He would see to this matter personally.
Out of curiosity, and to verify the facts—for Stanton never credited gossip as truth—he took himself off to Sutherland House to speak further to Lady Alicia.
She was not there. In fact, the butler went completely ashen at the mention of her name and seemed to actually be considering the wisdom of slamming the door in the Marquis of Wyndham’s face. Stanton took the agonizing decision out of the man’s hands.
“I suppose I shall have to contact the newssheets, then, to see if they can tell me her current whereabouts . . .”
In seconds he was invited in and closeted with a red-faced Lord Sutherland and a pale and shaking Lady Sutherland.
Alicia’s father was a large fellow who had perhaps once been of a hearty mien, but now seemed gray and bloated. Alicia’s mother was thin and weary-seeming, as if she’d not much left to her.
They could hardly bear to speak of their infamous daughter long enough to inform Stanton that they had forced to deny her entirely in order to protect their other two fine and virtuous daughters from their sister’s unholy influence.
Interestingly enough, they were lying. Lord Sutherland glanced away often, although that could be from shame. Lady Sutherland, on the other hand, gazed at him solemnly, scarcely blinking. Was she so practiced in the art of lies that she could seem so truthful? Still, they lied. He knew it.
Yet, they’d told him nothing but that they had shut out their wayward daughter. Now what could be untrue about such an obvious statement? Still, they lied. He knew it.
“She turned on us then,” Lord Sutherland said with a tremor in his voice. “She looked at us as if we were the ones committing the crime and declared that she would no longer know us!”
“So you can see why we do not care to speak of her . . .” The pale and breathy Lady Sutherland fluttered her hands, unable to finish.
That, at least, his senses told him, was true. Which was all very tragic and pitiable and reinforced Stanton’s opinion that marriage and offspring was a province best left to men with much more time on their hands, but Stanton still hadn’t an answer to his question.
“Where will I find Lady Alicia?”
“We’ve only this Season felt able to show our faces in Society again,” Lady Sutherland said tearfully. “Five years we’ve hidden out in the country. Now, our daughters—good, virtuous girls!—might still make good matches but only if Alicia remains out of sight and out of mind.”
She sniffed and blinked at Stanton woefully. “Lord Wyndham, you do not intend . . . you do not intend to bring up such painful history again? Why do you need to find Alicia? What is she to you?”
Stanton could not tell the woman that he was the Falcon, one of an ancient secret cabal of lords known as the Royal Four—king makers and king breakers all.
That information was kept in the closed hands of a very few trusted individuals, the Prime Minister and the Prince Regent among them. Knowledge such as that was not for the weak, mortal members of Society at large.
So he merely said, “I have a small business matter to discuss with Lady Alicia.”
He waited and the couple responded as people usually did, gradually becoming more restive and apprehensive under his even gaze. His eyes did seem to have that effect on people.
“Barrow Street,” Lady Sutherland blurted finally. “In Cheapside!” Then she clapped a hand over her mouth and shot a mortified glance toward her glowering husband.
Truth. Stanton stood and bowed. “Thank you. Good evening.” He turned on his heel and left, not terribly concerned what befell the lady. They were liars both, although they didn’t seem to be lying about Lady Alicia’s location. He made a note to himself that Lady Alicia’s parents had more to tell him if he so required it.
After Lord Wyndham left them, Lord and Lady Sutherland sat in tense silence for a long moment, then began to discuss his lordship’s visit in whispers.
Should they feel relieved that the man was gone, or should they be alarmed that Alicia had brought new attention to herself and consequently to them?
They both agreed however, that they had done the right thing not mentioning to Lord Wyndham the other man who had so recently come seeking information about Alicia.
“That business is best left alone.”
If only they could make it all simply go away.
3
Hours after leaving Lord Wyndham’s residence, Lady Alicia Lawrence entered her small, shabby house and threw her hat and veil onto the side table with enough force to send it skidding across the invitation-free surface and off the other side to the floor. She closed her eyes for a long moment, seeking fortitude, then bent to retrieve the borrowed item and place it gently on the side table once more.
Millie had not many fine things, and while the hat was nothing that Alicia would have once called fine, it was Millie’s. Alicia’s elderly former governess was much beloved, despite her sad lack of taste. Alicia looked down at the borrowed gown’s hem and sighed. She would be up late scrubbing the soil from the ancient silk, that was very certain.
Millie came tottering down the hall on her cane, her gaze brightening when she saw Alicia. “Well, did he let you in? Did he believe you? Is he as handsome as they say?”
Alicia smiled. “Yes. I don’t know. More so.”
Millie nodded and smiled back. “Then it’s a good thing you wore my fascinator, isn’t it?” She picked up the hat lovingly. “I had many a fellow cast me a second glance while I was wearing this.”
Alicia suspected the second glances had been ones of disbelief, but she would never say so.
“Of course, my current gentleman friend needed no such influence. He says he knew the moment he saw me in the garden that I was a lady to be reckoned with. Of course, he’s not much to look at himself, but I’m long past caring about that sort of thing.”
Alicia was happy that Millie was happy, even if the “gentleman caller” was as imaginary as their “garden”—a stony pit behind the house that intimidated even the weeds from intruding. Imaginary callers were better than no callers at all.
She turned to the speckled mirror gracing the hall and peered closely at her face. The hives were still quite apparent, though thankfully less florid than they had been last night. Her face was still very puffy, unfortunately, and her throat was still quite sore.
It seemed that she could add strawberries to the list of things she could not eat. That was a pity, indeed, for there were still several pints of strawberry jam in the pantry. Millie’s even more elderly cousin had sent them from her home in the country as a gift, and Alicia had been glad to have them. It had been a long time since she’d been able to spare the coin for nonessentials like jam.
She straightened and examined the rest of her reflection. Her entire body had swelled, not dangerously, but too much to wear her own things. She’d had to borrow the gown from Millie as well, for her own could not be buttoned round her puffy midriff. Her skin had been far too sensitive to bear the tight binding touch of too-small clothing.
It looked as though she might be able to wear her own things tomorrow, if she drank a great deal of water and took herself directly off to bed. First she headed off to the kitchen to make an oatmeal paste to ease the itching of her skin.
When the paste had cooled enough to spread over her burning skin, she dabbed it thankfully on her forehead and cheeks.
The door knocker rapped sharply, three times. Alicia started, for she was unaccustomed to the sound. Bloody hell. She didn’t have enough oatmeal to spare for another batch, since porridge constituted their main meal every morning. She stepped quickly in stocking feet to open the door as she was.
The Marquis of Wyndham stood outside, all six-feet-and-then-some splendorous male, calling on her.
Without the obfuscation of the veil, she was finally able to see—and appreciate!—him fully.
He wasn’t a beautiful man, at least not in an easy, golden way. He was dark, with the stern, arrogant stre
ngth of an archangel—the avenging sort who carried a sword and had a tendency to smite things.
His height added to that impression. He was broad of shoulder as well, although not brawny. He had large, well-shaped manly hands with long fingers—the sort of hands that knew how to tease music from a pianoforte, yet could easily wield the above-mentioned sword.
In other words, he was entirely to Alicia’s taste.
Pity that. What a waste. What was she to do with the man of her dreams—who conversely would want nothing to do with said dreams—now that he had finally come to call?
It was if the devil himself had devised the perfect earthly torture for Lady Alicia Lawrence.
“Now how will I occupy myself when I get to hell?” she muttered under her breath.
Then he obviously took his first good look at her and stepped back. Oh, bother. She’d not covered her face. Alicia stifled a moment of regret that such a man was not seeing her at her best and raised her chin, defying him to view her in all her allergic-bedaubed vividness.
He blinked twice, then bowed. “Lady Alicia, I am happy to find you at home.”
Alicia folded her arms and scratched idly at a bothersome patch on her elbow. “Of course I’m at home. I already informed you that I have no plans. Ever.”
“Er, yes. Well.” He straightened and gazed at her for a long moment. “You are wellborn, you have an education, yet you do not seem to know the slightest of the social graces.”
Alicia tilted her head. “Oh, I know them. I simply don’t bother to use them.” She turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the open doorway. She was already seated by the meager fire in the parlor when he found her. She looked up briefly when he entered. “Are you still here?”
Stanton reined in his irritation with an effort. Obviously, there was something wrong with the woman, possibly even something that was not her fault. One had only to look at her to see that. What a sight—she was positively scaly! Delusional, certainly. He’d just discovered that her background was peppered with such things. He should find her pitiable, not irritating.
It irritated him that he could not pity her.
She sighed and flopped back in the chair. Folding her hands over her stomach, she gazed up at him with halflidded eyes. “I’m very tired today. State your business or go away.”
He found it difficult to tear his eyes away. She was idly scratching her belly through her gown—appallingly rude to be sure, yet his attention was caught by the way the fabric was stretched against her figure. If he was not mistaken, the woman was carved like a statue of a Greek goddess beneath her reptilian scales!
Discomfort seized him. He shut his eyes. He was not here to eye her curves. He was here to get to the bottom of this conspiracy madness. “Why are you weary?” he heard himself ask.
Wait—that wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all. Damn his curiosity. It had a life of its own sometimes.
She leaned her head back and shut her eyes. “I’m weary because it is three bloody miles to your house from here and I was not feeling well to start.”
Stanton blinked. “You walked three miles? From Mayfair?”
She opened her eyes. “No. However did you pass your mathematics courses in school? I walked six miles—three to Mayfair and three back. I would count it on my fingers for you, but I have only five.” She shut her eyes again. “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you possessed one extra on each hand, however. Something must have been holding you back from your studies.”
Stanton was not accustomed to being mocked. In fact, he had very little experience with it at all. It was most unpleasant, yet curiously stimulating. He could quite honestly say, if he were asked, that he was not bored.
The woman sighed and stretched, right in front of him. “I’m bored. Go away.”
Stanton had not been asked to sit and he had the feeling that he never would, should he stand there until he was white-haired. So he sat, for possibly the first time in his life, uninvited. “Lady Alicia, you came to me with a wild story about overhearing a conspiracy—”
She grunted. She actually grunted. Distracted, Stanton lost his train of thought. Then he shook off his revolted fascination and found the thread again. “You give me the sketchiest of details and then you turn right around and walk out of my house. It took me hours to track you down. No one seemed to know what happened to you after—” He halted. Perhaps that was best not mentioned.
Her eyes flew open. “After I whored myself to a simpleton stablehand, you mean?”
“I do not mean to offend—”
“Oh, bother. Of course you mean to offend! Why else bring it up? It didn’t work, for it was a pathetic effort indeed. Your mother must be proud to have a son so thoroughly mannerly that he cannot insult even when he tries.” She pushed herself wearily to her feet. She staggered slightly and Stanton swiftly rose to help her. She snatched her elbow from his helping hand. “Don’t touch me. It only makes it worse.”
“Makes what worse?”
She widened her eyes at him. “Goodness, six-fingered and nearsighted. No wonder you live alone.” She turned her face back to the fire. “I’m ill, you cretin. My head is pounding, my throat is on fire, and if you don’t leave now I’m planning to vomit on your boots.”
“You never told me how you came to hear of this conspiracy.”
She closed her eyes and leaned her head carefully against the back of her chair. “You never asked.”
She would try the patience of a stone. Stanton forced himself to harden. “How did you come to hear of this conspiracy, then?”
“While I was vomiting.”
Stone. Cold, hard, impervious stone. “And where did this take place?”
She wrinkled her brow, thinking. “The majority of it took place in my bedchamber. Then, when I could not bear the chamber pot any longer, I took it to the privy.”
What an outlandish idea. “Why did you not have your maid take it to the privy?”
Her eyes opened. “Ask Millie to go out in the dark when she can scarcely see her way in full daylight? Nor is Millie my maid. At one time she was my governess, then my companion, but I do not employ her now. I support her. She had nowhere else to go when I was shunned. Even if her professional reputation had survived the ruination of mine, she is too infirm to begin again.”
So she was at least responsible to her dependants, which was the first intimation that there was anything admirable about the creature.
While he regarded her silently, she rubbed at a crumbling bit of paste on her nose. It fell, leaving the tip of her nose ludicrously bare, pink in the midst of the white mask. He had the sudden image of a white cat, glaring at him through mystical green eyes. All she needed was the whiskers.
He probably ought not to look too closely. He might find them.
“So, you took the noisome pot to your privy . . .”
She wrinkled her nose. More dried paste drifted to the floor. “Not to my privy. I took it down the alley to the public house. I thought they might not notice a bit more filth in theirs.”
A highborn lady, in her nightdress no doubt, weak and ill, stumbling about the rear yard of that rowdy public house he’d seen on the street corner? “Are you completely without sense? You could have been killed, or worse!”
The green cat eyes regarded him calmly. “Worse than killed? Are you sure there is such a thing?”
Stanton did not relent. “Yes, there is. A lady’s virtue is beyond price.”
“You’re boring me again.” She stood. “Go away.”
Stanton stood as well, automatic in his manners. She laughed. “You’d make a proper puppet.” She turned that eerie green gaze on him once more. “I wonder who would be powerful enough to pull your strings?”
There was no such person on earth, but this strange woman had no need to know that. Stanton bowed. “If you wish me to leave, I must.” He straightened. “I will return tomorrow.”
She blinked. “Truly? You will keep returning and returning,
all this inconvenient way, until you know the entire story?”
He nodded. “Precisely.”
“And your poor coachman, sitting out there in this horrid weather? What of him? What of the valet who must clean the filth from your boots and the laundress who must brush the mud from your trousers?”
Stanton nodded slowly. It seemed he had found the lady’s weakness. She cared overmuch for those being vastly overpaid to serve him. “Do not forget the horses, forced to stand in the chill and wet, and the grooms who must rake the mud from their coats—”
One crusted brow rose. “Don’t overdo,” she said caustically.
Stanton knew when to stop. He bowed silently and waited. He wished he could read her expression. Then again, remembering her blotched and scaling features, perhaps not.
“Oh, sit down, you bothersome bulldog!” She flopped back down into her own chair. “If you’ll shut it for five entire minutes in a row, I shall tell you everything as it occurred.” She pointed at him. “No questions until I’m done.”
He nodded again and returned to his own seat. If he could learn all she knew now, he might never be forced to put himself in this revolting person’s company again.
4
Across from Stanton in the tattered parlor, Lady Alicia Lawrence sighed.
“I ate strawberry preserves. Sometimes I discover that a food I was once able to enjoy will suddenly cease to agree with me ever after. Thus with the strawberries. I knew after four bites that such was the case.”
Stanton could read her rue even through the clay.
“They were rather large bites. I ought not to have been so gluttonous, but it had been so long—” She shook her head. Fragments of oatmeal went flying. “I induced vomiting at once, hoping to stem the damage. Once begun, I was not able to stop.”
What sort of lady discussed such things with a strange gentleman?
This sort of lady, he soon discovered. He was treated to a blow-by-blow account of her encounter with the deadly strawberries, and soon knew more than he ever wanted to know about such illness.
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 04] Page 3