by Allison Lane
"Miss Derrick won't be the first she's lost,” confirmed Mrs. Martin. “Wasn't she chaperoning the Foster girl last year when Jacobs eloped with her?"
"And the Falmouth chit two years ago?"
"And Miss Turner the year before that,” confirmed Lady Beatrice. “Why don't people check references anymore?"
Several voices recalled Miss Turner's suicide after Grayson abandoned her, predicting a similar disaster for Miss Derrick.
"Grayson won't be the one to ruin her,” protested Lady Westlake. “He was never as bad as rumor claimed."
"You always were blind,” said Lady Marchgate. “Just wait until your own daughter faces society."
"I am not blind.” Lady Westlake's face darkened. “It is easy to condemn, and rumor does so quite harshly. But where is the evidence? Miss Irwin's father swears that betrothal existed solely in her head. If Grayson never offered, how could he have jilted her? She was little better than Miss Derrick, flirting outrageously, then lashing out when he ignored her."
"It is true that Miss Irwin was scandalously forward,” agreed Lady Wharburton. “But I will never believe that the affair existed solely in her head. Where there is smoke, one always finds fire."
"Do you claim the most honorable Mr. Irwin lied?” asked Lady Westlake, frowning.
"Irwin's father may be a baron, but there is nothing honorable about him or his daughter,” snapped Lady Marchgate.
"Very true,” agreed Lady Wharburton. “He gloated quite vulgarly when Grayson began courting the girl. And everyone knew he had plans for Grayson's fortune. But he only clamed his daughter had fabricated a betrothal because Grayson paid him to do so. Irwin would do anything for money."
"Still does,” added Lady Marchgate. “He fleeced young Gower-Jones last month, using an altered deck of cards. If he returns to town, the clubs will deny him entrance."
"Which shows where Miss Irwin learned to lie and cheat,” put in Lady Westlake.
"It suits you ill to defend the man,” warned Lady Marchgate. “And whatever the truth about the Irwins, you cannot ignore the Turner affair."
Lady Westlake remained silent.
"He drove her to her grave,” intoned Lady Wharburton. “And to this day, he denies remorse."
Lady Marchgate nodded. “Abominable. To seduce and abandon a lady of quality—” She snapped her mouth shut in disdain.
"There has to be more to the story,” insisted Lady Westlake. “Think about his history. He was the kindest gentleman in society, always ready to partner an overlooked miss or introduce girls to those who shared their interests. He arranged at least a dozen matches over the years. And he is devoted to his estate. I cannot believe he would deliberately harm anyone."
"He is in trade.” Lady Horseley's voice shook.
"What else was he to do when Rothmoor cut him off?"
"We all know that he introduced you to Lord Westlake,” said Lady Wharburton. “But do not let gratitude blind you to his faults."
"I don't. But I knew him well eight years ago. He was a good friend to society's misfits, drawing out the shy and relaxing the nervous. He danced with us regularly, playing mentor and alleviating embarrassment until he could pair us with the perfect suitor."
"I doubt his purpose was selfless,” snapped Lady Marchgate. “He probably made sport of you in his clubs."
"If so, not one man has ever mentioned it, though most gossip as freely as ladies. I do not believe he seduced anyone. It is not in his nature."
"Blind as a bat,” muttered Lady Horseley. “His magnanimous gestures mask his spying. Too much French blood in the Dubonnes. Not only was his mother French, but his grandmother and others before her."
"Not one of them would have favored the current regime.” Lady Westlake gestured toward the Channel. “Every French Dubonne perished on the guillotine. Only the English branch survived."
Mary let them argue it out. Her own observations supported Lady Westlake. Lord Grayson had recognized her shyness, for what else would have driven her into the palms? He had tried to set her at ease, praising her sketches and suggesting others who shared her interests. He had made no advances, adhering strictly to propriety. And he had confirmed her opinion of Mr. Griffin.
She could believe him a rake, for he exuded a blatant masculinity that must attract women. But most men his age enjoyed the courtesan class. Even her brother William visited a willing widow on occasion, though he'd so often denounced those who succumbed to lust that he tried to hide that fact.
But that was her dreamer speaking, she acknowledged as the argument continued. Her dreamer liked Grayson and pounced on any evidence in his favor. Her dreamer wanted Lady Westlake to be right, for it believed Grayson was honorable. But could she trust it? London was different from the quiet countryside she knew. Her judgment might not work here.
On the other hand, people were much alike wherever they lived, especially when it came to gossip. Most of them twisted events to fit their preconceptions. Gossips preferred simplicity. A man was a rake or a sportsman or a prime catch. Ladies were proper, silly, or wanton. There was no room for complexity.
But Grayson was complex. In less than a day, she'd heard him described as a rake, a scoundrel, a benefactor, a traitor, and a man with a golden touch. Only better acquaintance would reveal how much of that was true.
Of course, she could never judge for herself. Labels might be simplistic, but society adored them. And no innocent could befriend a scoundrel without ruining herself.
"Mary!” Laura's voice sliced through her abstraction. “Answer Miss Ingleside."
"What?” Mary jumped, rattling her cup and dropping a biscuit on the carpet.
"I asked if you were attending the Wharburton masquerade next week,” said Miss Ingleside.
"I b-believe so,” she stammered, embarrassed to be caught dreaming. A blush crept up her cheeks. The image of Grayson was so clear in her mind that she feared others could see it.
"I have the most delicious costume,” said Lady Catherine. “Diana, the huntress. It is short enough to expose my ankles halfway to the knee.” Everyone gasped. “The headdress is made of leaves sprinkled with diamonte to glitter like starlight in the ballroom. How about you?” She stared at Mary.
"A T-tu ... A lady.” Mortified, she stared at her hands.
"An Tudor lady-in-waiting,” said Laura, with a laugh. “It covers her clear to the neck. Freckles, you know. They blanket her shoulders like a rash."
"Haven't you heard of cucumber wash?” demanded Miss Cummings.
"I prefer oil of talc,” said Miss Ingleside.
"Mustard ointment,” announced Lady Catherine. “It is the only remedy that never fails."
Mary wanted to sink through the floor.
Rescue arrived in the form of Lady Wilkins, who was so excited that she burst into speech before greeting Lady Beatrice. “The most shocking news!” Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Lord Grayson was accosted by footpads and beaten to within an inch of his life!"
Beaten? Mary barely stopped her hand from flying to her mouth.
"I'd heard.” Lady Beatrice sounded bored as she handed Lady Wilkins a cup. “If you wish to replace me as a reliable source of news, you must not exaggerate."
Someone tittered, bringing a flush to Lady Wilkins's face.
Lady Beatrice gestured her to a chair. “Grayson foolishly chose to walk from White's to Albany last night instead of summoning his carriage. Quite absurd, of course, but gentlemen do not always behave with caution. The Lord Mayor really must expand the watch. The footpads grow bolder every year.” She shook her head, the folds in her neck wobbling.
"Was Grayson badly injured?” asked Lady Westlake.
"Bruised, but nothing broken,” replied Lady Beatrice dismissively. “The culprit stole his purse. No doubt he expected a fat profit, but Grayson's game had been quite off."
"I heard he was much the worse for wine.” Lady Wilkins could not keep the pique from her voice. Being first with a story garnered admiratio
n—an honor usually reserved for Lady Beatrice.
"No doubt.” Lady Wharburton snorted. “It would not be the first time."
"Nor will it be the last."
"Enough about Grayson,” said Lady Marchgate, nodding toward her daughter. “What is this new tiff between Brummell and the Regent?"
Mary ignored them. Brummell's posturing seemed eminently silly. She was more concerned about Grayson. How badly had he been hurt?
Silver eyes hovered before her face. His chuckle upon seeing her sketches had been from enjoyment rather than ridicule. She hoped he was not in too much pain. Even were he worse than rumor declared, she would not have him suffer.
She shivered. Catherine's first husband had endured endless hours of pain before his death. As had her father, who had died by the same hand. Grayson did not need that.
* * * *
Gray set down his knife and flexed his shoulders, vainly trying to ease their stiffness. But comfort was impossible. The pain was worse than when he'd crawled home last night.
Jaynes, who doubled as valet and butler, returned with a calling card in one hand.
"Show him in,” said Gray with a sigh. He was in no condition to receive guests, but Nick was hardly a guest.
"I hear you had a spot of trouble,” he drawled from the doorway.
"A trifle.” Gray gestured to a seat. Jaynes had already produced a second plate.
"What happened?"
"I'm not sure. I was turning from Piccadilly into Albany when a footpad attacked.” He shook his head to clear it. “The details are hazy. I would have defended myself, but my arms wouldn't move."
"Wouldn't?” Nick accepted ham and scones.
Gray shrugged, cursing himself for saying too much. No one knew his innermost secrets, especially his tendency to freeze when danger threatened. “Besides stealing my watch and purse, he entertained himself by beating me."
Nick paused with his fork midway from plate to mouth. “Even though you weren't resisting."
"That much I do recall, though my head was as muzzy as if I'd drunk two bottles of brandy."
"You are rarely the worse for drink."
"I said as if. I'd consumed two glasses at most. The drive from Shellcroft must have fatigued me more than I thought.” In truth, he had chosen to walk home because his stomach had been roiling so badly a carriage would have made him ill. Perhaps Lady Debenham's lobster patties had gone bad.
"I don't believe your journey fatigued you. Could you have been drugged?"
"Absurd!” Gray slammed his fork down, then winced.
"Is it?"
"Of course. I was playing whist with Shelford, Atkins, and Alderson. None of them have any reason to drug me, and we had no audience—everyone was watching Brummell and Alvonley in deep play across the room.” He'd watched that match himself for a time.
"Alderson laces his wine with laudanum.” Nick chewed thoughtfully.
Gray pondered. “I suppose it is possible that I drank his by mistake. He is left-handed, so our glasses were together. Bad luck."
"Why did the footpad decide to attack?"
"Perversity, I suppose. He left when the watch approached.” The man had kicked him to see if he remained conscious. Gray had been too groggy to respond, though he thought the man asked if he'd had enough. But that might have been imagination. He'd been reviled so often in recent years that he sometimes saw antagonism where none existed.
Yet he could not shake the feeling that the footpad had been waiting specifically for him, not just for easy prey.
"Nothing makes sense,” he said aloud. “My purse contained only a few shillings—not even enough to garner transportation should he be caught. And he could have lifted it without my knowledge. So why attack? That could send him to the gallows."
"Most perplexing,” agreed Nick. “I heard Lady Luck deserted you last evening."
Gray shrugged. While it was true he'd not won, neither had he written any vowels.
"Have you annoyed anyone more than usual?” asked Nick.
"No. Why?"
"Don't be obtuse. A beating is out of character for the average footpad. He might knock you on the head to make robbery easy and identification difficult, but no more. Thus we must consider the possibility that he was hired. So ... Who is annoyed with you?"
Gray gritted his teeth, but Nick was tenacious. “No one is annoyed enough to injure me—except possibly Lady Horseley, but I can't see her hiring a ruffian."
"Nor I.” Nick grinned at the image of the very proper matron prowling the stews seeking footpads. “What about those inventors you collect? Who have you turned down lately?"
"Givens. He wants to adapt steam engines for hauling freight long distances, but Stephenson and Trevithick are far ahead of him. He wasn't happy, but he found funding elsewhere within the week, so I doubt he would repay me with a beating."
"Any others?"
"I've turned down half a dozen since Twelfth Night, but none of them would retaliate. They would more likely attack someone I've backed, though I can't see them doing that, either."
"Competitors? Some don't like you moving into the world of trade and besting their own efforts."
"If they wanted to hurt me, they would look for me on the docks. Besides, how would they know I was in town? Until yesterday, I'd planned to return next week."
"Good point. But I'm not convinced you drank Alderson's wine. Mistaking the glass is not like you. Nor is poor play. If Albright's description is valid, a schoolboy could have beaten you last night. Laudanum might put you to sleep, but it wouldn't affect your mind."
"What are you suggesting?"
"According to Albright, you seemed three sheets to the wind when you left White's. Since you didn't drink much, you must have consumed something else."
"Are you claiming someone poisoned me?” Again he felt the eyes burning into his back.
"It fits. Your behavior was abnormal. You felt sluggish. Your attacker went beyond necessity to hurt you. What would you call it?"
"Preposterous. I'd worked twelve hours before leaving Shellcroft. The drive took six more. I should have stayed home last night, but I overestimated my stamina."
It had to have been an accident, he assured himself, even as breakfast turned to lead in his stomach. Laudanum affected people in different ways, even producing illusions on occasion. The beating might have been pique because his purse was empty. Not everyone was put off by the threat of punishment. Some believed they were too clever to be caught.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gray stayed home that night, lighting a fire in his sitting room to ease his stiffness, though fires in May were an extravagance. Reading business reports proved impossible, for he couldn't concentrate. Light reading was no better. His mind kept wandering to the laudanum he was taking for the pain. Surely he would have noticed drinking something that bitter at White's.
Yet he couldn't be sure. Alderson might use sweeteners to mask the taste. And he could no longer trust his memories. The longer he considered the matter, the surer he became that the wine had tasted odd. Certainly something had been amiss. He'd joined the game because he'd wanted to sit down, and he'd been unable to recall which cards had been played from the very first hand. By the time he'd left, he had been seriously ill.
Again his mind lost track of his book, forcing him to back up. His reflexes were sluggish—and this from only a small dose. He could understand picking up the wrong glass when in this condition, but how had he done so the first ti—
Idiot! Alderson was responsible. The man had already been badly foxed when Gray joined the game, and he'd refilled his glass several times afterward. With their glasses sitting so close together, it was no surprise that Alderson had poured laudanum into the wrong one.
The explanation relaxed him.
Last evening had been a comedy of errors arising from his own poor judgment. He'd attended Lady Debenham's ball when he was too exhausted to think straight, then broken his own inflexible rule against speakin
g to innocents. Something about that artist intrigued him, so she'd remained in his mind long after he'd joined the card game—a fact he'd not told Nick. Distracted, he'd played poorly and failed to notice Alderson's mistake. He had best clear the lady out of his head before it happened again.
Relief eased his tension, proving how much Nick's fears had bothered him. An enemy willing to poison his glass in a private club was worrisome. The footpad already made him feel too vulnerable.
* * * *
By the next day Gray felt well enough to attend the Oxbridge ball. According to Justin, rumors that he was dying gave Lady Horseley an excuse to revive every exaggerated tale and offer new ones as well. She was as adamant as ever, determined to drive him from town.
So he must appear before she convinced people that he was Satan incarnate. Ostracism would unbalance his life. His estate provided peace and the privacy to pursue his interests. His business offered challenges and occasional excitement. But he also needed contact with his own class, beyond what he could find at the clubs.
Of course, going out would be embarrassing, he conceded as he chose a jacket that wouldn't clash with his mottled eye. The men would make sport of his bruises and offer to teach him the manly art of self-defense. Some ladies would disapprove him flaunting the injury in public. Others would shower him with unwanted sympathy.
But half an hour later, he handed his greatcoat to a footman. Countering Lady Horseley was more important than pride.
"On your feet already?” Connelaugh laughed, slapping Gray on the back. He was a bear of a man, as jovial as a drunkard and with the manners of an ill-trained dog. “Rumor has you at death's door."
"Rumor exaggerates, as usual.” Gray suppressed a wince as Connelaugh's hand slammed into one of his deeper bruises.
"You mean you weren't robbed of your entire fortune?"
"Hardly. The rogue caught me by surprise"—he pointed to his eye—"then stole my purse, but it contained only two shillings, sixpence and a modest vowel he has no hope of redeeming.” His tone implied that the joke was on his attacker. But he'd been fond of the watch he'd lost. It had been a gift from his grandfather shortly before the man died on the guillotine. Rage burned in his breast. When he found the culprit, he would see the man transported.