Trapped by Scandal (26 page)

But in his heart, William knew that such a dream would not be possible for him. He wasn't made to live a peaceful life.

Wearily, he got up and went to the secretaire, sharpening the quill before pulling several sheets of paper towards him. He would consult Marcus about Hero. He was the one person to whom William could talk with relative openness about their relationship.

He wrote rapidly, pressed his ring into the hot wax to seal it, and then hastily scribbled a cryptic line on another sheet, folding and sealing it similarly. He called for André. “I need you to take this letter to Sir Marcus Gosford. If he's not at home in Albermarle Street, then try White's and
Brook's. You'll find him in one of his usual haunts; I know he's not left town. But first take this note to the usual spot in St. Giles churchyard.”

André nodded his comprehension, tucking the two sealed letters inside his jacket. He left the house at once, and William, after a moment's thought, went upstairs. His own bedchamber was at the front of the narrow house; André slept in a small attic chamber under the eaves. The spare bedroom was behind William's. He opened the door and examined the room. It was perfectly pleasant, with a small window looking over the small kitchen garden and the mews alley beyond. Hero would be perfectly comfortable here, except that he would have to insist on keeping her a virtual prisoner. There was no sugarcoating that unpalatable fact. She would not give up her freedom willingly, either, whatever her present feelings about himself.

His mind flippped back to that afternoon in the prison of La Force, to the moment when that scrappy bundle of grimy rags had burst into his life. If he had known then what he knew now, he would have . . . would have what? William shook his head, knowing full well that he would not have changed one iota of the events that followed.

Hero had happened to him.

But maybe when this was all over, he'd find a quiet monastery somewhere and assume the chaste existence of a monastic order, preferably a silent one.

And the moon was made of Camembert. A sardonic smile hovered over his lips as he left the small bedchamber.

Alain was on the doorstep of Everard's lodgings on Jermyn Street at the moment the Lizard let himself out. “You sent for me, sir.”

“Yes . . . yes, I did.” Everard looked at his agent with a frown. “I was going to go on my own, but you can come with me. You might be useful.”

“Go where, sir? Come where?”

“Never mind. You can drive the closed carriage. Are you well armed?”

“Aye, sir. Are we expecting an attack?” Alain followed his master to the vehicle waiting with the footstep already lowered in the street.

Everard shook his head brusquely. “No, but it's as well to be prepared.” Particularly if you were dabbling in waters where William Ducasse swam. But that thought he kept to himself. “Did you see Lady Hero return this morning?”

“Aye, sir. In a hackney, about eight o'clock.”

“Good.” The Lizard hopped up the red-carpeted footstep and took his seat inside the carriage. “You're driving to Knightsbridge,” he informed Alain, who stood at the open door awaiting instruction. “Go through the park. Then pass through the main part of the village, and on the outskirts is a hamlet with a green and an inn. We'll stop there.”

Alain touched his cap in acknowledgment and climbed into the swaying driver's seat, flicking his whip at the horses while Everard sat at his ease within, smiling a little as he considered his approach to whatever secret Ducasse held in this out-of-the-way spot.

The keeper of the Red Fox in Knightsbridge was gratified at the arrival of a third carriage visitor into his yard in
one day. And a very smart gentleman's carriage it was. He emerged from the inn to greet the new arrivals, beaming.

Everard stepped down and looked around with a rather haughty air. His eye fell on the innkeeper, who bowed several times in quick succession. “Will your lordship be pleased to enter my humble hostelry? I can offer a fine repast, some excellent claret or, if your lordship would prefer, a goodly tankard of the very best October ale.”

Everard nodded and walked past the man towards the inn door. “See that the horses are watered, and bring me ale.” Inside, he turned towards the taproom, where several men leaned against the bar cradling tankards of ale and porter. He ignored them and took a seat at a small scarred table in the window, drawing off his gloves as he did so.

Alain came in a few minutes later and took a seat at the table opposite the Lizard. “Go and investigate this Primrose Lane,” Everard instructed, his voice low. “I don't know which house has the lure, but see what you can gather. I don't need to tell you to be discreet.”

Alain cast a longing eye at the foaming tankard of ale the innkeeper set on the table but rose to his feet without demur and headed back outside. It was early afternoon, a light breeze sending the last of the autumn leaves fluttering to the ground, a pale sun peeping through scudding clouds. A stable boy had taken the horses from their traces and was watering them at the trough. “Where's Primrose Lane?” Alain asked gruffly, muffling his voice with his scarf. The less noticeable his accent, the better.

“Over yonder.” The lad pointed back to the green. “T'other side next to the church.”

Alain strolled away, nothing about his manner or pace indicating any kind of urgency or a need beyond the urge to stretch his legs. He crossed the green and stood at the head of the lane by the church. It was narrow, deeply rutted, with fields on one side, cottages on the other. After a moment's thought, he entered the churchyard and strolled around to the back, looking at gravestones with an air of interest, as if trying to find a particular name. As he'd suspected, the rear of the churchyard merged into the fields, and it was a simple matter to slip alongside a tall bramble hedge that ran the length of the lane separating it from the fields.

Through regular gaps in the hedge, he had a good sight line of the cottages across the lane. They were neatly kept for the most part but humble dwellings. He saw several of their occupants working in the small front gardens, women with small children clinging to their homespun skirts, and he noted how few young, able-bodied men there were to be seen. Presumably, they were all working on the surrounding farms, leaving their womenfolk, children, and the old men to mind hearth and home. At the very end of the lane, where the rutted, hard-packed earth halted at a stile that gave entrance to an apple orchard, he stopped to look at the last cottage. It looked just like all the others, except that it was perhaps a little larger and the front garden had flowers as well as vegetables, an indication that its residents were not solely occupied with the day-to-day business of existence. Anyone who had time and space to plant and cultivate flowers did not need to grow their own cabbages.

He settled into a small ditch, where a gap in the hedge gave him a clear view of the cottage, and waited. His patience was rewarded within a few minutes. The door opened, and a child in a blue pinafore emerged with a shallow trug. She pranced to the flowerbeds and knelt to pick bright orange chrysanthemums, laying each bloom carefully in the trug.

“
Marguerite, petite, viens ici
.” The soft voice was followed immediately by the appearance of a woman in the doorway. Even if she had not spoken French, Alain would have known that this woman didn't quite fit her surroundings. Her clothes were simple enough, but there was an elegance to her posture, to the tilt of her head, to the delicacy of her frame, that made her stand out among the women he had seen in other gardens down the lane.

The child scrambled to her feet and ran to obey the summons, clutching her trug, and after another few minutes, Alain made his way back to the inn. This time, a tankard of ale awaited him on the table, and Everard was eating a thick meat pasty with an air of mild distaste. “Would you like one?” he asked. “It's food, that's about all you can say for it.”

Alain was ravenous. He had had barely two hours' sleep before being woken by Gilles and sent breakfastless to Jermyn Street. He accepted the offer eagerly and took a deep gulp from his tankard. Everard did not hurry him. The Lizard rarely hurried; undue haste encouraged mistakes. He pushed the remnants of his pasty to one side, sipped his ale, and waited.

Alain took a large bite from the greasy offering in front
of him and chewed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before washing the mouthful down with ale. “There's a woman and a child in the last cottage,” he said finally. “French—at least, the woman is. The child certainly understands it.”

“Hmm.” Everard digested this for moment. “Ducasse has no sisters. How old was the woman?”

“Hard to tell. Thirty-something, perhaps. Not what you'd call young.”

“And the child?”

“Small, three . . . four.” Alain shrugged. “I don't know children. I can't tell how big they're supposed to be at what age.”

Everard rubbed his lips with his fingertips, frowning in thought, before saying, “I'll stay here and see for myself. Leave the carriage. I'm sure this miserable hostelry has a jobbing horse you can hire to go back to London. Fetch Gilles, and return here first thing in the morning. Make sure you are both well armed.”

He remained at the table after Alain had left, then summoned the innkeeper and asked if he had a bedchamber for the night.

“Why, yes, indeed, sir. The best bed you'll find between here and town, sir. Good, clean sheets, no vermin, I'll swear, and I can offer you a nice shoulder of mutton for your dinner.”

Somewhat wanly, Everard accepted these offers. Sometimes his work required supreme sacrifice.

TWENTY-FIVE

O
h, you're back, then, Lady Hero.” Maisie came into

Hero's bedchamber with an armful of freshly ironed petticoats. “I wonder you didn't ring for me.” She sounded faintly disapproving as she laid the crisp white muslins over the back of a chaise before hanging them in the linen press.

“I didn't need anything, Maisie,” Hero responded. In truth, she had not wanted to see or talk to anyone. “I thought you were going to visit your sister.”

“She couldn't get free time. Lady Denizon is having a rout party this evening, so I didn't stay.” She looked critically around the chamber. “The fire needs making up.” She abandoned her task and went to poke the sluggish flames in the grate. “Lord, I wonder you didn't notice.” She glanced curiously at her mistress. “Are you feeling quite well, ma'am? You look a bit peaky. Should I fetch a posset or ask Lady Emily for some of that tonic she swears by?”

Hero shook her head against the embroidered back of her chair. “I'm quite well, just a little tired, perhaps.”

“Hardly surprising, getting up so early.” Maisie re
turned to hanging petticoats. “Why don't I bring you up a spot of nuncheon? A little chicken, a slice of ham . . .”

“I'm not in the least hungry,” Hero stated firmly. “I may just rest a little this afternoon. Has Lady Emily left her chamber?”

“Oh, no, m'lady. Harper's been making up gruel and a hot mustard bath for her ladyship. She fears a quinsy after being out so late last evening.”

Hero's smile was faint. “I daresay she'll not come down to dine, then.”

“Will you be staying in yourself tonight?” Maisie smoothed down the folds of the last petticoat and closed the linen press.

Hero's gaze flicked to the mantel, where an engraved invitation to Lady Denizon's rout party was propped against the mirror. Even in different circumstances, she would have been reluctant to attend, knowing her absence would be barely noticed among the crowds flocking the salons of the mansion in Brook Street. Tony Cardew had offered to escort her, but she had declined his company, knowing he would disappear into the card rooms the minute they arrived and she wouldn't see him for the rest of the evening.

“Probably,” she replied. “For now, I think I'll rest a little.”

Maisie bobbed a curtsy and left Hero to her thoughts, dismal and confused as they were. She wasn't left alone with them for long, however. Maisie returned with a sealed envelope. “This just arrived for you, Lady Hero. The messenger is waiting for a reply.”

Hero recognized the writing instantly, and her stomach plunged and then righted itself. He'd told her to await his instructions, just as she had been. She slit the wax with her finger and opened the sheet.

Attend the Denizons' rout party this evening.

She stared down at the script. No salutation, just a curt order. Was she going to obey it?

It was an interesting question. But one to which there was only one answer. She went to the dainty secretaire in the window embrasure and wrote:
As you wish.
She folded the sheet, sealed it, scratching her initials into the hot wax, then handed the paper to Maisie. “It seems I shall be going out this evening after all, Maisie. When you've given this to the messenger, could you come back, and we'll decide what dress I should wear to the Denizons' party?”

A thronged salon, bright lights, music, cards—it was a perfect venue for secret conversations. Would the Lizard be there? Now, that would be interesting. A little ripple of excitement seemed to wake Hero from her slough of despond. The game was still there to be played. She would not leave town on William's say-so. But she would not refuse to listen to him.

She went to the armoire and flung open the double doors, examining the contents. Red, she decided, turning at the sound of Maisie's return. “The crimson silk, I think. It's so luscious. I'll wear it with the gold tissue shawl and the emerald set.”

Maisie's eyes lit up. “You'll wear the tiara, m'lady?”

Hero hesitated. She almost never wore it except at court, but tonight she was in the mood to stand out. She nodded. “Yes, the tiara.”

She would arrive without an escort, ascend the staircase alone, and make her entrance alone. Everything about this evening was going to establish that she stood alone, regardless of William and whatever secrets he held, and fearless of any threat of the Lizard's.

At nine o'clock that night, Hero stepped into the Bruton town carriage, with Maisie holding the small train of her crimson gown. Maisie arranged the gown carefully before stepping up beside her mistress. Denizon House was brilliant with light, the pavement outside lit by sconces at regular intervals, link boys carrying torches running between arriving carriages and the double front doors.

A liveried footman, recognizing the Bruton carriage, came to open the door for Lady Hero and her maid. Maisie fussed over the train as Hero stepped down to the pavement, and then hurried after her ladyship a discreet few footsteps behind while the footman led the way along the red carpet to the open doors. In the marble foyer, Maisie made final adjustments to Hero's gown, took her outer wrap, and stepped back against the wall as Hero advanced to the wide staircase. At its head stood Lord and Lady Denizon, waiting to greet their guests, beside them their majordomo, who announced in ringing tones, “Lady Hermione Fanshawe.”

“Hero, my dear, how delightful to see you. How is dear Lady Bruton? So sad that town has to lose her and Lord Bruton at such a point in the Season.”

“Babies can be disruptive, Amelia,” Hero said with a smile, leaning forward to exchange brushing kisses before holding out her hand to Lord Denizon with a small curtsy. He bowed over her hand and muttered his own greeting, looking impatiently over her shoulder to see how many more guests he must greet before he could escape to the card rooms.

Hero left her hosts and walked to the doors open to the first salon. She stood for a moment in the doorway, assessing the crowd, perfectly at her ease. She was not alone for long. Young men swarmed to her side, begging for a dance or to take her into supper. She responded lightly to them all, flirting delicately, waiting for William to show himself.

But it wasn't until supper that he made an appearance. She had danced, flirted, and chatted inconsequentially until she thought her head would burst and had finally allowed herself to be led to the supper room, to be plied with champagne, oyster patties, and lobster mousse, before she saw William enter the supper room. He appeared to stand a head taller than the other men, but Hero knew it to be an illusion. It had everything to do with the way he stood, the way he wore the black knee britches and tailored coat, a single diamond glittering in his starched white stock, the way he held his head, the self-­containment evident in every move he made. And her stomach did its customary lurch of desire despite everything, despite the certainty that she had hardened herself against this involuntary yearning.

William surveyed the room, a glass of claret in his hand, and when his eye fell upon Hero, sitting at a table
with two men and a woman, he nodded infinitesimally and began to make his way over to them, unhurried, pausing to exchange a few words with knots of people who greeted him as he passed.

At Hero's table, he stopped. His smile was bland as he bowed to Miss Susan Armstrong, who fluttered her fan and peeped up at him through luxurious black eyelashes, and greeted her escort and a somewhat inebriated Tony Cardew, who had dragged himself from the card tables to take Hero into supper.

“Miss Armstong, Lady Hero, gentlemen.”

“Don't expect to find you at these kinds of occasions, Ducasse,” Tony said with a touch of belligerence. He was still smarting from his acerbic encounter with William at Ranelagh Gardens a few weeks earlier.

“I can't imagine why not, Cardew,” William said easily. He turned to Hero. “Could I entice you from the supper room, Lady Hero? There is a full moon and a lovely view of it from the terrace.”

“I own a breath of fresh air would be pleasant,” Hero said, rising from the table. “It's quite warm in here.” She took his proffered arm.

William threaded an adroit path through the thronged supper room and the noisy salons out onto the long terrace that stretched across the back of the mansion, overlooking a garden, lush in spring and summer, now in an autumnal decline. There was, however, a full golden moon.

Hero drew her thin shawl closer around her shoulders at the chill in the late-evening air as she walked to the low parapet overhanging the garden. “So?”

“So.” William came up beside her, and she could feel his body warmth against her. “Marcus will come tomorrow morning to take you for a drive to Richmond. Bring with you any personal necessities you cannot do without for a week or two. You will not be going out for the duration of your stay, so you will need very little—”

“Not going out from where?” Hero interrupted.

“My house. Marcus will bring you to Half Moon Street when he judges it safe to do so. You will need to inform your chaperone and whomever else you deem necessary that you are going on a short visit to relatives or whatever your imagination decides is most plausible.”

“I'm to stay with you?”

“I think it's the best and safest option at the moment. I have a more than adequate bedchamber for you. André will take care of you. You need have no fears for your safety.”

“I have no such fears now,” Hero stated, taking a step away from him. He was intending to imprison her in a spare bedchamber in his house. It was another body blow, and she was momentarily breathless at the sheer impossibility of such a prospect. The sheer lack of consideration, of understanding, of any kind of shared rapport. How could he even think of such a thing after everything they had shared, every glorious moment of their loving? Could he really click his fingers and all those memories would disappear for him?

“I'm leaving now,” she stated, turning away from him, back to the music and the brilliant lights inside.

William, for a moment speechless at this abrupt de
parture, stared at her retreating back, struck by her erect posture, the elegance of her neck, the set of her head. “Hermione?”

She stopped, turned to face him again, the fire in her vivid green eyes matched by the emerald sparks of the gems in her rich, multihued hair, nestling in the hollow of her throat, accentuating the creamy lobes of her delicate ears. She merely looked at him, and he saw beneath the blaze of anger in her eyes a bitter well of disappointment. Then she turned again and walked away, the crimson silk of her gown moving sinuously with every step.

William felt a cold emptiness where before there had been only calm resolution and the certainty he was doing the only possible thing. How, he wondered, could he keep hurting her in this way? How could he do it in the first place, when all he wanted was to have her at his side, fighting his fight, loving him? But something made him throw a poisoned javelin into the heart of this love, and for the first time he doubted himself and the rightness of what he was doing. He moved to follow her, to catch up with her, to try to explain, but a group of overheated, chattering dancers stepped out onto the terrace as he headed for the door, and it took a precious few minutes for him to weave his way through them. When he reentered the supper room, he could just glimpse her gleaming head at the far end returning to the ballroom, where the orchestra was just beginning a lively Sir Roger de Coverley.

When he reentered the ballroom, there was no sign of her. The dancers were lined up facing each other, the
chaperones nodding in their gilt chairs along the walls, but Hermione was gone. And for once in his life, William Ducasse, Viscount St. Aubery, was at a loss.

Maisie was surprised to see her mistress descend the staircase so early in the evening; it was barely past midnight. But when she saw Hero's cold, set expression, she refrained from comment, merely fetched her evening wrap from the cloakroom while a footman went outside to summon the Bruton carriage.