Elisabeth Fairchild (29 page)

The scorn in her voice rose, the words a torrent, a release. “Years of misery they share, spending little time in one another’s company. She lives apart, keeps a separate household, a separate life. He goes gallivanting about on princely pleasures, princely adventures. They live lives full of secrets, unsatisfied, incomplete.”

Roderick’s eyebrows had disappeared beneath the fall of his hair. A woman stopped in the street to stare.

Was it more than the king and queen of whom she complained? Was it her own life angered and upset her so?

“He quietly conducts his business, his secret affairs.” Her voice trembled. “She risks her reputation, flaunts her affections without discretion, and jeopardizes her position in society.” She dashed a tear from her cheek.

Stapleton clasped her gloved hand possessively, gazed soulfully into her eyes.” I have never heard you so passionate, Dulcie. I must confess, I should never have thought you felt so keenly the awkwardness of the Royal infidelities. I would have you know, I shall never allow my wife to stray, nor shall I stray from her.”

She closed her eyes, opened them again--gaze fixing not on Stapleton’s earnest features, but at a house across the square.

Number forty-four.

“Will you marry me?” The Captain blurted.

She dragged her attention away from the house.

“I have asked before. I would ask once more. On bended knee if you so desire.” Grasp tightening, he sank, knees bent, intent on fulfilling that promise.

“No need to kneel.”

“Marry me. Be my wife, helpmate, lifelong companion. Can you not see the two of us together?”

She held, at that moment, quite a different vision in mind--that of number forty-four Grosvenor Square in flames, its windows blown into the street.

“I will not trouble you again should you refuse me this time.”

She gazed with foolish dissatisfaction upon brown eyes, not blue. Why pine for Roger Ramsay’s uncommitted arms while a man as fine as this begged for her hand?

“It seemed the perfect day to ask.”

Dear, his voice. But not in the way he wished her to hold it dear.

“St. Valentine’s,” she mused. “Your flowers, the fruit. You are ever thoughtful, Roderick.”

“Let me be thoughtful to you, Dulcie, for the rest of your life. You have so blessed my existence, my nights. No more nightmares.”

Behind him the townhouse still drew her eyes.

“This hand of yours is such a comfort.” He startled her in raising it to his lips. He kissed her fingers reverently. “I would keep it tucked in mine forever.”

His words inspired panic rather than love. This was his third proposal. She had every feeling it would be his last.

“Do not refuse me, Dulcie. I can make you happy. I know I can. Only give me the chance.”

In refusing him again, she risked losing forever this constant, protective and kindly force in her life.

Roderick asked hopefully, “Shall we announce glad tidings to your father?”

Could she grow to love the man, as Lydia had insisted? Her father believed she could--should. Was she a complete fool to hold onto the thread of hope Roger represented?

The colors of her world blurred, the word yes hovered uneasily on her tongue.

The boy caught her completely off guard. A street urchin, poorly clad, he brushed hard against her cloak as he passed them, unbalancing her. He lifted his cap, murmured, “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”

No more than a glimpse as he scurried past.

Stapleton called after the lad, “Clumsy oaf! Mind where you go.”

She knew the face tucked beneath the brim of the dark cap. What was his name? From a torch lit night four years ago?

Felix! The boy had been her guardian through the riot torn streets of London. He had grown since last she saw him. Beneath her hand as she smoothed her cloak, she felt a lump. Within the pocket, her hand closed on a twist of paper. Her pulse leapt.

Captain Stapleton stood expectant of an answer, and she with none to give.

“I know I ask a great deal, Roddie,” she said “but can you see fit to grant me a few days time to consider carefully your offer?”

He dared to kiss her in public, for all the world to see--a reserved pressing of his lips to hers. No inappropriate excess of passion. No engulfing wash of color.

“If it means the rest of our lives together, Dulcie, a few days are nothing.”

She took the words to heart, shamed that they applied more to her feelings for “Rogering” Ramsay than Roddy would care to know. “Dear friend. Your patience is most endearing.”

“Shall we go?” He offered his arm.

“One question.”

He cocked his head attentively. “Yes?”

“That house.” She pointed.

His gaze followed hers. “A fine place. This is a delightful Square.” He brightened. “Do you wish to live in such a house?”

“Do you know, by chance, who lives there?”

His forehead furrowed. “Tis Harrowby’s house unless I miss my mark.”

“Lord Harrowby? The Earl who holds a seat?”

“The very same. Why?”

Again she saw, in her mind’s eye, the windows of the house blown outward into the square.

“Tell me,” she said, with a worried sigh. “Has he a wife? Children?

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Lord Harrowby’s Townhouse, London

Two twists of paper in her pocket, addressed in Roger’s hand.

Heart racing, she asked Captain Stapleton if he would mind terribly their cutting short the afternoon.

“I need time to think,” she said.

He summoned a hack at once, eager to please.

While he was thus occupied, she read the notes. One to her, the other to Lord Sidmouth.
Deliver this, by whatever means you can manage.
Nothing more. No endearment. No apologies for his long silence.

To Sidmouth he had written more.

The Members must not, under any circumstances, meet publicly outside of the House. To do so, risks their lives. They are armed. Expect action soon.

The weight of the Captain’s question hung heavily between them, coloring every word, every movement and gesture. A pale rose color hung about his head and shoulders. Pale green, the color of new grass flared from his fingers whenever he touched her--the colors of his affection visibly displayed. Colors that pained her.

She cared for him deeply, respected him, wished him all happiness, but she could not conjure up matching emotion, matching color, when it came to love.

Homeward bound, he pointed out to her where Lord Sidmouth lived. She managed to make her inquiry seem a natural part of their conversation. Always accommodating, he offered to drive her past the place.

“Do you know Lord Sidmouth?” She marked the house in her mind.

“Well enough to recognize the man,” he said. “Not well enough to call upon him.”

He was, thus, of small use to her in delivering the message.

He said his good-byes in Wellclose Square. Her black-gloved hand, he lifted to his lips. “I had hoped to speak to your father,” he said.

“You may yet have opportunity,” she suggested softly.

“Of course.” He left her as she mounted the steps. He waved from the window as she paused, hand upon the door latch. She waved back until the hack disappeared from the square, then fled the steps, hopeful she had not been seen. With haste, she made her way, on foot, to fetch another cab, directing the driver to return her, at once, to Sidmouth’s address.

A tight-lipped, unbending butler turned her away from the door. He stared expressionlessly over the brim of her veiled bonnet every time he insisted his lordship was out, as if she were beneath both line of sight and his dignity, despite her insistence that she must have word with his lordship, that it was a matter of vital importance.

She fumed beneath her veil, but dared not entrust Roger’s note to the pompous fool, nor mention her connection to the Gargoyle. Who knew in these troubled times, who might be friend to the government--to agents provocateur--and who foe.

She left her card, a note on the back.

I must convey to you a vital message.

The Orange Girl.

When the butler stepped away from the door with a low bow, not to allow her entrance, but in order to slam it in her face, she went, defeated, to Ramsay’s. The afternoon glowed golden and yet she found little beauty in the light.

She took comfort in the anonymity of her mourning blacks. Beneath the shield of her dark veil, she might be any foolhardy young woman knocking black-gloved hand upon the black-wreathed door of an unmarried young man’s apartments as day wound down into evening.

Quinn peered at her a moment before recognition dawned. With a quick look up and down the street, he ushered her inside.

“How perfect your timing, Miss Selwyn. Another five minutes and I would be gone home to my wife’s Valentine’s Day dinner. Is aught amiss?”

“A message. Can you get a message to him?”

“But of course.” He waved his hand at a basket full of letters atop the umbrella stand. “It has been a day filled with affectionate messages. A pity he is not here to enjoy them.”

She frowned. “This is no Valentine I send.”

“No?” He turned his back to the basket, beckoning. “Important, is it? There is a way to contact him quickly, if the matter merits the risk.”

Her frown deepened. She yanked her gaze from the letters, followed him down a narrow hallway under the stairs, into a sunlit sitting room where he opened a neat, keyed secretary. Paper ready, he dipped pen to silver-topped inkwell.

“Tell him I have found the house,” she said. “He will know my meaning.” She paused to allow him time to write a line. “Number forty-four Grosvenor Square. Lord Harrowby’s residence.”

She gazed about the room as the pen scratched on. Roger’s room. The blue of him hovered about the chair by the fire, the smell of him, too sandalwood and leather. Longing clutched at her nether parts. Loss weighed heavy on her heart.

“Anything more?” The scratching stopped. Quinn bent over the secretary, pen poised, graying hair gilded as the setting sun washed golden dust motes from the air.

“You might add--” she paused, wishing in some way to send her love, wishing Roger made some effort to send his. “I . . . I have yet to deliver his message to Sidmouth.” 

He finished the note, dusted it with a ponce box, folded  the paper into an intricate knot much like the two she had received from Roger. “Come then. We shall go out the back way.”

Together they walked through the ground floor to the small kitchen.

“I did not know you were married, Quinn,” she said, as he donned an overcoat from a hook behind the door.

“Sixteen years,” he said matter-of-factly, setting hat upon head. “Effie once served as an upstairs maid for the master’s father. Many a gentleman will not tolerate a valet distracted by wifely attachment, but Mr. Ramsay has never failed to give me Wednesdays off to share with her. Nights and holidays too.” He winked at her as he tucked a muffler about his throat. “Sometimes weeks on end when he is called away to do business.”

They stood on the back step together while he locked the door.

Dulcie’s veiled bonnet tilted, her vision of sun-gilded windows, greyed by dark netting. “Will he ever marry, do you think?”

“The master? I very much doubt it, miss. There have been any number of young ladies who have done their best to convince him otherwise. None has succeeded in snaring him yet.”

“Is he averse to the idea? Do you know?”

A dog barked in the distance.

“He told me once, miss, that a gentleman in his line of business did best not to form attachments. Distractions, he called them, that might be used against him.” The door secured, he offered her his arm. “Shall I summon a hack to see you home, miss?”

“Yes, please.”

“We shall just walk to the corner, then.”

They walked in silence along the treeless mews, the shadows deepening--toward the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestone. The smell of hay and dung perfumed the chill, afternoon air. The occasional whinny of a horse, the bang of a hoof on wood broke the golden stillness.

“Might I be so bold as to enquire, miss? Are you in love the master?”

She exhaled heavily in her surprise, breath misting golden through the black veil. Strange, but there was no one other than Ramsay, and this man, the keeper of his secrets, to whom she might admit the truth. “I am,” she said. “In my mind I see us together--but my heart has begun to doubt.” The words hung bleakly between them.

“You have known my master many years.”

She nodded. “I was sixteen when we met.” 

“And now?” He asked it gently, without turning his head.

“Four and twenty,” she said. Eight years she had known him--eight years loved him!

“And in all that time has the master said anything to give you reason to believe he might marry you?”

The sun dipped to the rooftops, the light hard in her eyes. In the brightness images flooded--from Manchester, from the moonlit past they had shared in her bedchamber. He loved her. He wanted her. But, marriage? She blinked, vision blurred. “To the contrary.” She paused to collect herself, and laughed harshly. “He said he would make a dreadful husband.”

Quinn had nothing to add. In silence they walked to the corner. In silence he motioned for a hack to stop. As he opened the door, and offered her his arm to step up, Dulcie let the tears flow, hidden by her veil. As she settled in the hack, brushing smooth her skirts, she said, “I have received a proposal of marriage.”

“Indeed!” Quinn swung shut the door, leaning against it to speak through the window. “May I wish you joy?”

Dulcie pressed her lips together in an effort to control quivering chin. “You may.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

White Lion Pub, Wych Street, London

Roger paused at the foot of the narrow stairs, allowing his eyes to adjust. This dark stairwell begged trouble. No light pierced the gloom save that from a small window beside the door leading to the street, a thickly glassed mullioned window that multiplied the number of moons hanging like mottled cheese from a befogged night sky. It provided enough light to suit his job here.