But this night, as he rode back to his house, he was disturbed. He had set out to accomplish one thing, he had begun another. He had named the game, but he had not really wanted to play it. He found himself, as he had said, now both scorekeeper and judge, inventor of the rules and keeper of the tally. But still, he had not planned it.
He’d been so sure that he was right. That the wayward chit with the glorious face and seductive eyes, newly on the town with no title, or family, or bonds, would have leaped at the chance to be his newest paramour. He had sworn he had seen the desire in her first glance at him. And he had been certain of it in her rush of response to that first kiss. That is what had armed him to go on to the lengths he had. She should have come to him willingly, with laughter at his daring and anticipation of her adventure with him. Perhaps it was just some new game she played to pique his interest and raise her fee. He would welcome a new game. He was, in truth, very weary of the old ones. But possibly, just possibly, she was in earnest. She had cast that stranger, doubt, into his mind. And so he had gambled.
He had acted impetuously. He did not like to gamble, for in gambling there was always the possibility of losing. He would not lose. He could not, he thought fiercely, lose. This, then, was the final honor left, the final one he admitted to. He would not lose.
VII
St. John Basil St. Charles relaxed against the cushions of his carriage and felt at peace, for once, with his world. The hour was late, the wind outside was wickedly cutting, but here, snugged in his well-sprung conveyance, he was at ease, comforted, drained of tensions and desires. He was sated with wine, with food, with pleasure, and only awaited his bed.
Maria Dunstable, a passable dancer, late of the Opera, had been, he reflected, a very good choice. She had made herself at home almost at once in Annabelle’s old quarters, making quick work of stowing her clothes, displaying her various mementos, permeating the rooms with her own individual blend of perfumes. She was quick-witted, adaptable, and still young enough to be amusing, while experienced enough to be adept. They had not yet reached the point in their relationship where she wheedled for more liberties or felt secure enough to run up more expenses. How long she would last in her new situation, St. John felt, depended entirely upon her own actions; for the moment, he was well pleased.
He allowed himself the luxury of a most undignified gaping yawn and a long stretch of his limbs; still, he thought, it would be good to sleep now in his own, undemanding bed. The gray light outside the carriage showed that another cold dawn was fast approaching. St. John alighted from his carriage and walked slowly to his front door, pausing for a moment to scent the air. Snow, he thought, was soon in coming. For a moment, he thought he saw a small shadow detach itself from the darkness near the alleyway leading to the back of his home, but then he shrugged and paid it no further attention. On such a chill night, there would be little likelihood of footpads, and certainly none who would dare frequent this fashionable street.
A drowsy footman opened the door for him, but no sooner had he flung off his cape when he was surprised to see his man, Hilliard, enter the hallway, dressed as if it were broad daylight, and waiting for him.
“Surely you have mistaken the hour, Hilliard,” St. John drawled. “It lacks five in the morning, not five in the afternoon.”
“I understand, My Lord,” Hilliard replied. “But there was a message for you, My Lord, that I felt might not wait until a retarded hour.”
St. John gave him a quick sharp look. Hilliard was no fool; only a matter of importance would receive such unusual treatment.
“What is it, then?” he asked, suddenly feeling the languor dissipating and an uneasy feeling of alarm coming over him.
“A young person came here this evening, sir,” Hilliard said impassively, “who looked quite the lady. However, she would neither give her name nor state her business. She would only give me a message she said was to be hand-delivered only to Your Lordship. And she asked if she might wait for your arrival, even though I explained that it might well be late, or even this day when you finally arrived. Nonetheless, she was adamant, and insisted upon waiting.”
St. John put out his hand to receive the small slip of paper Hilliard offered. He scanned it quickly, and it made him draw in his breath in a short gasp. For the message contained only two words scrawled upon it. It read only “George Berryman.”
St. John stiffened. He shot a quick look at Hilliard. How much did the man know of his private affairs, how much did he surmise, to understand that these two simple words would indeed be of paramount interest to him? For George Berryman, St. John knew, was dead. Dead and buried these many weeks. Mrs. Teas had given him the hurried news when he last had visited the house, and he had bowed and, stating his condolences, had slipped away, as he had always intended to, never to return. That phase of his life, although entertaining, profitable, and much relished, was over with now. Over with the instant that George Berryman had drawn his last breath. But now, who wished to revive the matter?
Was it an attempt at blackmail? Or was there some unfinished business about which George Berryman himself had given directions that the Marquis of Bessacar should be sought out after his death? That would be unforgivable, and dangerous to his standing. St. John stood still, his eyes still bent upon the little note in his hand. He brought his hand to a fist over it, and then inquired, with deceptive calm, “And where is the young person now, Hilliard?” For he thought, it was not without the realm of possibility that Hilliard had some notion as to what his actions these past years were, they had lived in such close proximity. But still, he trusted the servant, and had known him for too many years to think that this was a ploy on the man’s part.
“She waits outside, My Lord,” Hilliard answered, and seeing the swift surprise in his master’s eyes, continued, “As she had neither a maid nor a companion with her, and as I did not recognize her, I thought it best that I not allow her entry into your home, My Lord. And since she insisted upon waiting, I gave her leave to wait in the alleyway. If she is still there, she will have been waiting for some several hours, sir. Shall I fetch her? Or do you wish to let the matter pass? I did not presume to attempt to foresee your answer.”
The Marquis relaxed. No, Hilliard was not part of this. He was too shrewd to wade into the murky waters of blackmail. This woman was obviously no confederate of his. He had signaled that to the Marquis by not allowing her inside the house. And he certainly would not have forced a confederate of his to wait in the street for all those hours on such a bitter night. By his decision to allow the creature to stand in the cold night, he had both signaled his innocence of the affair to his master and washed his hands of the situation, even though he had certainly known of its importance to the Marquis.
“I am intrigued, Hilliard, at the mysterious aspects of the affair,” St. John said, pretending to stifle a small yawn. “So disregard the lateness of the hour. Lay a fire in the study and permit the woman to enter.”
St. John was comfortably ensconced in a chair by the fire, a dressing gown drawn over his clothes, a brandy in his hand, when Hilliard announced the young woman. “The person to see you, My Lord,” Hilliard sniffed, doing the best that he could at an introduction and having no name to go by.
St. John heard his man very well, and heard the door quietly close, and by the rustle of a dress, knew that the woman was within the room, but he played for time and ascendancy in the matter by continuing to stare into the fire for several moments, his back to visitor. When he felt that enough moments had ticked by, he said, without bothering to turn his head, “State your business, please. The hour is late, and I have only admitted you because your note was so cryptic. Begin, and tell me all that you would not tell my man.”
A slight pause followed, and then he heard a soft, well-bred voice say, in a hesitant tone, “I am sorry to disturb you at this hour. But indeed, I did come earlier, but you were not yet arrived home. I…I do not know you, Your Grace, and neither do I understand why I was told to seek you out…but my late uncle, George Berryman, told me shortly before his death that if I should ever need…advice, you would stand as my…advisor.”
At the word “uncle,” St. John turned around quickly, with a frown, to finally see who this visitor was. She stood partially in the shadows, but what he could see took his breath away for the second time that night. He gestured to her impatiently. “Come close to the fire,” he commanded. She moved forward slowly.
It was strange, he thought, that he should recognize her almost at once, although he had only seen her the once, and so fleetingly. Although she was no longer dressed with the elegant care that she had been that night at the Opera, indeed, she seemed almost somber in the dark cape she clutched to herself, her worn traveling case standing by her side, there was no mistaking the high cheekbones, the small tilted nose, the dazzlingly white skin, and most of all, the luminous dazzling green eyes.
He rose and quickly ushered her to a chair near the fire. Her hand, he noted, was cold as a dead woman’s. He poured her a glass of brandy and told her to drink it quickly, standing over her as she did so.
“George Berryman, your uncle?” he breathed, watching her closely as she coughed against the unusual taste of the drink. “Drink it, drink it,” he commanded. “You’re chill as stone.”
“I would not have had you wait outside on such a night if I had but known, but my staff has explicit instructions, and you refused to give your name.”
“I understand,” she said quietly, still sitting upright. “You need not concern yourself. My actions were…unusual. But if I might explain, you will see that I had no other course open to me.”
He drew a chair up beside her, and watched her, fascinated by those expressive green eyes, and well caught by the implicit drama of the situation. George Berryman’s niece? He could hardly credit it. She was a magnificently lovely creature, with the airs and manner of a lady of Society. He felt a familiar racing of his pulses. “Take your time,” he said in a comforting tone, “and tell me what the matter is about.”
She hesitated once again, and then looked into the gray eyes opposite her. He was a formidable looking man, she thought, and faintly familiar looking as well, with his high Indian cheekbones, those changeable, heavily lashed gray eyes, and the perfectly sculptured, almost classical mouth. But when the mouth tightened, and the eyes turned to a cold steel hue, she felt he might be very intimidating. Still, there was a naggingly familiar cast to his features…although, she felt, she surely would have remembered such a fine looking man if she had seen him before. But she had expected him to be older, at least her uncle’s age. She was chilled through her entire body. How many hours had she waited in the dark and wind-filled alley, shifting from foot to foot to keep her blood moving? But she had not known where else she could have gone. After she had stumbled away from the Duke, she had wandered the streets for a time, until the frightening moments when a group of young fashionably dressed men had accosted her, demanding her price, her rate schedule. She had fled them, and finding herself alone, had been forced to decide upon a course of action, any course of action.
She did not doubt that the Duke was serious at whatever strange game he had begun. He frightened her with his implacable surety, his nightmare power, and his mad conviction that this was a fair “game.” She had no home to return to, no funds to see her through to Canterbury, not even enough funds or knowledge to secure a respectable lodging for the night. She was, as the Duke had said, singularly weaponless in this great city. But then, she had remembered what her uncle had said, she had remembered the name of the Marquis of Bessacar, and as much as she had hated to force herself upon the goodwill of a stranger, still she had reasoned, her uncle would not have directed her so without a good reason.
Taking all her courage, she had inquired as to his whereabouts from street vendors she had seen, and while some had chased her away with lewd comments about her state, for she had quickly realized that without an escort she was as much as advertising herself upon the streets at this hour, finally a flower vendor had taken pity upon her and given her the direction of his house. After she had delivered her message to his man, she had no choice but to hastily scribble her uncle’s name upon the paper and wait for his return.
Now, with the unfamiliar liquor warming her veins and giving her false courage, and the fire comfortably thawing her, she drew in a breath and began to explain the situation to the handsome, concerned gentleman who sat quietly, giving her his undivided attention.
He interrupted her story only the once, when she first mentioned the Duke. “Torquay!” he breathed, and then, when she paused, he said quickly, “Go on, go on.” When she had finished the tale, which was, she realized herself, almost fantastical in its brief telling, she sat back at last and closed her eyes wearily. Would he believe her? Indeed, she scarcely believed it herself. Somehow, the lateness of the hour, her own weariness, and the otherworldly quality of her situation made her for the first time feel volitionless, without concern, at last, for her own fate.
He sat silently for a few moments. Then he looked at the exhausted but still lovely face before him.
“Does anyone know of your whereabouts now?” he asked.
“No one,” she answered quietly, “for I never heard your name at all except from my uncle’s lips.”
“Mrs. Teas never mentioned me?” he persisted.
“Never,” she said softly. “And my aunt dismissed her soon after my uncle’s death.”