Kate Moore (15 page)

14

N
OW THAT HE
had done it, Drew thought he might congratulate himself on the manner in which he had let Meg go, but unaccountably he felt it necessary to sit down first. The gilt chair she had so recently occupied would not do at all, but there was a scroll-armed couch on the other side of the mantel if he could make it so far, and a companion table held a brandy decanter and glasses. He steeled himself for the effort and had unstoppered the decanter and begun to pour before the trembling started.

He spilled most of the first glass. Indeed he found the trembling uncontrollable until he had managed to imbibe at least some portion of several glasses of the inferior brandy. But the shaking would pass. It was merely the inevitable reaction to the rigid restraint he had imposed upon himself during his time with her.

In the beginning of their adventure it had been no more difficult than other restraints he had been learning since boyhood. One learned not to slide down banisters, not to gallop one’s horse in town, not to respond to every woman’s glance, not to speak one’s feelings. And at first he had told himself he was merely amused, merely stirred because he had been celibate so long. But their picnic on the rock had awakened some realization in him of how deeply he had come to feel. The sweet provocation of her kiss had run through him like fire along a fuse, and it was fortunate that she had spoken and recalled him to himself.

Then in that barn on the road to Amarante he had been caught by the necessity of keeping up their deception, knowing if he did not, he risked having their guards agree to kill them there. What a mockery of his love and desire that had been, and how impossible to be in her company alone ever since. On their return voyage he had had to struggle constantly with images of entering her cabin and taking her into his arms. If he had once crossed that threshold, he would have made her his. There would have been no more choice in the matter for either of them, and he had no right to take away her choice. So each day he had persuaded himself that he could hold out against temptation one more day, and somehow the days had passed.

Now he would be free of that particular agony, for the trouble with deciding to be good or honorable, which he had never noticed before, was that one had to repeat the exercise of will endlessly, whereas when one yielded to temptation, the thing was done. He had arranged it so that she was out of his reach. Within a few weeks she should be safely wed. And then he would hardly mind dying at all.

Still a doubt nagged at him, demanding he drown it in more brandy. He knew that she was not indifferent to him, that he had hurt her tonight. He might have touched her girl’s heart and stirred some longing in it. But she had heard his name there in the wood, just as he had heard hers, and for all the hundreds of times her name had been on his lips, because he couldn’t help saying it, she had never once used his.

She had suggested they continue their acquaintance only when she was ignorant of his true position. Surely tonight she had seen the impossibility of any connection between them. This quarter of London had shocked her as he had intended it should. He had shocked her, appearing like one of the denizens of the place in the used clothes he had purchased on Monmouth Street.

If she had come to London two years before when he had still been his father’s son, he might have courted and won her. Second sons of earls might marry baron’s daughters. But she had come too late.
Too late
 . . . The words recalled the wisdom of the Portuguese.
It’s too late, Ines is dead
. He understood Senhor Fregata’s irony. His Ines, too, was dead, or as good as dead. He would never be the fool Prince Pedro had been, exhuming his love. Meg was lost to him; so be it. But he would have just one more glass of brandy to help him accept the fact.

The carriage that had puzzled Margaret when they entered the bawdy house had been there for her, of course. The livery was that of the Earl of Haddon, and the footmen were every bit as solicitous as they ought to have been when the viscount handed her into the chaise. There was a shy little abigail huddled in one corner, whom the viscount introduced as Nancy. The proprieties thus observed, the occupants of the well-sprung chaise lapsed into silence as soon as the horses began to move.

The numbness that had overcome Margaret earlier returned. Drew had been right about her. She had put all her faith in the truth, and in love. She had been so sure that the truth would vindicate him, would prove him as good and honest and worthy as her heart believed him to be. But the truth was that he did not love her, and that some time long before they met he had put himself beyond the pale. Numbness was not enough; she wished for oblivion. However, it was not she who dozed, but the young serving girl.

Then Margaret became aware of the close scrutiny she was receiving from the viscount. When a bump in their otherwise smooth ride caused Nancy’s reticule to slide from her limp hands, revealing how sound asleep the girl was, the viscount bent gracefully to retrieve the small bag and placed it on the seat next to Margaret. She was not surprised to hear him speak.

“You have been gone above a fortnight, Miss Somerley. You look well, considering the dangers and deprivations a gently bred young woman might find herself exposed to among strangers.”

“Thank you, my lord,” seemed the safest reply.

“Just when in the course of your adventures did you meet my brother?” His use of the word
adventures
alarmed her, for she did not wish to be at this man’s mercy, as she would be if he guessed even a part of the whole.

“I never knew your brother before tonight,” she answered, thinking how true it was and how much of a lie it sounded.

“Ah,” came the reply. “Well, my brother was ever an impulsive young man.” He paused. “I have no doubt he loves you, Miss Somerley.”

If Cyril Durant meant to disconcert her, he very nearly succeeded. “You mistake the matter, my lord,” she said, the pain of it allowing her to speak evenly.

“Do not bother to deny it, my dear,” he said unpleasantly. “You see, along with the excess of beauty with which nature favored him, my brother is also favored with an excess of nobility. Whatever satisfaction it gives him to put me in this position, his aim is your happiness.”

“Sir,” said Margaret, uncertain of her ground with this man, “you imagine a connection between myself and your brother. I simply wish to be restored to my parents and now find myself a pawn in a game not of my choosing.” She hoped she spoke with just the degree of indignation to make him believe her. It did seem for a moment as if he would allow their conversation to lapse. Then her hopes were dashed.

“No, Miss Somerley, it won’t do,” he began. “My brother wants your happiness so very much, he offers me what I want most in order to ensure it. This is no quixotic gesture on behalf of a chance-met acquaintance.”

It took considerable effort to meet the unwavering gaze directed at her. “You see what you expect to see, my lord,” she said, unable to quite deny his words as they evoked the first hope she had felt in days.

“Your courage and your loyalty do you credit, Miss Somerley, but you need not fear me. Though the easiest way to cause him pain would be to hurt you, I do not mean to do it. My brother is always bravest, always at his best when he is most hurt. Unfortunately, my brother’s nobility of character brings out the worst in me. Everyone admires him, so I cannot. Everyone loves him, so I cannot.” He stated the fact regretfully, but Margaret did not allow herself to hope that he would change his mind about the game. His hatred for his brother was obviously of too long standing.

“I mean to play this game, my dear,” he assured her. “Of course, I will cheat.”

Margaret gasped, and the viscount laughed coldly. “Do not be so alarmed, Miss Somerley. He expects me to cheat. He is not stupid, my brother. And it frees you, really. You may marry whom you please or not marry. The announcement in the papers will not be his death sentence after all, for I mean to find him before his foolish game comes to fruition.”

Margaret was grateful to reach Haddon almost immediately after this revelation of the viscount’s character. She did not think she could endure another moment alone in his company.

The next hours went by in a blur. No sooner had she and her escort entered the hall than her parents appeared in quite rumpled states of undress, looking both older and smaller than she remembered, though such a thing could not be.

“Oh, Margaret dear,” her mother cried. “We feared such dreadful things.”

“Mama, Papa, forgive me,” she said, stepping into her father’s open arms, “I never meant to cause you such distress. It was only that I didn’t wish to disappoint you anymore, so . . . I ran away.”

“My dear,” said Lady Somerley, now reaching to embrace Margaret, “how could you disappoint us? You are so lovely and so clever, and if only we had not left London, I know you would soon have had more beaux.”

Margaret caught her father’s glance and refrained from any contradiction. “Perhaps in time, Mama, I will meet some fine country gentleman at an assembly in Bath.”

“But your season, dear. I promised you such a lovely season, and it has all come to nought.”

“Now, my dear,” said Margaret’s father to his baroness, “time enough tomorrow to worry about her future. Tonight we must celebrate our prodigal’s return.”

Margaret then gave herself over to their embraces and dried her mother’s tears, for she had none of her own. She endured their grateful praises of the viscount, whom they could not thank enough, but she was glad of the earl’s suggestion that they retire to the privacy of her mother’s apartments.

A cold collation was sent up from the kitchens, and she made a show of taking a little of this and a little of that, though she had no appetite for any of it. Her parents asked many questions, but fortunately did not press for answers, seeming content merely to gaze at her and touch her. She sensed that their greatest need was for this touching, to assure them that she was truly back, so she allowed herself to be squeezed and petted into the small hours of the night. She did not object even when her mother asked that a couch be made up for her there in the same room. Her parents had been most hurt by her absence, and though she could not be their child in quite the way she had been, she could assure them of her love.

The young man with red hair gazed wonderingly at the splendors of his first London brothel. When he entered the main salon, he hoped to glimpse some of the ladies charms, but the opulent room was empty so he made his way directly, if somewhat reluctantly, to the upper room where he had been told he would find the customer he was looking for. The bed in the designated room, with its exotic golden drapery, was so exactly what he had imagined it would be, that he lost himself momentarily in luxurious fantasies. Then his gaze took in his friend sprawled on a fancy couch, and he went at once to the wreck of young manhood there.

“Drew, Drew,” he urged as he shook the sleeping gentleman’s shoulder, “you can’t stay here. Cy will be looking for you already.”

“Ned?” the other mumbled. “Did he take her to Haddon?”

“Aye,” said Ned. “It’s the talk of the kitchen how her mama and papa wept at her return. The chit never shed a tear herself though.”

When the still-recumbent young man showed no inclination to move, his redheaded friend shook him again.

“Come on, Drew, it’s near dawn. Let me help you up.”

“Sure, Ned, best of friends.” Some further repetitions of this exchange were necessary before the golden-haired man on the couch at last opened his blue eyes and swung himself into a slumped sitting position. Then there was an awkward moment when the drunken man stood too quickly and leaned heavily against his friend, nearly toppling them both. When they were both reasonably steady on their feet, they began to move toward the door with exquisitely slow steps. They had not progressed far, however, when the golden-haired man clutched his friend abruptly.

“The slop bucket, Ned. I’m afraid I’m going to cast up my accounts.”

It was several minutes before either of the pair spoke again, but then the golden-haired man seemed more in command of himself.

“I owe you, Ned,” he said quietly.

“You don’t owe me. Doing it up too brown, Drew,” said the other.

In the bleak gray street below they parted with a final exchange.

“You got the lodging I arranged?” asked Drew, shaking a bit in the cold air.

“Yes, I got it, but the whole idea’s stupid, if you ask me.”

There was no immediate answer. “Just watch her,” came the reply at length. “See that Cy doesn’t hurt her and the French don’t get her. I’ll find you when ever I want a report.” He began to walk off with a stride that was amazingly steady. “And Ned,” he called back, “get a hat that covers that hair.”

15

I
T WAS INEVITABLE
that Lady Somerley should begin to think of London again within a few days of her daughter’s return. She found in Cyril Durant a sympathetic listener. The viscount concurred exactly in her judgment and seemed to have taken a most gratifying interest in her daughter, proposing that he escort Margaret to all her engagements until the girl should feel comfortable in going about again.

Lady Somerley congratulated herself on her own discretion in refraining from the mention of Margaret’s earlier embarrassments. If this fine son of their dear friend found Margaret charming, she would not encourage him to think otherwise. He had mentioned Almack’s, and what a salve it would be for her wounded pride to return to that scene of former humiliation with such an elegant and eligible escort. No man would then overlook her daughter. She resolved to attend the first Wednesday that a suitable gown could be made up for Margaret.

***

Margaret found that Almack’s, like her parents, had shrunk in her absence, and she was inclined to laugh when Cyril Durant introduced her to the young men of his acquaintance. The irony of their eagerness to meet her followed by their quite genuine surprise that they had done so weeks before afforded her a sort of bleak amusement.

She smiled and dipped gracefully into a curtsy before Brummell, then moved easily into the opening set with the viscount. As naive and generous as she had been during her first foray into society, she would have attributed society’s cordial welcome to her elegant new gown of a blushing shade of satin. But a teasing voice in her head said something about the dreadful susceptibility of the
ton
to a few fashion-setters. She almost turned as if she could catch a glimpse of him somewhere in the crowd. It unsettled her for a moment, but she recovered her poise. It would never do to think of Drew Durant at so public a moment, though his words about their class had never seemed truer. Her worth among the
ton
was being reassessed because the fashionable viscount appeared to value her.

After standing up with Cyril Durant for the first set, she had no lack of partners. She meant to notice each one of these potential suitors, to note their charms and fix their names firmly in mind. It was a matter of pride merely, not inclination. She would do what a young woman of her station was obliged to do—she would please her parents. But she found herself distracted or perhaps abstracted, as if she were listening to the conversation of her partners from a great distance. One young man with a pleasingly cheerful countenance had trod mercilessly on her satin-clad toes whenever the movement of the dance allowed, but she scarcely noticed until, quite suddenly, she woke up. She had not realized she had been asleep, but she had been ever since the dreadful night of her return to Haddon, asleep in all but the most literal sense.

“My lord,” she said, having forgotten his name but assuming there was some sort of title, “do you know Andrew Durant?”

He blinked at her. “Yes. No. That is to say, he was disowned, you know—not supposed to speak of him to a lady, beg your pardon.”

“But it was I who spoke, Lord . . .” She almost called him Leadfeet. “Why is Mr. Durant not spoken of? What did he do?”

“Excuse me, Miss Somerley, can I get you some refreshment?” He hastened away without waiting for her reply. Suddenly the room was peopled with those Drew had mimicked. Of course, he had been one of them, had been liked, loved, she was sure. What could have happened to make him such an outcast? Cyril Durant was admired, fawned on, imitated, but he was not loved. What had Drew said in that terrible meeting in the brothel? Had the viscount caused his younger brother’s disgrace?

“So, Miss Somerley,” came Cyril’s voice beside her. “You have had a triumphant return. Your mother is beaming upon us with the light of a hundred candles in her smile.”

“I have not yet received any offers, however, my lord,” replied Margaret coolly.

“There is no need for undue haste, my dear,” said the viscount. “I do not wish you to make a choice you would regret, merely to save my life. Besides, I expect to find my brother any day now. Then you need feel no concern at all in the matter.”

“Are you so certain of success?” she asked. In the week or more since Drew had left her, she had accepted the loss of him in the numb way she had accepted everything offered to her. Drew had said she was the least complaining of females. But now she realized she had acquiesced too soon. The circumstances revealed to her that night had been only a part of the truth, not the whole. Whatever disgrace he had suffered, Drew was not dead, and it was not too late to act to save him.

“My dear,” said the man at her side, “what a lovely, expressive face you have. Do not imagine that you can save him. You would be wiser to consider yourself his widow. It will help you choose your next love more prudently.”

Anger, as unfamiliar a feeling as it was, sustained Margaret through the next hours. Though she was impatient with all the ritual and formality of an evening at the holy of holies, the temple of the
ton
, where suitable connections among its elite could be arranged, she would not give Cyril Durant any further satisfaction from outward shows of her distress.

In the privacy of her own bedchamber she gave way to the tears she had been holding back since that day on the river, and her last thought, the one that hovered lightly in her mind before sleep, was that Drew Durant had somehow awakened all her passions.

In the morning, however, she was resolved to think rather than feel. She had an adversary as ruthless and determined as either Croisset or the Viper, and she did not know how much time she had to act against him or—what to do. By the time she had dressed and breakfasted, she had decided that her first object must be to discover the truth about the earl’s second son.

But a fruitless day and evening of talk and dancing passed away under the watchful gaze of the viscount. The subject of conversation nearest the one she longed to introduce was a tedious account of the hardships of the Peninsular War and the details of Wellington’s brilliance. The next day a new problem arose to plague her. She was being followed, or rather watched.

It was a feeling she had learned to recognize in Portugal, a disturbing sense of someone’s presence that traveling with the ever-watchful brothers had taught her. When she thought about it carefully, she realized that she felt it only in the environs of her own home in North Audley Street. If the carriage once turned the corner, it was gone. By Saturday she was sure she could identify the feeling with the presence of a figure that occupied more or less the same corner as she came and went. The figure was that of a man, but beyond the gender she could tell little. He had a long coat and a squashed coachman’s hat pulled low, obscuring his features.

She tried to think rationally about the mysterious figure in spite of the fear his presence evoked. Perhaps Cyril Durant was taking precautions against some action on her part. Perhaps he believed his brother would come to her. Then again, perhaps the French had already traced them this far, or, irony of ironies, had connected her with Cyril, as she was so often in the viscount’s company. She felt powerless again, as she had on the voyage from Portugal. Events were closing in on her. Then unexpectedly the weather took a blustery turn, changing all her prospects. As she stood in the window of the morning room, looking out at the mysterious watcher, a gust of wind blew his hat off, revealing a handsome, youthful face and unmistakable red hair.

She quickly decided that the best plan for capturing Ned was the simplest. So that very afternoon, in spite of the gusts of wind, she pleaded a need for fresh air and exercise, arguing that as rain must come soon, it might be her last chance for a walk in days. She gathered her cloak and hat and reluctant maid and set out for the park, noting with satisfaction that Ned followed them at once. Impatient as she was to talk to him, Margaret forced herself to keep a decorous pace as far as Grosvenor Square. She instructed Betsy in her plan, keeping the reasons for it to herself. When they turned onto Upper Brook, she hurried a bit so that they were well ahead of Ned when he reached the turn. She could almost sense his dismay when they turned right at Park Street. Her trap was set, and she waited eagerly for Ned to come hurrying around the corner.

He must have sprinted the distance because he was quite winded when she stepped into his path not above a minute later. Then before he had time to register his shock, she accosted him.

“Who sent you, Ned,” she demanded, “and why are you following me?” He backed away, still breathless, and she feared he meant to turn tail and run so she rushed into further speech.

“Ned, do you want him to die?”

He stopped then and glared at her, still laboring to catch his breath.

“You and I are the only ones who can save him,” she continued.

“You?” he exclaimed, putting a great deal of doubt into one syllable. “You save him? Small chance of that. Because of you, he’s living in some rat hole in the Holy Land, doing Lord knows what.”

“You’ve seen him,” she cried. Ned was ready to deny it. “You have seen him,” she insisted. “How is he?”

“Well enough, no thanks to you,” came the reply.

Margaret studied him briefly, determined not to lose what seemed her only possible ally in the attempt to save her love.

“You are only cross because you are tired and you got caught,” she said. “This game was not my idea, and he didn’t give me any more choice in it than he has apparently given you.”

His breath at last recovered, Ned grinned at her. “No, I guess he wouldn’t.”

She smiled back. “Will you follow me home then? Just as you would have, and then come round to the stables. For we must talk.”

“Now, miss,” said Ned warily, “I don’t know what you’re thinking. But he won’t like it above half that you caught me, and he certainly wouldn’t want me to talk to you.”

“But Ned,” she said in her most reasonable tones, “if we don’t talk, he will die.”

“Lord,” said Ned, acquiescing with the air of a man abandoning himself to disaster.

***

It was necessary to calm Betsy’s fears at such uncharacteristic behavior on her mistress’ part and to promise extreme caution and decorum in all her dealings with Ned. And she had to distract the disapproving Betsy further with several small tasks in order to slip the sapphires and ring into her reticule unnoticed. Still other forays into lying were necessary before Margaret could escape the house for the stables. It occurred to her that Ned’s cross humor was probably a sign that he was hungry and weary, so she inveigled a tankard of ale and a slice of cold meat pie out of Cook. Then, as it had begun to rain, she strapped on her pattens and wrapped her cloak about her.

Though she was damp and chilled when she reached the stable, the rain proved to be a blessing, for no one came to request a mount and the grooms and stable hands, given a respite from their labors, had gathered to roll dice and tell tales. As there was no mistaking Ned’s hair, she thought it wise to tell her own groom who Ned was. Beyond that she concocted yet another flattering fiction about intending to show Ned some trick of the Somerley stables that he might employ for her when she was at Haddon.

Thus they were quite ignored and took a pair of stools to an empty stall. Margaret offered Ned the refreshment she had brought, and he took it warily. The stubborn cast of his features told her that her task would not be easy. She allowed him to eat and drink without interruption, listening to the rain patter softly against the stable roof, wondering how to begin.

“Have you always lived at Haddon, Ned?” she asked, as if he were a guest in her mother’s yellow salon. She could tell he wondered at her tone, but apparently he saw no harm in answering her question.

“Yes.”

“Then you have known Drew a very long time?” There was a kind of forbidden pleasure in speaking his name at last. “Was he much like he is now?”

Again Ned seemed to consider the wisdom of answering her. Then he grinned. “Just like,” he said. “He was always a sudden fellow, and he always did everything better than anyone—shoot, ride . . .” He clamped down on his own words of praise.

“Better than Cyril?” asked Margaret.

“Way better,” Ned confirmed.

“Is that why Cyril hates him so much?” she probed.

“That and . . .” Ned stopped abruptly and glared at her. She had the distinct impression that he had just become aware of where her questions had been leading him. “If Drew didn’t tell you himself, he sure as fire wouldn’t want me to tell you.”

“Ned,” she said, feeling her patience dissolve, “for days I have been left to wonder why I was being watched and by whom. This afternoon I have lied to my mother, my maid, Cook, and Thomas, and now I want the truth.” Ned’s face remained set in stubborn lines. “Ned,” she warned, “he will die.”

“Devil take it, miss, will you stop saying that,” he pleaded, jumping up and pacing the narrow stall.

“But I am afraid of it every minute,” said Margaret in a small voice.

“Lord,” said Ned. He sat down again, and ran a hand through his startling hair. “It’s mostly kitchen gossip I have,” he continued. She gave him a look to let him know she would brook no more delays. He took a steadying breath and plunged into his story.

“Drew was wounded at Badajoz and got some fever, and they sent him home in June of ‘11. So he stayed the summer, healing, and helping the old man with his papers. All the Haddon folk fussed over him like he was some kind of wonder, but he wasn’t really . . .” He stopped and seemed at a loss for words.

“Content?” Margaret supplied.

“That’s it. He couldn’t ride, and he didn’t have any of his friends. There’s me and there’s Humphrey, but I’m a slowtop to him, and Humphrey’s an octo-something.”

“An octogenarian?”

“Aye,” he said, looking at Margaret with some respect. “So when fall came and the earl went up to London, Drew went too. I think he must have burst on London. Leastways I think the ladies there must have gone mad for him.”

“Have ladies always liked him so much then?” Margaret asked, afraid she knew the answer.