by Allison Lane
"We will attend the theater tonight,” decided Blake at last. “And Lady Wharburton has not yet canceled Laura's invitation—an oversight, I am sure, but I will prevail upon her to allow Laura's attendance. If we keep her occupied, she cannot meet the rogue. Is your evidence compelling enough to convince Lady Beatrice?"
"No,” said Gray.
"It might be by tomorrow, for she is already half convinced,” countered Mary, turning to Gray. “Have you studied old newspapers yet? The society pages should show where you were. Since you avoided entertainments she attended, they should refute her claims."
"I've not had time, but I have a friend who collects papers. I will bring them here this afternoon. We can read them together."
Nodding, she left him to explain his own problem—or not.
Laura was heading for breakfast. “Who called so early?” she demanded, eyes shining at the murmur of voices from the library.
"Gray. He and Blake are discussing settlements."
"Oh.” All excitement faded.
"Blake has devised a plan to put this unpleasantness behind us. He is taking us to the theater tonight, and Lady Wharburton agreed to welcome you to her masquerade tomorrow."
"Theater.” Laura scowled. “I must decline. I promised to attend the Society's meeting."
Mary grimaced. “You had best tell Blake immediately, then. But he is in no mood to humor you. He was not happy about last night's rumors. People are claiming you made up the tale about Miss Norton."
Laura paled. “As you wish. Tell him I will attend the theater.” She swept into the breakfast room.
Mary frowned. Laura had refused to meet her eye. Very shifty. Was she planning to slip out after they returned home?
* * * *
Gray returned to Rockhurst House at two, his carriage crammed with newspapers. One of his odder friends was a scholar writing a history of England's war with France, from the death of Louis XVI in 1792 to the end, whenever that occurred. To aid his research, he had accumulated more than twenty years’ worth of newspapers and journals. They filled his house, leaving him little room to maneuver, but this treasure trove was at Gray's disposal.
"Heavens!” exclaimed Mary, pausing just inside the door. Stacks of newspapers littered the room.
"Your idea has merit, but it will not be easy,” said Gray, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “We must find every mention of Lord Roger, Miss Turner, or me. Are you sure you are up to such a task?"
"Stop teasing, Gray. It cannot be overwhelming. We need read only the society pages. Let's hope that the attendance lists are extensive. And we already have one discrepancy. Miss Turner claimed a tryst with you in Lady Marchgate's garden on the fifteenth of May, but Lady Sheffield knows you were at Watier's that night. You won five hundred guineas from Lord Sheffield, jeopardizing his suit for her hand."
"She blames me?"
"Of course not. It was Sheffield's fault for risking so much."
Her words warmed him. Never had he known a lady who was so adamant in his defense. Most demanded attention. If they didn't get it, they resorted to megrims or pouting. But Mary cared more for his welfare than her own.
Or was she hoping redemption would cancel their betrothal? She had denied it, but despite her response to his kisses, she remained calm and aloof the rest of the time. Maybe they should stay with the original wedding date. If she wanted to be free of him, he would agree. He could not force her into marriage.
"You take the Morning Post,” he suggested. “I'll start with the Observer. Then we can move on to the Times and Life in London. La Belle Assemblee and Ackermann's Repository carry provincial news. We can check Yorkshire for any mention of the Turners."
"Excellent plan.” She drew out paper and quills, then took her place on one side of a large library table. Gray sat on the other.
Two hours later, Mary closed the last copy of Life in London—the one reporting Miss Turner's death—and switched to La Belle Assemblee. Gray's name appeared often. As heir to an earldom, his presence was usually noted. It was harder to track down Miss Turner, for she was the undistinguished daughter of a minor baron. If she attended at all, she was one of the anonymous faces that qualified a gathering as a crush. But they had found six evenings in which Gray was clearly not with Miss Turner. And Life in London had noted his retreat to Shellcroft, wondering if Miss C—T—had driven him from town. With luck, these incidents would contradict enough of her claims that Turner would admit she had lied about everything.
But so far they had found nothing about Lord Roger. After fifteen years of total ostracism, the papers no longer noted his activities.
"Here is another interesting note,” said Gray—he was still perusing the Times. “Under New Arrivals, they list me reaching London the day before Lady Debenham's ball."
"Wonderful. You cannot have met her until her condition was well advanced."
He squeezed her hand. “I wish I had thought of this three years ago. It would have saved me much trouble."
"Perhaps. But thinking is rarely clear in the heat of the moment. You were probably sunk in blue-devils."
"True, though that shouldn't have mattered."
"But it does.” She pulled his hand between her own. “Serious blue-devils affect everyone who has suffered a severe shock—like Catherine after her first husband died, or me when Father was killed. Surviving each day is such a challenge that you have no energy left to analyze your troubles. By the time the blue-devils leave, you've accepted the explanations of others and no longer question anything."
"Like whether I could prove my innocence?"
She nodded. “Or how Father really died.” She released his hand, then picked up the next La Belle Assemblee.
Gray had barely returned to the Times when Mary laughed.
"I found it. Look, Gray. I found it.” She thrust it into his hands. The words leaped from the page.
Yorkshire: 20 January. A pack of hounds decimated the poultry yard at Turner Hall, having been seduced from a scent trail by a disturbance involving two cocks. The dogs—mostly pups—were captured by their owner, the Earl of Rothmoor, ably assisted by Lord Shipley, Lord Turner, Lord Roger Duncan, Mr. Bridges of Parsing Downs, and Mr. Gillow of Upper Stoning. The victims included three dozen pullets, seventeen geese, and one cock.
"That's it. Dear Lord, Turner was right. The culprit came from Rothmoor Park. Rothmoor always holds a house party when he starts training the next pack. It often lasts a month."
"You are free, Gray. No one can ever blame you again."
Gray couldn't respond. Restoration of his honor left him speechless. He had never truly believed that redemption was possible. And it was all due to Mary.
Pulling her across the table, he kissed her. She consumed his senses, teasing his nose with the lightest of fragrances as she murmured his name over and over. With each new touch, the heat rose faster and higher. She was made for him, her skin soft as a rose petal, her breasts the perfect size for his hand.
His palm closed over one soft peak and gently squeezed. The nipple hardened, pressing against him, begging to be tasted. His shaft strained against her thigh, wanting the freedom to probe her yielding depths.
She was perfect. He could not have found a better wife had he searched England from end to end. And she returned his ardor with complete abandon. Excitement built. He wanted nothing more than to bear her to the floor and make her his.
But this was not the time. He was so close to restoring his honor that he could do nothing to jeopardize it. With a groan he pulled back and smiled. Discovery would pitch them both into the fire, casting new stains on their marriage. But honor was hard—very hard.
"We'll finish this on Tuesday,” he panted, nipping her earlobe before releasing her.
"I will look forward to it.” Her eyes had gone hazy with desire, making it even more difficult to return to work. Her passion matched his own. Yet even as she opened the next paper, it was gone, leaving the aloof woman in its place.
He c
ursed, but this was no time to demand an explanation. He might consider their proof conclusive, but he wanted every scrap of evidence he could find. Turner was as stubborn as Laura when it came to admitting fault.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Aren't you ready yet?” Mary asked, rapping on Laura's door.
"I'm coming!” yelled Laura.
"Not fast enough. Blake will fetch you himself if you don't hurry. Lady Wharburton wishes to speak with you before the first act. If we are late, she may cancel your invitation for tomorrow."
Laura uttered a curse that would have made Andrew's foot soldiers wince. “Does he want me to arrive at the theater in my shift?"
"Catherine says that if Frannie can't dress you in time, she will send Wilson to help."
Frannie yelped.
"One more minute,” vowed Laura, then lowered her voice. “Not that fan, Frannie. The one with the painted roses.” A drawer slammed. “And see that you take care of that other matter tonight."
"Can't it wait until morning?"
"No. Take a footman if you are afraid of the dark. But don't fail me.” Laura jerked the door open. “Don't just stand there, Mary. Let's go."
Mary shook her head as she followed Laura downstairs.
Two hours later, she stared blindly at the stage where Kean's Hamlet was debating suicide. The sense of wrongness that had been teasing her mind all evening suddenly swam into focus.
Laura's instructions to Frannie.
The shops were closed, and Laura had no invitations demanding responses. Had she sent a note to Lord Roger? There was no honorable reason to do so. A meeting of the electricity society was not an event requiring regrets.
Mary opened her fan to hide her expression. Half the audience was watching the Rockhurst box. Some wondered about Gray's betrothed. Others stared at Laura, hoping she would create a new scandal for their entertainment.
She considered sharing her suspicions with Blake, but she feared his reaction. His temper was precarious tonight. Laura had first delayed their departure, then insulted Mr. Martin and stuck her tongue out at Miss Sanders in the middle of the lobby. Her tone with Lady Wharburton implied that she was granting a favor by accepting the invitation.
Blake had been purple with fury by then. It hadn't abated much by the first interval when Laura regally commanded him to fetch her a drink. He had yet to return.
The door opened. Mary turned, expecting Blake, but Gray entered instead. Relief swept over her. Gray would know what to do. He was calmer than Blake, for he had no responsibility for Laura, allowing him to see her more clearly.
Gray squeezed her hand as he took the chair at her side. “Sorry I'm late again."
Mary shielded her mouth with her fan, glad that Laura sat beyond Catherine. “We may have a new problem,” she murmured softly.
"What?” He shifted closer.
She could feel eyes on them, but the intimacy of their pose fit their public image. “Laura might have sent a note to Lord Roger this evening. Perhaps it contained regrets at missing the meeting, but I doubt it. She ordered her maid to deliver it rather than a footman. She may have arranged an assignation."
"Has she no sense at all?"
Mary shook her head. “Not when her will has been crossed."
"What does Rockhurst think?"
"I just realized the significance of her instructions. But Blake is so furious with her that I would rather not accuse her without evidence. And I cannot discuss it with her. She is already bursting with indignation. She used to control her temper in public, but that has changed. One more incident could cause a catastrophe."
"Relax, Mary. I will deal with it.” He patted her hand. And as his fingers smoothed her glove, she did, indeed, relax.
* * * *
Gray stared blankly at the floor as his carriage turned into Jermyn Street. Nick sat silently beside him. With any luck, all problems would resolve today—Turner's plots, his own reputation, Laura's infatuation with Lord Roger. He couldn't believe he was trying to save her worthless hide. But Mary's loyalty to family was not tied to behavior. He'd always wanted a family who supported him completely. But support had to work both ways. Thus he had to help even those he didn't particularly like. At least Laura was the only Seabrook who fell into that category. Rockhurst assured him the rest of the family was fine.
He had sent his groom and a footman to watch Rockhurst House overnight. Laura had made no attempt to slip out, and judging from the traffic at Lord Roger's house, he had been too busy to see her anyway. Perhaps Mary was wrong, or perhaps Lord Roger had turned down Laura's suggestion. He might avoid riling Rockhurst. Or he might have lost interest when he discovered Laura's eagerness. She offered no challenge whatsoever. It wouldn't be the first time her judgment had proved faulty.
At least he would be done with the Turner affair today, though he had changed the plan slightly. Naming Lord Roger as Miss Turner's seducer would divert Turner's obsession to a new target. Gray couldn't do it. Turner needed to consider his own future instead of wallowing in his sister's past.
So Nick would show Lady Beatrice the evidence that proved Miss Turner had lied about Gray. That would be enough to restore his own credit. Rockhurst would tell Laura about Lord Roger, citing his marriage and three other seductions the runner had found, then send her back to Rockburn. Only if Laura remained obstinate, would they reveal the Turner situation—it was the only one that had utterly ruined the victim; the others had managed to hide their indiscretions from society.
Gray hoped it wouldn't come to that, because he feared what Turner would do if he learned Lord Roger's identity, but he would rather make the entire truth public than see Mary unhappy. No matter how venal Laura was, Mary would mourn if Lord Roger ruined her sister.
The carriage pulled to a halt. Nick collected the pertinent newspapers and followed Gray to Turner's rooms.
"You again?” demanded Turner.
"You wanted proof that I did not seduce your sister,” said Gray. “Have you compiled her schedule for that Season?"
"Yes. She was very clear about where she went, what she did, and whom she saw,” said Turner, lips pressed into a firm line as he tapped a selection of Constance's letters. “Nothing you say can counter that."
"I would never expect you to believe me,” agreed Gray. “And I am sure she attended most of the affairs she reported. But I did not."
Turner glared down his crooked nose. “Since your word is suspect—as is the word of any friends you pay to support you—this exercise is pointless.” His body tensed as if expecting a blow.
Gray stifled his pain. The insult was hardly a surprise. “I will not argue the point. But as a man of honor, you are bound to consider evidence from disinterested, tamper-proof sources.” He gestured to Nick, who stepped forward to lay the newspapers on the table.
Turner paled. “Very well, my lord. Let us see this so-called evidence."
"When did she first mention my name?"
"A letter dated the third of May.” He picked it up. “You danced with her at Lady Debenham's ball. She was thrilled. Though you had spoken several times, she had given up hope that you would ask her to dance. You were most particular about whom you partnered, preferring conversation."
"She is right that I was particular. But we had not spoken before that night."
Nick opened the first paper, pointing to the New Arrivals column. “Grayson reached town on the second of May. The reporter expressed surprise at the delay, but noted that a project in Sussex had occupied his attention."
Turner frowned, his eyes shifting from the newspaper to Constance's letter and back. “She swore you ran a business in town."
"I do,” said Gray. “But my manager handles much of the routine. I only visit the office when I have ships in port. Three years ago, I had fewer vessels. None docked before July."
"He spent the winter and spring in Sussex,” continued Nick. “County papers mention his name often, for he was collecting funds to repair the parish church. And
he was engrossed in the project mentioned by that reporter—establishing a hospital for wounded soldiers."
Gray gestured for silence. His charitable activities had no bearing on this matter. “I danced with her once at Lady Debenham's ball. She seemed so lonely perched on a chair near the dowagers. Without a chaperon to introduce partners, no one noticed her. I thought she was new to London, but later learned that her chaperon divided her time between eating and playing cards, avoiding ballrooms because the chatter and music gave her megrims. Everyone remarked on her neglect."
Turner flinched.
"If I had known she had been hiding in corners for six weeks, I would not have approached her. I did not do so again.” His raised hand stopped Turner's protest. “I will remind you again that I did not approach anyone more than once that year, not even old friends or the Season's diamonds. I'd had trouble the previous year with a girl who read too much into a few kind words, and I did not wish to risk another such encounter. What else did she claim?"
"Three drives in the park. Dancing at four balls. Assignations in gardens, in an antechamber during a masquerade, and in various shops. You finally escorted her to Vauxhall, again seduced her, this time in the Dark Walk, then claimed you had no interest in marriage.” His voice still accused, but a hint of uncertainty had crept in.
"And the Vauxhall date would be..."
Turner pulled a list from his pile. “The thirtieth of May. She took her life the following morning."
"Quite an imagination.” Gray again stopped Turner's protest. “You've had your say. Now I will have mine. Many of her claims can be neither proved nor disproved. Her name rarely appears on guest lists, for newspapers name only the highest-ranking guests. I will concede that she attended most of the affairs she claimed, but I did not. For example, she said we danced two sets at the Cunningham ball on the eighth of May."
Nick produced the next newspaper. “From the society column on the morning of May the ninth. Among the fashionables crowding Harriet Wilson's box at the opera last evening was Lord Grayson, scandalously clad in pantaloons rather than breeches. Many, including the Almack's patronesses, decry the adoption of informal attire for evening wear, et cetera, et cetera...” He handed the paper to Turner.