Dicing With the Dangerous Lord

by Margaret McPhee

‘I am sure.’

  The door closed behind her.

  Venetia waited a few moments sitting there at the dressing table, with no costume to change or paint to remove. The theatre was silent, she knew that the oil lights at the front of the house would already be turned off and the little corridor outside the dressing room would soon be in darkness. She looked at her reflection in the peering glass and saw the uncertainty in her eyes and the smudges of sleeplessness that sat beneath them, and the pallor of her cheeks naked without a touch of her usual artifice to add colour to them. Wrapping her long shawl around her, she turned off the lamps in the dressing room and made her way to the stage door of the theatre.

  Her carriage was waiting at the edge of Hart Street. The late afternoon was as dark and heavy as if night was already upon them. She stood there for a moment, before Robert stepped silently from the shadows and they climbed into her carriage.

  ‘How does our plan progress?’ He looked across the carriage at her.

  ‘My job with Linwood is done. There is no need for me to see him again.’

  Robert leaned forwards in his seat, a sharp look upon his face. ‘It is barely begun. We agreed you would court him for three months, to find out all there is to know of the snake.’

  And now that the time had come to tell him, the words seemed to stick in her throat and the hand of guilt lay heavy upon her shoulder. But she knew she could continue no longer in this game. She forced herself on. ‘I have accomplished what we set out to do.’

  His eyes narrowed as if he could not believe what she was telling him. He stared at her more closely. ‘What do you mean, Venetia?’

  She swallowed, but no amount of swallowing would shift the great lump lodged in her throat. She had to tell him. She had to end it. ‘Linwood was responsible for the fire that destroyed Rotherham’s house.’

  ‘He admitted it to you?’ Robert’s eyes widened, his brows lifted high.

  She nodded, and could not bear to see the glee in his eyes. She stared down at her hands, fiddling with the buttons on the wrist of her glove, and could feel nothing of her brother’s gladness and excitement.

  He blew out a sigh of incredulity. ‘I can scarce believe it.’ He stared into the distance, smiling and stroking his chin before turning his gaze to her. ‘And the murder...?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I suppose he’s hardly likely to admit pulling the trigger to the woman he’s trying to bed.’

  Yet her brother did not know how it was between her and Linwood. She feared that Linwood would tell her. And feared even more that it would make no difference to what was unfolding. The game would play out to the inevitable conclusion, if she let it. ‘Why not?’ She looked him in the eyes. ‘He admitted arson, why not murder?’

  ‘It is not the same thing, as well you know.’

  ‘No, it is not the same thing at all,’ she said quietly.

  ‘The house burned to the ground, Venetia. It was an act of hatred and destruction. A clear message. Are you honestly telling me that you believe the man who did that is not the same man who put a bullet in our father’s head?’

  She knew that the argument made sense. The idea that another unrelated man had just turned up out of the blue to kill her father was almost ridiculous.

  ‘We both know that he did it, Venetia.’

  There was a small silence.

  ‘Regardless, my part in this is over, Robert. You have what you need. I’ve done my duty. I will not see Linwood again.’

  ‘Do not be so hasty, little sister.’

  ‘My mind is made up, Robert.’ Her voice was firm.

  ‘Then unmake it. There is something I have not told you. A development.’

  She felt her chest tighten in apprehension.

  ‘My witness, the one who saw Linwood leaving our father’s study that night, has disappeared. No doubt Linwood had a hand in it, with his...connections.’

  She thought of the villains in Whitechapel who had turned themselves in for capture.

  ‘Without our witness, the only evidence that ties Linwood to Rotherham is his admission to you...unless we find the murder weapon—dear Papa’s missing pistol.’

  ‘Even if he is guilty he could have disposed of the weapon.’

  ‘No. Why take it, if he did not mean to keep it as a souvenir? It was not his and therefore could not have identified him. And yet he took it along with a book from our father’s library.’

  ‘I did not know a book was missing.’

  ‘It was seen clasped within Linwood’s hand as he left and there is a space on the shelf where it sat, a space that was not there when I visited our father earlier that day. If either were to be found in his possession...’ He paused. ‘Linwood will be out on Friday night. He has a meeting that starts at nine and will not finish until midnight.’ He looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Find someone else to do it.’

  ‘That is not so easily done. Think how easy it would be for you. Your association with him is known. It would be simple to gain access past his servants, to wait for his return, to search his private quarters...’

  ‘Robert, there are rumours enough about my relationship with him. If I am seen going to his rooms at night, it is as good as admitting to all of London that I am his mistress.’

  ‘You have been thought mistress to other men in the past. Such speculation has never bothered you before.’

  But it wasn’t the same with Linwood at all.

  ‘You have to at least look, Venetia. One way or another it would prove his guilt...or his innocence.’

  Those last three words seemed to echo within her. She met his gaze across the carriage. ‘You are sure he will not be there?’

  ‘I am positive.’

  She swallowed. ‘And after this, no more.’

  ‘No more,’ he agreed.

  She gave a nod.

  The carriage came to a halt by his usual alleyway. He brushed a kiss to her cheek, then opened the door and jumped down into the darkening gloom. She did not watch him go, just sat there with a tight knot in her stomach as the carriage rolled off to take her home.

  * * *

  She did not hear from Linwood that day, nor the next two. She told herself that she did not expect to hear from him, did not want to hear from him, but she was lying. Every time the door sounded she jumped and sat tense, holding her breath, waiting for the approach of Albert’s footsteps to announce that Lord Linwood was in the drawing room, or, at the very least, convey a note written in that familiar hand. She was not at home to any other caller. And she should not have been at home to Linwood. But Linwood did not come.

  * * *

  Friday arrived and the hours of the day passed too slowly. The leaden sky outside, ominous and oppressive, seemed to mirror the waiting that stretched ahead. She tried to read the play’s script, to learn the lines she could not recall, but nothing held her attention. She felt restless, agitated, unable to concentrate. She wished she had gone to the rehearsal, anything to distract her from this misery of thought. But she knew she could not have borne it any better than this.

  Morning.

  Afternoon.

  Evening.

  Eventually she entered the room she had not been in since that night—the parlour. A small fire burned on the hearth and the candles in the wall sconce had been lit.

  The newspaper had been turned to the front page, neatly folded and sat on top of the pile of papers on her desk. The pile of hairpins had disappeared from the mantelpiece. And the vase sat in its rightful place.

  She lifted the paper, kicked off her slippers and curled herself into the armchair. Then she read the report Linwood’s journalists had written, even though she had read it a hundred times before. She glanced up at the vase. The clock struck nine.

  She was quite calm as she rose to ready herself for the task that lay ahead.

  * * *

  The night was very still and held a cold dampness that seemed to seep into her very bones, or maybe it was only
her own fanciful imagination.

  Even the carriage horses seemed skittish.

  Above there was no moon, no stars to light the sky, only a thick dark blanket of cloud and the soft patter of rain.

  The carriage rolled on. She sat very still, focusing her mind. The journey passed quickly. Too soon she was in St James’s Place. Her carriage rolled to a stop outside the address that was printed on Linwood’s card. A glance up at the windows of his rooms. The curtains were drawn in both. One room was in darkness. In the other was the faint glow of light. Venetia pulled the deep hood of the cloak to cover her head, and stepped down from the coach.

  * * *

  Linwood’s man looked surprised to find her there when he opened the door. She slid the hood back to reveal her identity.

  ‘Miss Fox, to see Lord Linwood,’ she said and held the man’s gaze with a brazenness.

  She saw his eyes widen. He hesitated only for the smallest second before inviting her in.

  ‘I’m afraid Lord Linwood is not at home, ma’am.’

  ‘I am content to wait,’ she said easily and let the black velvet of the cloak slip from her shoulders.

  Linwood’s man caught it and folded it carefully over his arm, his eyes flickering over the bright scarlet of her dress and away again. He was embarrassed, as if this was not a situation with which he had ever had to deal, as if Linwood did not have women calling at his door in the night. And Venetia felt glad of it. She held the servant’s eyes with a calm confidence and that same knowing curve of her lips.

  He glanced away in clear discomfort, clearing his throat. ‘It is likely to be some time before his lordship returns.’

  ‘That is perfectly acceptable. I am in no hurry.’

  She saw him swallow.

  ‘This way please, ma’am.’

  He showed her into a room that contained a desk, a bookcase, two winged armchairs and a sofa. A small fire burned upon the hearth and a candle burned at one end of the mantel. The clock in the centre of the mantel showed it was half past nine.

  She sat herself down in the armchair closest to the candle.

  ‘Shall I fetch you some tea, ma’am?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I have not come to take tea.’

  He blushed as scarlet as her dress.

  ‘What is through this door?’ She gestured to the door at the side of the fireplace.

  ‘The kitchen, ma’am.’

  ‘And the other, at the far end of the room?’ She did not look at the door in question, just kept her gaze fixed on his.

  He hesitated for a second. ‘Lord Linwood’s bedchamber.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said softly, as if that was the very thing she wished to know, and smiled.

  He lowered his gaze, his face scalding all the hotter. ‘If there is nothing else, ma’am?’

  ‘There is nothing,’ she said.

  He escaped to the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

  Venetia rose and wandered about the room, evaluating where to start. She halted by the wooden bookcase, letting her fingers trail over the matching leather-bound books within, scanning the gold-lettered titles printed upon their spines. She paused at the stargazing section, trying not to think of the evening she and Linwood had spent together in her glasshouse, but the memory was vivid in her mind. Unable to resist, she slipped an astronomy book from its shelf and opened it...and there printed on that very page was an illustration of Pegasus. Something tightened in her chest at the sight of it. She closed the book cover with a snap and returned it to its rightful place.

  There were books on the classics, books on history, on warfare and art. Books on hunting and on animals. Even one on the lives of wolves in Britain. All bound in a deep-blue leather that matched those in Rotherham’s study. Short of taking every book from its shelf and examining it there was no way to tell if it had come from Rotherham’s study or was Linwood’s own. Nothing leapt out at her as being worth stealing from a dead man’s library.

  She turned her attention to his desk. It was similar in design to the one that sat in her parlour, except that a cover of dark blue leather sat beneath the silver pen-carrier and inkwell. On the desk’s surface lay two sheets of blank white paper printed with his name and crest at the top, as if he was planning to write a letter.

  Venetia had spent years studying people, watching what made them tick, all those little mannerisms of which they were unaware, all the little ways they betrayed themselves. All good fodder to bring to the roles she played, the characters she became. She thought of Linwood, of the type of man he was, the darkness that was in him, the absolute self-control. People thought him lacking in emotion, but she knew the truth, it was control and masking of emotion, rather than a dearth. She had never met a more passionate man. Everything about him was contrary to expectation. He thought differently to other men. He was different to other men.

  She sat down in his chair, at his desk, trying to see what was before her with his eyes. Where would he hide something that he did not wish to be found? The answer whispered in her ear clear as if Linwood spoke it himself—in plain sight. She looked directly in front of her. On one side was the bookcase, on the other a painting of a racehorse standing before his stable.

  She moved to stand before the painting. Then peeped behind it and smiled.

  The picture was not heavy as she lifted it from its hooks on the wall, and leaned it against the skirting below. And there, fitted flush into the wall was a safe box. It was locked, of course. Linwood probably carried the key with him, but he was a man who left little to chance and she knew there would be a duplicate key hidden in the room. She returned to the desk, sliding open the top drawer, and heard the front door sound, followed by voices, one of which she recognised too well.

  Her heart turned over, then raced off at a thunder. Her stomach dropped to meet her shoes. Sliding the drawer shut as quickly and quietly as she could, she stepped away from the desk...just as Linwood came into the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  He did not smile. The candlelight played upon the harsh handsome planes of his face. His eyes looked black as pitch as they dropped to the painting that leaned against the wall before coming back to hers.

  ‘I like to know the measure of the man with whom I am involved,’ she said calmly, even though her heart was beating nineteen to the dozen.

  ‘Involved. Is that what we are? Because after the way things ended the other night it seemed otherwise.’

  The silence whispered.

  He did not thaw.

  ‘I see that I have made a mistake. If you will excuse me, my lord.’ She made to walk by him.

  He did not move to stop her, only spoke the words with that quiet intensity of his. ‘Do you not want what you came for, Venetia?’

  She stopped, her eyes meeting his, afraid of how much he knew, afraid he had won the game in earnest.

  He flipped the head of the wolf’s-head on his cane, and inside, tucked in the slot of a dark velvet cushion, was a small silver key. He removed it, slipped it into the lock of the safe and turned. The front of the box swung open. He stood back and gestured towards it.

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘If you want to know so badly.’

  She stared at him, her heart thumping madly, afraid to look, and even more afraid not to.

  His expression was unreadable, but in that dark gaze that held hers she saw the flicker of something that made her feel ashamed.

  The clock in the corner ticked, so slow and steady beside the spur of Venetia’s heart. She stepped slowly to the safe. She could see straight away that it contained neither the pistol nor the book. There were several thick rolls of white bank notes, and, at the back, a calf-skin pouch of golden guineas, but it was not at them at which she looked. She stared only at the pile of assorted documents and letters. Only at the folded theatre playbill that lay on the top of it. The theatre playbill of As You Like It, starring Miss Venetia Fox and newcomer Miss Alice Sweetly, from the very first night she had met him. She li
fted it out. Inside the playbill was a man’s handkerchief, folded neatly, clean and white save for the clear rouge impression of a woman’s mouth, where she had pressed it to her lips. There was an ache in her chest, a prickle of tears in her eyes as she raised them to his.

  He said nothing, just stood there with dignity and his secrets laid bare.

  She folded the playbill over the handkerchief, replaced them both in the safe box just as they had been.

  ‘You have not examined the rest,’ he said.

  ‘I do not need to.’

  They looked at one another.

  ‘You dismissed me like one of your footmen, Venetia.’

  ‘I should not have done that.’ She glanced down at her hands. ‘There are things I have to ask you, things I need to know.’ Questions all for herself and none for Robert.

  He said nothing, just stood there and waited.

  ‘You burned Rotherham’s house.’

  He was silent.

  ‘What was between the two of you? Why did you hate him so much?’ she asked.

  She saw his jaw tense, the dangerous look that entered his eyes.

  ‘Rotherham was a man who took what he wanted regardless of whom he hurt.’

  There was a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, a sense of the horror that his words only hinted at. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He hurt someone close to me. Hurt them very badly.’ He looked at her and she could see the pain in his eyes.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said, knowing the man who fathered her was fully capable of such cruelty.

  ‘So am I, Venetia.’ She felt her heart tremble at his words.

  The silence was loud between them. The single key question that had been the start of it all remained unasked.

  ‘You know who I am, Venetia. I have never pretended to be anything else. You have the measure of me.’

  Her eyes met his again, seeing only the same man she had always seen. The man who seemed to call to her soul. Down where their hands rested, each alone, she shifted hers slightly so that her fingers brushed against his.

  ‘Yes, Francis,’ she said softly, her eyes searching his as if she could see into his very soul. ‘I believe that I do.’ And she took his face very gently between her hands and kissed him.