Secrets of the Heart (11 page)

“Tomorrow!” Rachel protested. “So soon? But you haven't had a chance to rest. Surely you could stay in London a day or two. Go to your club, see some of your friends, like Perry, or—or what about that man at the museum who you get along with so well? And we should call on Araminta.”

Michael made a face and said in a teasing voice. “You just want to have company to call on my sister.”

“Well, it does make it easier when there are two to share her disapproval,” Rachel admitted.

Michael's older sister, Araminta, was a woman of stern habits and equally stern demeanor, and she had never approved of Rachel as a wife for Michael. She had warned her brother not to marry into the Aincourt family, considering them too profligate in their spending and for generations too wild and flighty in their characters, despite Rachel's father's bent toward religion. When Michael had returned to the family estate in the north after a year of marriage, Araminta had considered it a vindication of her warning. She had actually once told Rachel that it was clear Michael had regretted his choice of her as a wife.

“I am sorry, my dear,” Michael said. “But I really cannot afford to spend any more time away from the farm. I am starting a new experiment with legumes this year, and Jenks cannot be counted on to keep the standards scientific. They will be planting before long, and I must be there to oversee it.”

Michael felt a pang of regret at the disappointment on Rachel's face. He would very much have liked to stay with her, to squire her to parties and dance with her until the small hours of the morning. It was, as always, a combination of heaven and hell to be around Rachel all the time—to enjoy the pleasure of looking at her, listening to her, simply being close to her, yet at the same time to suffer through the longing that being with her always invoked in him, to ache for her, knowing that he could not have her, that any move on his part to kiss her or touch her would break the friendly companionship between them. He usually stayed with her until the pain of it grew too great, until the desire in him reached the point where he thought that he must have her or die, and then he would tear himself away from her.

This time, however, he could not afford that luxury. Escorting Rachel safely had not been his only reason for coming to London. He must see his Bow Street ally, Cooper, to make sure he had hired a man to take up a watch on Rachel to keep her safe, and to pick Cooper's brain on the matter of this enemy who thought he knew more than he did. In order to make sure that Rachel was not in danger, he needed to solve this difficult case quickly. It would entail not only talking to Cooper and his friend Sir Robert, but also making use of his disguises to work his way into the underbelly of London and find out what he could among the thieves, prostitutes and other criminals who made their home there. He could scarcely adopt those disguises here, around Rachel, nor could he be chasing down clues if he was spending his time taking her to parties and plays and such.

So the next morning he bade Rachel farewell, raising her hand to his lips for a formal kiss, then turned and quickly walked away. Outside, a groom waited with his horse. He mounted, not turning back to look at the house and therefore not seeing Rachel standing at the window in the front drawing room, watching him. Giving a nod to the groom, he rode off down the street. Two blocks down, out of sight of the house, he turned and headed for a different section of London and the house of another woman.

 

Rachel wandered back upstairs to her sitting room after Michael left, feeling at loose ends and faintly sad. She knew that she ought to visit Michael's sister Araminta. Etiquette required it, since she had just returned to Town after a long absence and Araminta was Michael's closest kin. By the same token, she ought to visit her own mother, who was happily enjoying life in London, free from the isolation of Darkwater as well as the constraints of a lack of money. Neither one of the women, she suspected, really cared whether they saw Rachel, but they would doubtless be affronted at the slight if she did not come by.

But she frankly did not feel like going to see them. Instead she sank down on a reclining sofa and gave herself over to the same thoughts that had been plaguing her for the past few days. It seemed peculiar to her that Michael had had to leave for home so quickly. Was he that anxious to get away from her? There had been something about his face yesterday when he was explaining why he had to go so quickly, something—Well, perhaps not exactly uneasy, but not precisely comfortable, either. It reminded her a little of the way he had looked when she had questioned him about the man who had stopped her carriage. She told herself that it was absurd to think that Michael was not telling her the truth. Michael was the epitome of honesty.

She stood up, disliking herself for sitting there thinking such thoughts. She would go to visit her friend Sylvia, she thought, and her spirits immediately brightened. Lady Sylvia Montgomery was one of the glittering lights of London Society. Short and plumply voluptuous, she was possessed of a silvery, infectious laugh and an entertaining, neverending supply of gossip. She was adored by her husband, Sir Ian, twenty years older than she and constantly amazed at his good fortune in landing such a wife. And she was exactly the sort of friend who could pull anyone out of despondency.

Rachel rang for her maid. An hour later, dressed in a fetching sea-green dress and matching pelisse, she set off for Lady Montgomery's house.

It was still early in the afternoon, and Sylvia had as yet no visitors. When Rachel was announced to her, she jumped up from her chair with a cry of delight and hurried forward.

“Rachel, my love!” She enveloped her in a hug. “It has been ages since I've seen you. You must have spent all winter in the wilds.”

“Yes, I did. We were snowbound at Castle Cleybourne at Christmas and—” she smiled at her friend “—I have a veritable treasure trove of information for you.”

“About the duke?” Sylvia's eyes lit up. “I heard from Lady Aspwich that he had married, but I could scarcely believe it. Is it true? And is it true that the new duchess left London years ago under a cloud?”

“I shall tell you all about it,” Rachel promised, and they sat down to a cozy conversation regarding the events of the past winter at Castle Cleybourne and the startling past of the duke's new bride.

When she finished, there were a few moments of silence as Sylvia turned over in her head the complicated story Rachel had just told her. Then, somewhat hesitantly, Rachel began, “Sylvia…”

Her friend looked at her, her attention caught by Rachel's tone. “Yes?”

“I was wondering…” Rachel began slowly. “That is, well, have you ever heard anything about Michael?”

“Westhampton?” Lady Sylvia asked, her blue eyes growing rounder. “What do you mean? Heard what?”

“I'm not sure.” Now that she had started, Rachel realized how vague her concerns sounded. “About, say, his being involved in something?”

“Something?” Her friend's finely arched brows rose. “What kind of something?”

“Something dangerous.”

For a long moment Sylvia stared back at her blankly. Then she began to laugh. “Oh, I see—you are making some kind of joke!”

“No! No, I'm not. Sylvia…do stop laughing.”

The silvery tinkles of her friend's laughter died away. “But, Rachel, dearest—that's nonsensical. Why would Michael be involved in something dangerous? What could it be?”

“I don't know. And I know it sounds as if I have run mad. But, well—” Rachel drew a breath and launched into the story of the highwayman who had stopped her carriage.

Lady Sylvia's eyes grew wider and wider as Rachel talked, and by the time she came to a halt, Sylvia was staring at her, openmouthed.

“Well?” Rachel asked. “Do you see now why I asked?”

“Yes. But what does it mean? What was the man talking about? Who was he?”

“You know as much as I do. Nothing.”

“Did you tell Westhampton? What did he say?”

“He said it was nothing, that the man was probably a lunatic.”

“Yes, well, he rather sounds like one.”

“But you didn't see him. He did not seem at all mad. He seemed perfectly serious, as if he really knew Michael and thought that he was in trouble. Michael suggested that perhaps it was one of his friends playing an elaborate jest on him.”

“I must say, he has rather bizarre sorts of friends, then.”

“Yes, well, I must admit that some of the men with whom he corresponds are a trifle odd. But it's more that they talk about things that no one else would ever even consider, let alone talk about, and they forget to wear a hat in the rain or something like that but can remember what some philosopher hundreds of years ago said.”

“Oh. Like Lady Wendhaven's uncle, you mean?”

“Well, no, not the kind who run about town in their nightgowns. More like Naomi Armistead, say.”

“The one with pencils stuck in her hair, but then she's always looking everywhere for one?”

“And pulls them out to jot down bits of poetry. Exactly.”

“Yes, well, the Armisteads are all a bit odd. All of them have peculiar names.”

“Biblical.”

“Well, I suppose one can hardly blame them for that, but it does seem to me that their parents could have had a bit more consideration. I mean, Matthew is all right, and Ruth, but it seems to me that to name a boy Job is asking for trouble, don't you think?”

“Yes, I guess so, but that isn't the point. What I'm trying to say is that Michael's friends and correspondents are eccentric in that way, but I wouldn't expect them to hire someone to pretend to be a highwayman and warn Michael of some danger or other. Even if they are pranksters, what would be the jest of it?” Rachel leaned forward earnestly, all the doubts that had been simmering in the back of her mind spilling out.

“I don't know,” Sylvia replied doubtfully. “It doesn't seem particularly funny, does it?”

“And if the man is a lunatic, why did he choose Michael to trouble with his lunacy? It was not random. He spoke of him by name. He recognized the crest on the side of the carriage. He acted as if he knew him. But wouldn't you think if Michael had met someone as mad as that, he would have recognized him by my description? By what the man said? He even told me that his name was Red Geordie. Don't you think you would remember someone named Red Geordie?”

“He sounds rather unforgettable,” Sylvia agreed. “Do you think that Michael really knew who he was and that he lied to you about it?”

Her friend's words brought Rachel up short. “No,” she admitted, frowning. “I would not think that Michael would lie to anyone, much less his wife.” She hesitated, then added, “But when he said he didn't know who the man was, he—he looked away from me. And suddenly I just felt that something was wrong. That he was…maybe not lying, but that he was not telling me the entire truth.” She looked at her friend, troubled. “Do you think he is hiding something from me?”

Sylvia shrugged. “Sir Ian hides things from me all the time.”

“Really?” Rachel stared. “Doesn't it bother you?”

“No, not especially. Sometimes it is because he fears I will scold him. The doctor told him to stop drinking port—the gout, you know—and sometimes, when he comes home from his club, I know he has been drinking it, but he pretends he hasn't. And sometimes he thinks I wouldn't understand something. Men think we are silly creatures, with nothing but clothes in our heads.”

“Michael is not like that,” Rachel said positively. “He has talked to me about philosophy and science—and sometimes, frankly, it was too complicated for me, but Michael didn't treat me as if I were stupid.”

“Then I would warrant that he is doing it to protect you,” Sylvia answered promptly.

“Protect me? From what?”

“I don't know. Perhaps the fact that he is in danger, that the man was telling the truth, no matter how unlikely it seems. Maybe he doesn't want you to worry.”

“Well, I would worry, but it would hardly be fair of him to hide it from me. And, besides, that means he's been doing something that would get him into danger, and that would have to be something else I know nothing about.”

“Probably something from his past,” Sylvia said with a wise look. “Before he met you. Men always get involved in some sort of pecadillo or other when they are young, even someone like Michael. He would be embarrassed to admit his youthful folly to you.”

“You really think so?”

Her friend nodded her head emphatically, sending her golden ringlets bouncing. “Oh, yes. And if you want to find out what it is, I know just the thing to do. Come with me to Lady Tarleton's soiree tonight.”

Rachel raised her brows skeptically. “And how will that help me?”

“Lady Belmartin is sure to be there. She is great friends with Harriet Tarleton. And Lady Belmartin knows all the gossip there is to know about everyone. If anyone knows whether Michael was involved in something shady in the past, it will be she.”

“I can't go about asking people if they know anything bad about my husband!” Rachel protested. “Honestly, Sylvia, how would that look? Nothing would be surer to set everyone gossiping.”