Amelia could detect a note of mockery in his voice, but whether he mocked her or the Frenchwoman, she couldn’t begin to tell. “Being such a close friend of her brother’s, of course you would see no harm in it.”
“I scarcely know M. Chartier.”
“It didn’t seem that way last night.”
“Many things aren’t what they seem.”
“So I’ve noticed,” she sniffed, looking him squarely in the eyes.
Verwood laughed. “You’re still convinced I’m some sort of nefarious character, aren’t you, Lady Amelia? You must consider me something of a genius to be able to pull off such a stunt with not only your astute brother but also all the members of the ton.”
“You don’t know all the members of the ton.”
“Thank God!”
Amelia couldn’t resist a chuckle. “Well, you know enough of them.”
“More than enough,” he assured her as he discreetly rubbed his knee.
“And what is your opinion of M. Chartier?”
“I should like to think him a liar,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, an appraising light in his eyes. Amelia felt momentarily uncomfortable under his scrutiny, but when he continued, his comments were crisply impartial. “I have some reason to believe he’s not quite what he seems, either. And because he’s French as well, that leaves me with a few unsubstantiated suspicions. Perhaps your brother shares them, though I’ve never mentioned my doubts. He could be ingratiating himself with the sister in order to learn something more.”
“I don’t think so,” Amelia mused, allowing her gaze to wander thoughtfully over the carriages they passed. “I hope you will warn him about the Chartiers. She could very well be intent on gaining information from
him.”
“That innocent little thing? Surely you jest.”
“How can you be so blind?” she demanded. “If Chartier is a spy, there’s every chance his sister is working with him. She may very well be a consummate actress, for all you know. No one could possibly be that wide-eyed at eighteen.”
“I dare say you were yourself,” he teased, reaching out to tuck back a strand of her honey hair that had blown loose from her bonnet.
“Not at eighteen!” She looked about her nervously to see if anyone had noticed his familiar gesture. “Perhaps at fourteen.”
“But then, you spent a great deal of time in London, even when you were a child,” he reminded her. “I doubt Mlle. Chartier has had the same opportunities.”
“Or perhaps she’s only fourteen.”
His lips twitched with amusement. “I shouldn’t think so, considering her... ah, build.”
As he was considering Amelia’s “... ah, build” at the moment, color crept up into her cheeks and she glared at him before turning away. His disconcerting habit of putting her to the blush was becoming more familiar to her now, but no less effective. “Her build notwithstanding,” she said in frosty accents, “she could be assisting her brother in his spying endeavors.”
He was instantly serious. “Very true. What do you suggest we do about it, Lady Amelia?”
“As I said before, you might warn him.”
“It’s very difficult to persuade a man who’s that forcefully struck.”
Amelia’s shoulders slumped. “So you think he’s quite taken with her, too?”
“Oh, yes. One gets to recognize the signs. I will, however, mention the possibility to him.”
“Thank you. I don’t think he’d listen to me.”
The carriage had emerged from Hyde Park and turned briefly into Park Lane before swinging onto Upper Grosvenor Street.
“What time should I come this evening?” he asked.
“At nine.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment and opened the carriage door as it drew to a halt. “I don’t believe I know the Bramshaws,” he remarked as he descended and held out his hand for hers.
“Naturally,” she sighed, and wearily climbed the stairs to the house.
* * * *
Though South Street was only a few blocks from Grosvenor Square, Verwood took his time in traversing the minimal distance to his home. His knee was aching painfully from the earlier exertion of capturing the urchin who had grabbed Lady Amelia’s reticule, and if he’d had the choice, he wouldn’t even have walked the few blocks. By that evening, when he would be forced to stand up with Peter’s sister, his knee would likely be abominably stiff and unusable. How was he going to explain
that
to the imperious Lady Amelia?
At least he had discovered to his own satisfaction that her mission with regard to the Carsons was wholly motivated by charity, and not something that involved clandestine espionage. Whether the Reverend Sidney Symons had any other fascination for her than his acting as an intermediary for her good works, he would attempt to discover on the morrow. He had no intention of venturing into St. Giles Rookery twice in one day.
There was nothing particularly imposing about Verwood House in South Street. It was built in 1751 by Isaac Ware and was much smaller than Chesterfield House, though it had something of the same grace. A delicate wrought-iron railing protected it from the street, and the warmth of the red brick was added to by three floors of tall windows, which seemed to invite the casual passerby to inspect the interior. Not that Verwood had ever asked a casual passerby to inspect his house. For the most part it had been shut up during the last decade, and his own inspection of it on coming to town had been rather discouraging.
Protected for years with holland covers, the furniture still managed to look old and sad, the draperies moldering at the windows. He had instructed his housekeeper to do what she could with it, within reason, thinking possibly he would sell it one day and take on something even smaller.
As he ascended the three shallow steps to the door now, he thought it unlikely he would sell it in the near future, and that sprucing it up even more might be worth the expense. At least the exterior window trim could be painted, and the fake balconies. It wasn’t likely he’d be doing much entertaining, but people he knew might well be driving along South Street and think the place something of a shambles. Not that he cared, particularly, what they thought of him or his house, but the cracked chimneypot should definitely be replaced, and the other work could be done at the same time, surely.
Wilkins took his hat and gloves and handed him a message that had come an hour previously, marked “Urgent.” Verwood carried it with him to his study, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll have a brandy, Wilkins, and you’d best send in some hot, wet towels for my damn knee.”
He pushed a hassock in front of his leather chair and groaned as he stretched his leg out to rest on it. It had been intolerably foolish of him to strain it that way. Catching the little hellion had only further complicated his life, and certainly hadn’t restored Lady Amelia’s purse in any condition that it could likely be used again. But it was hard to deny years of training, a developed instinct to react on an instant’s notice. He had also no doubt wished to pass himself off as a man of action in the young lady’s eyes, he decided wryly as he massaged the aching joint.
The letter was sealed and he picked up a letter opener from his desk to slide under the hardened glob of wax. It was a single sheet, in familiar handwriting. Every message from Kinson was marked “Urgent,” but then, almost everything he had to communicate with Verwood
was.
This epistle read:
Imperative we meet tonight at the Shorn Sheep at ten.
Cancel any engagements. Interesting development in the matter you raised last Wednesday. You should be prepared to travel.
Kinson
Devil take the man! There was nothing Verwood wanted less to do right now than leave London. But the matter they had discussed was Chartier, and the viscount was not likely to let anything to do with the Frenchman escape him, especially now.
What was he to do about Lady Amelia and her aunt, though, at this short notice? If Peter had been accompanying them, it wouldn’t have mattered if he withdrew with some excuse or other, but he had so pointedly agreed to be their sole escort.
Exasperated, he looked up to find Wilkins standing in front of him with a glass of brandy on a silver tray, several steaming towels in his other hand. Verwood raised the glass to his lips, took one healthy sip, and set it down on the table beside his chair. Then he grimaced at the towels and sighed before unfastening the buttons on his pantaloons and pushing them down below his knees.
Wilkins spread a discarded newspaper on the hassock before laying one of the folded towels there. Verwood gingerly lowered the injured leg onto it, with a hiss of indrawn breath, and Wilkins covered the knee with another painfully hot towel. They would cool in a few minutes, of course, but the initial shock of the heat was enough to make Verwood run his fingers distractedly through his hair.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “Have Huser pack enough clothes for a week for me. I’ll probably be travelling this evening, but I won’t need him to accompany me.” As Wilkins turned to leave, he added, “And have him set out something that will be appropriate for the Bramshaws’ party. I’ll be going there first.”
“Very good, milord. I’ll bring more towels in half an hour.”
Verwood made a face at his efficient departing butler. Trust the old fellow to know he needed more than one dressing of the moist heat to restore some flexibility to his injured knee. Verwood would have liked to forgo the ritual, but felt sure he’d be unable to move in another hour or two if he didn’t go through with it. And how was he going to explain leaving Lady Amelia and her aunt in the middle of a party? He took another sip of the brandy while he considered the matter.
* * * *
At precisely nine o’clock he thumped the brass knocker on the door at Grosvenor Square. His two charges were just descending the stairs to the hall, laughing at something one of them had said. In the flickering light he was momentarily frozen by the delightful picture Lady Amelia made, the honey-colored tresses gleaming in the candlelight, her eyes lit with a mischievous twinkle. She sobered immediately when she caught sight of him, assuming a formal smile that felt surprisingly chilly to him.
“How prompt you are, Lord Verwood! It must be your military training. Aunt Trudy and I have to wait for Peter as often as he has to wait for us. Not tonight, of course. In his eagerness he was ready early, and off before it was really necessary.” Amelia allowed Verwood to assist her into her cloak while Bighton swathed Trudy in the folds of her voluminous mauve cape.
It seemed to the viscount that he was called upon to make some comment on his companions’ toilettes, but no glibness came to his tongue, nor was he able to simulate ardent admiration for Miss Harting’s odd collection of shawls and scarves and brooches pinned in a row across her bosom. Lady Amelia’s ensemble did appeal to him. Very much. Still, he could hardly compliment her on the rose-colored gown if he couldn’t think of anything kind to say to her aunt. So he said nothing at all except, “Shall we go?”
Despite the afternoon’s treatment, his limp was particularly bad that evening. Lady Amelia stared pointedly at his leg, as though questioning the necessity for the heavy irregularity in his gait. Obviously she had forgotten his exertion in the alley, remembering only his playacting of the night before. He had brought a cane but now tossed it discreetly. Drat the woman, anyhow!
The Bramshaws’ house in Portman Square was a pretentious old stone pile with inane turrets at the corners. To do it justice, it would have had to sit on at least a hundred acres of parkland, with a working moat. Verwood wasn’t particularly impressed with the Bramshaws themselves, either. Sir William was an incredibly stiff fellow, and his lady so overwhelmingly loquacious that none of her guests got a word in edgewise.
In the ordinary course of things, Verwood should have stood up with Lady Amelia for the first dance, but he begged off on account of his knee.
Her eyes told him she was skeptical, wondering if he was trying once again to embarrass her by pretending his injury was more serious than it was.
“I’m in a certain amount of pain tonight,” he confessed. “Because of darting after that little ruffian this afternoon, you know.”
Immediately her eyes clouded with concern. “Of course. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have told Peter you’d escort us.”
“I thought my knee would have recovered by now.”
“Well, as it hasn’t, I think you should take yourself home and give it a rest. Standing about on it isn’t likely to do it much good.”
The perfect opening, and yet he was reluctant to grasp at it. Beneath her politeness and concern there was something more. A stiffness born of hurt feelings? Surely Lady Amelia Cameron didn’t give a fig for his behavior, or for himself. Did she expect him to be like some Bond Street beau, bemoaning his injury but gallantly standing by his promise to escort her for the evening?
Reluctantly he said, “I think you might be right, Lady Amelia. I’d be better off at home, if you will excuse me. Before I leave, I’ll ask someone to escort you and your aunt home after the entertainment.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she assured him, frowning. “I can find someone responsible.”
It was getting perilously close to ten o’clock. His travelling carriage would already be waiting at the Seymour Street corner of Portman Square. Verwood gave a frustrated tap of his cane on the exquisite hardwood of the dance floor and studied her. Yes, he was sure she believed him and that her sympathy was genuine. “Very well. Please make my apologies to your aunt; I’m truly sorry for the inconvenience.”
“That’s quite all right,” she replied, and turned from him to the gentleman (Rollings, Verwood thought) who patiently awaited her attention.
Verwood watched the fellow lead her into the set that was forming. Lady Amelia smiled and batted her eyelashes at Rollings (if it was), and the viscount swung about so fiercely that his cane nearly tripped a matron standing behind him. His apologies were accepted with cold disdain and he stumped from the room in disgust.
Chapter 10
Trudy was nearly apoplectic when she heard of Lord Verwood’s defection. “His leg!” she snorted. “Really, he has the merest limp, and the weather isn’t such that it would cause his injury to act up. I cannot believe it necessary for him to leave.”