by Allison Lane
Gray's hands tightened into fists.
"Fustian,” she snorted indignantly, banishing his memories. “There is no shame in refusing to kill. Nor is there shame in hating bloodshed.” She pulled his sleeve down to hide her makeshift bandage. “The fault rests with Rothmoor for ignoring your nature. The brute should be shot."
He nearly laughed. She understood. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but propriety forbade it.
"Have your valet check that when you return,” she ordered. “Some salve would not be amiss. I doubt it needs stitching, but I may be wrong."
He wobbled, but shook his head clear. “Forgive me. I should not have forced my problems on you."
"You didn't. I was delighted to help. However, there are two things you need to know. The first is that you were so abstracted that you were nearly run down."
"What?"
"Run down, Lord Grayson. Smashed flat by a delivery cart. Fortunately, I hauled you out of the way.” Her voice made light of the incident, but her cheeks had paled. “You should school yourself to ignore any potential injuries until it is safe to look."
"I owe you more than I thought,” he managed through a new bout of dizziness. How fortunate that she was not prone to hysterics. But he found her competence puzzling. She had no trouble handling a crisis—she'd dragged a man twice her weight to safety without even dropping her parcel. So why did she consider herself inept and clumsy?
"You owe me nothing. Anyone would have done the same."
"I doubt it."
"We will not argue. More important than your near calamity is that it was no accident. The driver aimed his horses at you, and despite his claims to the contrary, they were under complete control."
"What?” He thrust his bandaged hand behind him, then stared at her. “What exactly happened? I recall little of the affair."
"Don't exaggerate.” She glared.
"Very well. I remember nothing. Blood has that effect. Even if I remain conscious, my mind stops working."
"So I thought.” She checked the passageway, but it remained empty. “When I left Hatchard's, you were standing on the curb, head bowed. I thought you were fighting another dizzy spell."
"It started with dizziness,” he admitted. “I stumbled, fetching up against a carriage. When it lurched forward, something sliced my wrist. That is the last thing I remember until you forced my eyes up."
"You really should have stayed abed today, sir.” Her tone scolded. “If you hope to survive, you must recover from one scrape before falling into the next."
"I will try,” he said meekly. “Now continue your story."
"Before I could ask if you needed help, the cart driver whipped his team into a frenzy. Then he shouted that they were bolting. Vehicles scattered in all directions. He wove through the chaos, avoiding collisions, then aimed the team at you."
"But why?” Blood drained from his face. The situation had been more dangerous than he'd thought. Only her composure had saved him from yet another accident. Lady Luck had indeed abandoned him.
"No, she didn't,” said Mary firmly. He must have spoken aloud. “Think, my lord. If not for Lady Luck, you would be dead by now. In the space of a week you have been set upon by a thief, nearly burned in your bed, poisoned, and attacked by a cart. Since this last was no accident, one must ask whether any of them were accidents. I suspect someone is trying to kill you."
"Impossible.” He held his head in both hands. “While my reputation is tarnished, I am still received. I have no enemies.” Yet he had felt those eyes more than once. And she didn't know he'd been drugged as well as beaten.
"Are you sure?” she demanded. “There must be someone who wishes you harm."
"Father would never abandon honor. Besides, he hates my cousin even more than he hates me.” He bit off a curse. Where had that admission come from? No gentleman suspected his father of murder.
"What about your cousin?” asked Mary, relentless to the end. “I take it he is next in line for the title."
Gray shrugged. “He lives in Yorkshire and never comes to London. His estate is more prosperous than Rothmoor Park."
"Many men covet titles."
"Not Jamie."
"Is there trouble with your business? Rumor claims that you have amassed a fortune from it. Some might resent your success. Do any competitors take offense that someone of your expectations has bested them in their own field?"
"No.” She was astute, though. She was asking the same questions Nick had posed. Perhaps he should examine the possibility more carefully. Peters had not enjoyed losing the contract to import Jamaican rum. Graves had recently lost two ships to a typhoon. Yet he could not imagine them blaming him. Nor could killing him help them recoup any losses. And his investors knew they made more with him in charge than with another.
"How about the girls who swear you ruined them? Lady Horseley claims nearly a dozen."
"She exaggerates. There were only the two I mentioned earlier. One is married. The other is dead. Granted, tempers led to threats at the time, but both matters were resolved long ago."
"Except for you,” she murmured in defeat. She glanced around. “I must leave. My carriage will return shortly, and I still must visit the apothecary. Are you recovered enough to make it home?"
"Quite. Thank you for everything."
She nodded.
One thing was certain, he admitted as he bade her farewell. If she was correct—and he had no reason to doubt her word—then he had been a fool to ignore Nick's suspicions. Yet few men could accept that their life was in danger.
Mary's summary had been brutally honest, but he should have realized the truth days ago. He'd known the beating was deliberate. The eyes on his back had been enough to tip him off. The fire should have clinched it.
But he hadn't wanted to know. It hurt to be a target of so much hate. Now stubbornness had cost him nearly a week. There was no telling what the villain planned next. The incidents would not stop until he was dead.
Cursing, he headed for Justin's house in St. James's Square. This explained Bow Street's failure. He had hampered their efforts by employing different runners for each incident and not telling them about the other ones.
The rocket had probably been fired from a roof across the street—no one had looked up until the window broke. So the culprit must know how to aim the thing, at least over short distances. That boded ill if he had a second rocket. Thank God no one knew his current direction. He did not want attacks on Justin's town house.
But Mary had opened his eyes. If every attack was deliberate, then someone had poisoned the fish at Funston's—it had been stupid to stay there; the accommodations had deteriorated significantly in the last ten years. Perhaps the runner could find a witness among Funston's staff.
He turned into St. James's Square, walking faster than his weakened condition warranted. This would be a good night to remain in bed. A quick glance over his shoulder relieved one fear. No one had followed him. So presumably the culprit did not know where he was.
"Don't make assumptions,” he murmured as he nipped through the door. How had the cart driver found him?
It was an uncomfortable thought. But with luck, he could avoid further attempts now that he knew the danger.
And he must thank Mary for today's rescue. Flowers would do, but definitely more than violets.
He frowned a moment, then nodded. His Daurian peonies would be blooming by now. He had several bushes in the hothouse at Shellcroft, along with dozens of other unusual plants his captains had collected from around the world. His groom could collect the best blossoms and be back by morning. It would give him time to decide how to sign the card.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day was Catherine's at-home day. Mary hated receiving calls, for there was no way to avoid notice, and the attention took its toll. Her most embarrassing mishaps had occurred in Catherine's drawing room—tactless replies, unintentional insults, dropping her cup in Lady Sefton's lap...
Fortunately Lady Sefton was the nicest of the Almack's patronesses, so her voucher remained safe. But each new incident increased her tension, making the next occasion even more difficult.
Laura did not help. After the teacup incident, she had demanded that Mary stay in her room so her clumsiness did not call censure on the entire family. Catherine had refused. Laura's tantrum had included scathing denunciations and prophesies of doom, but Catherine would not budge. So Mary was again seated on Catherine's left when Barhill announced the first caller.
Pasting a smile on her face, she kept a polite greeting on her lips and a few trite phrases in reserve with which to respond to questions. She hated gossip, but she'd discovered that an occasional encouraging response was all most ladies needed to keep talking. She was under no obligation to repeat anything they said.
Half an hour later, she finally relaxed. Conversation was dull today. No one had misbehaved last night. Blackthorn and Atwater had avoided each other. No fortunes had changed hands at the tables. And yesterday's accident on Piccadilly had caused little damage. So conversation centered on which matches were likely.
Mary's mind wandered to Laura's latest outburst.
They had been coming down to the drawing room when a late bouquet of flowers arrived. Not just flowers, but a dozen Daurian peonies, a variety so rare it took Mary a full minute to identify it. She'd only seen one watercolor of it—a very insipid watercolor, she now realized. Glossy dark green leaves were arranged to set off the blooms, whose fluted deep-rose petals surrounded a vibrant gold center. The variety had arrived in England only a dozen years earlier from somewhere deep in the Ottoman Empire.
Laura had squealed, grabbing the vase before the footman could object. But her face had twisted when she saw the card.
"It doesn't say who sent them,” she said in bewilderment. The card was signed with a sketch of an owl.
"They aren't yours,” said the footman, rescuing the vase before Laura could hurl it.
Laura turned the card over. “You!” She could not have been more shocked if the house had collapsed around her ears. “Who would send you flowers?"
"No one important,” said Mary soothingly. “Merely a fellow bird-lover."
"But who? And why do I know nothing about him? I cannot believe anyone is so rude that he refuses to sign his name."
Mary heard the curiosity—and the anger. The idea that someone could enjoy Mary's company shocked her. “But he did sign,” she countered, plucking Grayson's owl from Laura's hand. As the footman passed her the vase, she spotted the words from my hothouse, with thanks worked into the owl's feathers. Warmth blossomed in her chest.
"But who is he?” repeated Laura.
"No one you know. We chatted in the bookstore yesterday about birds found along the Kentish coast."
"But—"
"If you will excuse me, I must put these away before our callers arrive."
Now Mary admitted that Laura's reaction had hurt. Catherine or any of her brothers would have been pleased to learn that she had found a friend, and they would have shared her enjoyment of the flowers. But Laura had felt nothing but anger—furious anger. Perhaps even a flash of jealousy.
Laura felt little loyalty to her siblings. The only person she cared about was Laura. Not only did she expect all the attention, all the adulation, and all the affection, but she would have been just as disgruntled if Mary had received a posy of weeds from her eighty-year-old friend Mr. Fester. An exotic bouquet was too much.
But the drawing room was no place to brood. Mary wrenched her attention back to Lady Marchgate's description of Atwater's attack on a beggar in Covent Garden. Society was shocked, for the incident did not fit Atwater's saintly reputation. He was extremely popular with the dowagers, yet Mary couldn't like the man. Thus she was relieved when the subject changed.
"What is Lady Wharburton doing for her masquerade this year?” asked Lady Cunningham.
"Nobody knows.” Lady Marchgate shook her head. “You know she never offers a hint."
"Remember the year she turned her ballroom into a medieval castle?” asked Lady Horseley.
"And her Mount Olympus?"
"That Egyptian temple was shocking,” claimed Miss Evans.
"You didn't think so at the time,” countered Lady Cunningham.
Mary listened in astonishment as callers described fantastic decorations from past Seasons. By the time the first callers left, anticipation for the event was high. Then Lady Wilkins arrived.
"Have you heard about Mr. Griffin?” she demanded the moment Catherine handed her a cup.
"Only that he left the Sheffield ball in a rage because Lord Bankhead declined to play cards."
"Does Bankhead suspect Griffin's play?” asked Lady Marchgate, raising a brow.
"I doubt it.” Lady Cunningham shook her head. “Bankhead rarely games—which Griffin certainly knows."
"You haven't heard.” Lady Wilkins looked like a cat who had been in the cream. “Griffin was arrested last night."
"Thank God,” murmured Mary. The moment the words were out, she blushed furiously.
Lady Marchgate glared, then turned back to Lady Wilkins. The action was not quite a cut, but Mary felt like creeping into a corner. She'd been doing so well today.
"Why?” demanded Lady Cunningham.
"He tried to force himself on an innocent at Long's Hotel."
"Is that what the girl claims?” scoffed Mrs. Ware. “Everyone knows he enjoys the maids, and even a governess or two, but he never uses force. Doesn't need to."
"This wasn't a servant.” Lady Wilkins slowly sipped her tea. “She is a doctor's daughter. Barely fifteen."
Likes country innocents of about fourteen ... Mary shivered.
"But why an arrest?” demanded Lady Marchgate. “If she was innocent, he will do the honorable thing. If she isn't, then what is the fuss? And who would arrest him? The law never denounces a rake for following his urges. No matter what face he shows society, we all know Griffin is a rake."
Murmured agreement swept the room.
Lady Wilkins smiled. “The actual charges are destruction of hotel property, burglary, and assault on a Bow Street runner.” Two ladies gasped. “The girl had accompanied her father to town—he is studying with Dr. McClarren. They were returning from the theater when a man in the taproom suffered an apoplexy. The doctor rushed to help, sending his daughter up to their rooms. Griffin followed, broke the lock on her door, then tried to force her. A Bow Street runner heard her screams and intervened."
A dozen voices spoke at once. Lady Wilkins's credit immediately soared.
Mary remained silent. None of her rehearsed responses was suitable for learning that an acquaintance—however unwanted—had been arrested. Her immediate reaction was relief, but she'd already fallen under censure for expressing it.
"Did you know his penchant for forcing young girls?” asked Lady Marchgate under the rising swell of voices.
"I had heard he preferred them, but no one mentioned force.” Again she blushed. “I think his actions reprehensible."
"As do we all.” A knowing eye pierced hers. “But you knew he was trouble."
"N-not exactly.” She struggled for the right words. “He is a man who cares less for society's strictures than for his own d-desires. I didn't like him even before he tried to take me outside during Lady Debenham's b-ball. He was furious that I eluded him."
"You are relieved that he will no longer pursue you."
"Forgive me, my lady. I did not intend to say that aloud."
Lady Marchgate nodded. Lady Wilkins was repeating her tale for new arrivals.
When Catherine rose to escort Lady Westlake and Lady Cunningham out—they were anxious to spread the news—Laura leaned across her empty chair. “What a pity that the only man who tolerates your company turned out to be a cad.” Her smile contained more than a little malice, probably because she was still seething over the peonies. “I wonder why you appeal to him. It couldn't be looks or conversation. Pe
rhaps he likes following you into dark corners. Such a graceless habit invites liberties. Has he partaken often?"
Mary nearly choked, but pain was as strong as fury. How could Laura vent her pique in front of so many of society's leaders? Even if they could not hear the words, Laura's expressions radiated fury.
Catherine returned.
Mary tried to keep a social mask in place as a new thought occurred. Maybe it wasn't entirely the peonies that had overset Laura. Had she schemed with Griffin to seduce the unwanted sister, forcing her back to the country in disgrace? Laura had always blamed her for every setback—like the time Kevin Fields purchased colors and left without bidding Laura farewell. Laura had accused Mary of driving him away.
Perhaps this outburst resulted from Laura's growing disillusionment with London. It did not offer the excitement Laura had expected. Her court was large, but no one had made a formal offer. Mary not only remained in town, she'd acquired a secret admirer. The final straw had been learning that Griffin could no longer annoy her.
Or perhaps it was because Grayson was out of reach.
Mary bit back a sigh. Maybe she should abandon society and pursue her own interests. If her presence was driving Laura to unladylike outbursts, then she must ask Blake to let her attend the soirees she preferred. At the very least it would keep Laura from learning who had sent the flowers.
Ironically, Laura was responsible for her friendship with Grayson. If she hadn't encouraged Griffin, Mary would not have been behind that potted palm. Nor would she have been in Oxbridge's library.
Which means Grayson would be dead, her dreamer pointed out
Mary jerked her thoughts back to the drawing room, then groaned. Ladies Marchgate and Horseley were staring coldly at Laura. They must have overheard her remarks.
No matter how much she longed to wring Laura's neck, Mary could not allow her to shame the family. Striving to deflect their attention, she turned to Lady Marchgate. It was the first time she had initiated a drawing room conversation since arriving in London.
You can do it, she reminded herself. Just relax. You saved Grayson from harm without tripping, and you never stammer with him. The realization loosened her tension. Taking a deep breath, she spoke slowly. “Lord Hartford thinks I should wear green rather than white,” she confided, naming Lady Marchgate's eldest son. “I know that he is renowned for his fashion sense, but I wanted to consult you before making changes. It is not my wish to play the peacock."