa found a shrug. “Terrifying! She said I would marry a man poorer than myself.”

“But a truth,” said Violet.

“Yes, of course. Clearly she has the gift. Althea, do you have one of your headaches?”

Althea, bless her, took her cue. “I’m afraid so, Clarissa. I don’t wish to spoil your enjoyment…”

“Not at all. It is late.” She thanked Florence for the party, and soon they were out in the fresh air with their footman for escort on the short walk home.

“You seem upset,” Althea said as they walked.

“Not really, but it was a silly event.”

Althea glanced at her. “Because they were discussing Major Hawkinville?”

That was a much safer speculation than any other, so Clarissa smiled and admitted it.

In bed, however, anxiety defeated sleep.

Madame Mystique had clearly seen more than could be guessed or discovered. What if she talked? She might even go to the magistrates to tell them about a young woman involved with blood and murder.

When people realized the young woman was the murdered Lord Deveril’s betrothed and heir, might that not start speculation?

The Rogues had clearly covered up the events of that night very skillfully, but was it skillful enough to resist an intense investigation?

She tried to tell herself that Madame Mystique would see no profit in going to the authorities. Magistrates tended to look sourly on such fairground tricks, and the woman had no proof.

Clarissa couldn’t be sure, though. She couldn’t be sure!

And the woman had predicted her death if she didn’t somehow get rid of the money.

No, if she didn’t tell the truth about the money.

What truth? The will, at least, was honest.

“Truth” must refer to the fact that a person involved in a death could not benefit from it. That had been explained to her. Mr. Delaney had not been crude about it, but she’d understood. If she let slip the truth about Lord Deveril’s death, many people would suffer, including her. She was ashamed to think that at the time she’d appeared to be the sort of ninny who would gabble, but she hadn’t been at her best.

And perhaps she was that sort of ninny. She knew she’d said a few things to Hawk that she shouldn’t have.

She couldn’t tell the truth, though. That was completely impossible.

What should she do?

She chewed on her knuckle. The Rogues should be warned about this danger. She didn’t want to contact Mr. Delaney. She would have to confess to being less than reliable, but on top of that, they all made her uneasy. They seemed to be good men, honorable men. Except perhaps the brutish Marquess of Arden. But they were also ruthless. Only think how coolly they’d reacted to bloody murder!. Mr.

Delaney had seemed almost amused. Perhaps, behind their superficial gloss, they were too like Arden, given to violence when crossed.

But she had to tell them. They had risked much for her, so she must guard them. She slipped out of bed and lit a candle from her nightlight. When Althea did not stir, she wrote a very carefully phrased warning to Nicholas Delaney. She folded it, sealed it, and returned to bed to plot how to get it into the post without anyone knowing. She might be going to extremes, but Miss Hurstman was bound to question her about the connection, and she didn’t want to tangle in any more deceit.

Madame Mystique collected the items from the table and left her assistant, Samuel, to clear away the lamps and curtains. She left the room, hearing the last of the guests taking an excited farewell, and dispatched a maid to tell Lady Babbington that she was ready to leave.

The plump and amiable lady bustled into view, beaming. “Thank you so much, Madame Mystique! The girls are thrilled with your prognostications.”

Therese smiled. Young women were always excited by ways to entice and entrance men.

Lady Babbington extended the guineas, then tittered. “They talk of crossing a gypsy’s palm with gold, don’t they?”

Older women, too.

“But I am not a gypsy, madame. My art is an older one than theirs.” She held out her hand, and when the flustered woman put the money into it, she added, “But sometimes visions come to me. You are a very fortunate woman, madame, blessed by the fates with a healthy family and a loving husband.”

“Oh, yes. Yes indeed!”

“But the fires perhaps only smolder?” She reached into her bag of items and pulled out a ribbon at random. A blue one. “Blue,” she said, “is your color of power. Take this ribbon, Lady Babbington, and wear it on your person at all times. It reminds you of your younger days, yes? When you and your husband first fell in love?”

Lady Babbington looked a little blank, but then said, “I’m sure I had ribbons of all kinds then.”

“You will recall. You will recall much about those times. Then you will look at your husband and see that man who thrilled you so, and it will be so again.”

The woman was pink but fascinated. She even looked younger.

Madame Mystique patted her on the hand. “You and your husband are really no different, are you, now?

Good night, my lady, and thank you for engaging me.”

“Oh. Good night, I’m sure.”

Madame Mystique made her way out of the back of the house. Or rather, Therese Bellaire did, not totally disappointed by her night’s work. A number of women might lead more interesting lives because of it—and she had met Deveril’s heiress.

Not what she had expected. More brain and steel. But she’d confirmed by her reactions that the Rogues were involved.

That Nicholas was involved.

She waited in the basement for Samuel, telling fortunes for free for the servants, promising them windfalls, handsome admirers, and appreciation for their talent.

For so many people, that was all they wanted, to be appreciated, though often for talents they did not possess. The cook was not the finest, but a simple compliment about her cake and she preened. When she was told she was appreciated, she doubtless saw herself the talk of Brighton for her culinary skills.

The lanky footman in the overlarge livery, Adam’s apple bobbing, probably saw himself as the object of every housemaid’s lust. The shy, dough-faced maid envisioned being snatched up by a solid tradesman because of her unpretentious goodness.

This fortune-telling was such an easy business that she could no doubt make her living at it forever. But she would have her fortune.

If Deveril had not already been dead, she would have killed him for stealing it from her two years ago.

Now her sole purpose was to get it back. It was hers, earned in the sweetest ploy ever imagined, and Deveril would not have been able to steal it if not for Nicholas Delaney and his Company of Rogues.

Samuel arrived, the curtains in a bundle and the empty lamps dangling from his big right hand.

A strapping lad for seventeen, and of course he was devoted to her.

She adored him, as she adored all handsome young men…

As a tiger adores goats.

She rose and took her leave of the dazzled servants, who would spread the word. No, Madame Mystique would never lack work here in Brighton. But her main concern was her plan.

Would the heiress heed her warning? Would she confide in someone that the Rogues had killed Deveril and forged that will? Alas, it was unlikely, and she hadn’t spilled any information.

Too much brain and spine.

As she walked to her Ship Street establishment, she mourned her pretty, elegant plan. Prove the will false

— and entangle the Rogues in a murder charge at the same time—and the new Lord Deveril would have the money.

Mrs. Rowland’s invalid husband would die, and after a short interval, the widow would become Lady Deveril. A little while longer and she would be a widow again, possessed of all that money. The son could have the paltry estate.

So delightfully devious. Whatever suspicions people might have, she would leave for the Americas legally possessed of the wealth. But she had failed to find evidence. Her only hope now was the Hawk.

If he did the job for her, the plan could still work. She had Squire Hawkinville in the palm of her hand. It had added spice to this rather tedious work to dance beneath the Hawk’s nose and be overlooked.

Perhaps it would be even more delicious if he squeezed the heiress dry for her.

She climbed the steps to her house and unlocked the door, sending Samuel off to put the things away, but with a look he recognized, that made him blush.

Ah, seventeen.

She went to her room and stripped off Madame Mystique, slipping into a silk robe that had been appreciated by Napoleon himself. Tomorrow, alas, she would have to return to Hawk in the Vale for a while, to be that dreary Mrs. Rowland. Her excuse for absence was that she was pursuing an elusive inheritance. But it would not do to be away too long.

All the more reason to enjoy tonight.

She rang her bell and summoned her dinner—and her goat.

Hawk slept that night. If he’d not learned to sleep through external and internal turmoil, he wouldn’t have survived a month in his army work. He’d formed his plan anyway. He’d found the way out, but it would be stronger if he could squeeze a bit more information out of Clarissa.

It was a way out that would mean that she would never speak to him again. He preferred to think of it as freeing her from him.

Over breakfast he felt Van observing him, but the talk was all gossip and chatter. Maria had received a letter with a new view on Caroline Lamb’s novel, Glenarvon. It kept her interested, as she’d witnessed several of the scandalous incidents between the lady and Byron.

Con, Susan, and de Vere were to leave today, claiming that a little Brighton was enough for them.

Everyone rose to see them on their way.

Then Maria said, “The sun’s shining! We must go out immediately before it rains again.”

Van laughed. “It’s not quite that dire, my dear.”

“Is it not?”

“I’ll send a note to see if Miss Greystone and Miss Trist wish to join us.”

Hawk met Van’s look blandly and received a distinctly warning look in return.

“Don’t worry,” he said as they left the room. “I have absolutely no intention of seducing Miss Greystone today.”

It was, alas, damnably true.

By the time breakfast was over, Clarissa had come up with and discarded any number of cunning plans for posting her letter. In the end, she chose the simplest. While Miss Hurstman was reading the newspaper, and Althea was writing her daily letter home, she slipped out of the house and hurried through the few streets to the post office.

If Mr. Crawford thought it strange to see a young lady alone, he made no comment.

Clarissa gave him the letter. “Can you tell me how soon it will be there, please?”

He studied the address. “Near Yeovil? Tomorrow, dear lady. I will make sure it leaves on the earliest and best mail.”

His benign smile said he thought it was a love missive. But then he looked at the letter again. “Mr.

Delaney of Red Oaks? Why, I am almost certain that your companion, Miss Hurstman, sent a letter to exactly that address not many days ago.”

It hadn’t occurred to her that a man like Mr. Crawford would keep track of letters passing through his hands. Lord help her, had she just done something else stupid?

But then the full meaning struck her.

Miss Hurstman!

Miss Hurstman in league with the Rogues?

She hadn’t time to analyze it now, with Mr. Crawford smiling at her. She took the letter out of his fingers. “If Miss Hurstman has already written to Mr. Delaney, then this is old news, I’m afraid.” She pasted on a carefree smile. “Thank you, Mr. Crawford.”

She hurried away, going two streets before she let herself pause to think. It was absurd, but she felt as if someone was watching her, looking for signs of guilt.

It was still early, so only the most hardy were out for brisk walks, but she couldn’t stand here like a statue. And if she didn’t get home, she would be missed. She felt like tearing up the letter and throwing the scraps into the sea, but she immediately thought of someone chasing after them and piecing them together.

Ridiculous. She was going mad.

At the very least, she was thoroughly rattled and needed someone to talk to. Someone to trust. First Madame Mystique, now Miss Hurstman.

She pushed the letter to the bottom of her pocket and hurried back to Broad Street, trying to make sense of things.

Crawford could be wrong, but that was outlandish.

So, Miss Hurstman knew Mr. Delaney.

There was no getting around it. It was likely that Mr. Delaney had arranged for Miss Hurstman to be Clarissa’s chaperone here in Brighton. And she could see why. It must have worried him that she was moving out into the world, so he had installed what amounted to a warder. Miss Hurstman hadn’t been a very good one or she’d have stuck with Clarissa at all times, but perhaps the lady didn’t understand all that was at stake.

The huge question was, What was Miss Hurstman supposed to do if Clarissa posed a threat?

What could the Rogues do—except kill her?

She couldn’t believe it, but she forced herself to be logical about it. They would have no other way of keeping themselves and their loved ones safe. It wasn’t just the Rogues and herself. Beth Arden was at risk. Blanche Hardcastle was at greatest risk of all.

Madame Mystique had warned of death…

She came to a sudden stop, then stepped hastily into Manchester Street. After a moment, she carefully peered around the corner. On the opposite side of the Marine Parade, the distinctively straight and drab figure of Miss Hurstman was talking to a blond man.

To Nicholas Delaney!

He was already here, because Miss Hurstman had summoned him. And it must have been at least two days ago, perhaps because Hawk was courting her. The Hawk. Miss Hurstman had been alarmed to hear that he was a skilled investigator.

Clarissa headed up Manchester Street to come down Broad Street from the other end.

Mr. Delaney was here, so she could go to him and tell him about Madame Mystique. If she trusted him.