by Shirl Henke
“You have never killed anyone, have you?” he asked gently.
“No, but not for want of trying,” she replied. “I assume you have…considering that you were in the war.”
He was not the only one who excelled at debate. “Yes, but ′tis not something I would care to do again. I hope you are never forced to take a life.”
There was one life she would sell her soul to take, but she would never reveal that to Barrington…nor had she done so to anyone else save the two women and the sergeant major, who understood her reasons. “Perhaps Boxer will catch his quarry and we will solve this mystery,” she said with a calmness she did not feel.
“Unfortunately, I doubt that’s likely. His horse appeared to be favoring his right front hoof as he gave chase.”
When Rob cupped his hands for her booted foot, she quickly swung up into her sidesaddle, eager to leave the place. “Boxer would never have fallen behind unless the animal was injured,” she said with a frustrated sigh. “I did not notice he was missing until we were set upon.”
The earl mounted his big black, saying, “Nor did I. We were quite engrossed in conversation. It is not only I who owe you my life, but perhaps Mr. Cobbett will owe you his as well.”
“Please do see that he heeds the warning. Now I would like to return to Hampstead and wait for the sergeant there. The day has lost its luster for me. Would you be willing to alert the authorities about the dead man without involving me? They will not question the word of an earl.”
“Certainly. Out for a ride, I chanced upon a dying ruffian whom I had never seen before. Which, narrowly interpreted, is the truth.”
“I certainly would not wish to place the burden of lying upon your conscience, m’lord,” she said, a bit of her former jauntiness returning.
He looked over at her profile, that strikingly beautiful face once again hidden behind the veil. Who had terrorized her so badly as to drive her into a life of hiding? Her words about killing troubled him. “Not for want of trying…”
On his way to Lady Oberly’s dinner that evening, Rob mulled over Fantasia’s disturbing words and the consideration that someone wished to kidnap or kill her. Who? She was hiding some dark secret buried in her past and refused to speak about it. As his carriage pulled up in front of the baroness’s city house in Mayfair, he forced himself to focus on the enjoyable evening ahead.
This was to be his new life, if Verity Chivins became his countess. He had received every indication that she returned his interest since he had been introduced to her several months ago after worship at St. Paul’s. Still in half mourning for her husband, the widow had been comely and gracious. Her warm smile had attracted him immediately, as had the rambunctious little boy peeping from behind her skirts beneath a nursemaid’s watchful eye.
He had put off marriage for too long. He was the last of the St. John line and must have an heir for Barrington. Meeting the lovely widow seemed providential. Fixing that thought firmly in mind, he entered the foyer of the old city house for the first time. An ancient butler took his hat and ushered him into a small sitting room, explaining that he was the first to arrive. Lady Oberly would be down shortly.
The years had worn the luster off the marble floors, and the wallpaper hinted at a bit of mildew in the east corner, but the room was cheerfully decorated in pink and white with several large sprays of spring flowers adding a welcoming fragrance. The ornate furniture was piled with tasseled cushions, and the walls were covered with miniatures of Oberly ancestors. A bit cluttered, perhaps, but charming in its way.
“Do you approve, m’lord?” his hostess asked, gesturing at the walls with one gloved hand.
“′Tis a delightful house. I detect your touch everywhere,” he said, taking her proffered hand in his for a chaste salute. She was dressed in pink, the delicate color both vivid yet soft enough to flatter her pale silver-blonde hair and porcelain complexion. The gown dipped low at the neckline, revealing the bounty held beneath by a high-waisted sash of deeper pink. White lace dripped from the shoulders and adorned the hem in a double row.
“I am so happy that you were able to find time in your busy schedule to attend my first entertainment since my period of mourning has ended,” she said.
“If I had not found the time, m’lady, I would have made it,” Rob replied.
“Barrington, still busy tilting at windmills?” a brash voice boomed from the door. “I hear you have raised quite a breeze in Lords,” her father said as he approached. A tall man with thinning gray hair, a hooked nose, and narrow dark eyes, Viscount Middleton had an unctuous smile.
“Now, Papa, you promised me, no talk of politics until the ladies have retired from the dining table,” Lady Verity said as the two men shook hands.
“I would be pleased to debate any issue on which we disagree, but only on the floor of Lords, sir,” Rob offered with a smile. He found the baroness’s elderly father to be crusty but tolerable.
Middleton made a dismissive gesture. “I have better things to occupy my time than being cooped up in Westminster’s crowded chambers. Do you ride to hounds when you are in residence at your country estate?”
“Fox hunting has never been my sport, but I do enjoy fine horseflesh.”
The conversation turned to a new foal out of Rob’s prize-winning mare, a far safer subject than politics. In moments the other guests began arriving, Lord and Lady Chaldyce, who were cousins from the Middleton clan, Lady Babbington, an elderly countess who immediately attached herself to the baroness’s widowed father, and a young baronet and his bride, from the Oberly side of the family.
They all spoke of the weather—too rainy—and agreed that the season would nevertheless be quite splendid. But the major topic of conversation as they were seated at the dinner table was the impending divorce scandal between Lord Byron and his wife of scarcely more than a year.
“Poor dear Annabella, I do not know whatever possessed her to marry such a rackety fellow,” Lady Babbington said with a sniff of disdain.
“Well, he’s gone off to the Continent now and I say good riddance. Wild-eyed revolutionary. France deserves the likes of that one,” Middleton pronounced.
“He’s deep in dun territory, I know that to be true,” Penelope Chaldyce whispered as she sipped a tiny bit of the beef consume.
“Probably drank up all his earnings from the scribbling he does,” her husband added snidely.
“Oh, dear, I confess that I do enjoy some of Lord Byron’s verse,” Verity said. “It is really quite romantic.”
Before Rob could inquire what poem had caught her fancy, the young baronet said, “Byron has more probably given his money to dangerous men such as that Wilberforce chap.”
“I do not see how Mr. Wilberforce’s battle to abolish slavery can be construed as dangerous,” Rob said as the soup course was removed and fillets of trout were served.
The baronet leaned forward, waving his fork. “Do you realize that the whole economy of our Caribbean colonies is based on it? And the raw materials from America for our mills—who would pick that cotton, eh? Abolition would destroy our national wealth, Lord Barrington. How can you not see it?”
“Well, I certainly cannot see why those poor white wretches lying idle in our crime-ridden tenements should not pick the cotton. We could send them to our colonies—and to America,” Lady Chaldyce said brightly, smiling at her own cleverness.
“We have no way to force free men to labor in sugarcane or cotton fields, my lady, or, if innocent of a crime, to deport them to another country,” Rob explained gently, as several of the other gentlemen chuckled condescendingly.
“A pity the earl is correct,” Middleton said. “Wish Wellington had thought to ship those Froggies to the sugar plantations after Waterloo, eh, what?”
“A splendid idea,” Chaldyce said.
Verity clapped her hands. “Now, gentleman, please, let us forgo further political discourse. It quite disturbs the digestion, and I have labored long over the menu for this dinner
. We are having a splendid rack of spring lamb and a trifle with fresh fruit before the savory completes the meal.”
“You are very wise, m’lady. Politics can indeed give one indigestion. I know from experience,” Rob replied, raising his glass in a toast. “To our charming hostess, and her return to society.”
“Hear, hear,” echoed around the table as he exchanged smiles with the baroness.
Rob could see that Chaldyce and the baronet remained spoiling for further verbal jousting. He would be happy to oblige when the ladies retired, leaving the gentlemen alone with their port. Lady Chaldyce was an addlepate. Rob hoped that Lady Oberly did not share her uninformed opinions. Of course, he had no idea precisely what the baroness’s opinions were. She appeared, like many women of his class, to have no interest in political matters, only hearth and home. The meal had been superb, her household ran smoothly, and she was a good mother.
What else did he require in a wife? Thoughts of Fantasia’s razor wit and keen interest in Parliament vied with Gaby’s sweet passion and acceptance of his sordid past. He shook himself mentally for thinking of them. They were who they were, and as such, could never share any part of his future. He must focus on the woman he hoped to make his countess.
Just before the ladies excused themselves from the table, a servant approached the hostess with a whispered message. She smiled brightly and said, “Please have Phoebe bring him at once.” Turning to her guests, she said, “I would like to bid my son good night here at table so that you may meet him—if that is acceptable to everyone?” Her eyes met Rob’s, looking for approval.
“That would be delightful,” he replied. The others chorused agreement with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
In a moment the sleepy boy was brought into the dining room, his heavy-lidded eyes blinking beneath the bright glow from the chandelier. “Here’s Mommy’s good boy.” She planted a kiss on his curly head, then said, “This is my son, Elgin.”
“I doubt you remember me but we met amidst a great crash of tea tins,” Rob said to the toddler, who should have been asleep hours ago instead of dressed in a satin suit, all turned out for inspection. But Lady Verity was a proud mother, he assured himself.
“Elgin, do you remember the Earl of Barrington?” Lady Verity asked as the maid rocked the boy, who shyly hid his face.
“A bit of foolishness, this. Send the child off to bed, Verity,” his grandfather said gruffly.
“As you wish, Papa,” she replied, reaching up to pat her son’s head.
Finally awakened by the sound of the old man’s voice, Elgin twisted in Phoebe’s arms and launched himself at his mother. Verity tried to avoid the chubby little hands, but he seized hold of a white lace ruffle on her gown with a squeal of delight. A bit of drool escaped his mouth, dripping onto her lush bosom as she pried his hand free.
“Phoebe, I’ve told you repeatedly to hold him securely so this could not happen. Now see what you have done,” Verity scolded, looking at the damp spot and crumpled bit of lace. She dabbed at the spot with a napkin and smoothed the sleeve, dismissing the red-faced nurse. “Please put Elgin to bed immediately.”
When Phoebe turned to go, the little boy, already tired and out of sorts, saw the pink and white confection disappearing from his reach. Frustrated, he emitted a muted cry. As the nurse left the room, she crooned to him and his distress quickly abated.
His mother’s cheeks matched her gown as she straightened and attempted to smile bravely. “I do apologize for that debacle,” she said, looking over at Rob. “It would appear every time you see my son, he is in the suds. I hope you understand,” she added hesitantly.
“What child would not reach out for his mother, especially one as loving as you, m’lady?” Rob asked. “It is late and the lad is tired. There’s no harm,” he assured her.
Around the table everyone chorused agreement, although Middleton muttered darkly about mollycoddling the next Baron Oberly. Rob noticed Lady Oberly’s hand still nervously smoothing her gown as the conversation resumed.
Amber sat at the bow window in her private quarters reading the Morning Chronicle while she sipped hot black coffee. She noted a brief piece buried at the bottom of the second page. A thief from Whitechapel named Jemmy Starling had been found shot through the chest outside Hampstead. The report speculated about why a flash house denizen would venture into the countryside but drew no conclusions. She placed the paper on her lap and stared at the shrubbery outside being drenched in a heavy spring rain. The weather suited her mood.
Just as Barrington had surmised, Boxer had been unable to catch up with the man she had wounded. Her bodyguard was profusely apologetic and dispirited for what he perceived as a grave failure to protect her, no matter that she had assured him he was not at fault. When they arrived home, she had gone to Grace and told her about the attack. The older woman had immediately summoned Clyde Dyer, asking him to look into the incident. The runner quickly learned the thief’s identity. Now he was searching for Starling’s companions. Perhaps one of them might, for some coins, give over the name of Jem’s murderer.
A light tap sounded on her door, but before she could inquire who it was or bid them enter, the door swung open and Jenette burst into the room. Her lovely face was flushed with anger. “You almost die—or worse—and you do not send for Jenette!” she accused, glaring down at Amber. “Grace, she tells me two men attacked you.”
“You had gone to the opera with Lorna and her patron and did not return until quite late. Was I to spoil your sleep with my news? ′Tis all right, Jeni. The earl knocked one fellow from his horse and I shot the second ruffian. You would have been proud of me, my friend.”
Jenette made a dismissive sound. “I merely instructed you how to fire at a target. Shooting at a man who shoots in return, that is brave and takes great courage, ma coeur. And your earl, he is brave as well as beautiful, that one. He speaks for the poor with great eloquence. Bold yet kind, which makes him twice the danger to your heart.”
Amber’s eyes flashed. She had not told Jenette about her masquerade as Gabrielle. “How did you know that I was…” She could not ask the question.
“That you have taken him to your bed?” The Frenchwoman finished her trailing question.
“Grace!” Amber accused.
“Non, she did not whisper a word. The years I spent spying against the Corsican taught me how to use my eyes…and ears. I am sans honte, without shame, when I must protect those I love.” She shrugged unrepentantly. “You did not think to fool me…not after we went to hear your earl give his fiery speech, eh? I saw how you watched him.”
“I wish you would cease calling Barrington my earl. Just because I have taken him as a patron does not mean—”
“Oh, after avoiding men all these years, now on the sudden, you choose this one to make love with and he is only a patron. Non. You listen to his speeches, give him carriage rides, and go on country outings with him. You—”
Now it was Amber’s turn to interrupt. “How did you know that I gave him a ride in the rain? Boxer would never have said anything.”
Jenette smirked. “Why should he not? I only ask him if you returned home without incident after leaving me at the modiste. He volunteers the rest.”
“I should know I can keep nothing from you, my friend.”
“Do not be angry with the sergeant major. Already he blames himself for yesterday, but we all knew one day the beast, he would find you.”
“You speak just as Grace did. They could have been robbers.”
“Robbers! And what would men from Whitechapel do on a lonely country road? Rob the sheep?”
“Perhaps they were sent to silence Barrington. Eastham may not be involved.” She knew her voice lacked conviction.
“Grace says that Monsieur Dyer investigates. He will follow the stench of Eastham, not of sheep, mark me.”
Chapter Eight
Throughout the day, Amber fretted about the earl, who was scheduled to arrive for his next “lesson”
that night. How could she pretend to be Gabrielle after the harrowing events of yesterday? Revealing her face to him had been an incredibly foolish blunder. He had not realized the truth, but if she continued spending time with him as Fantasia, it would be only a matter of time until he did.
“I have no excuse that I dare use to put him off. He would only come storming in again, demanding to see Gabrielle,” she murmured to herself. She was confused because there was a part of her that was eager, nay, hungry, to spend another night lost in passion. Was she becoming as hopelessly addicted to his body—and indeed to his mind—as an opium eater to the drug? All too soon, their liaison would end. He would court his vapid baroness after returning to the world to which he was born…
The world to which you were born, too. That reminded her of the marquess. She swallowed bile. No, that evil brute had no place here. She would seize all the joy she could with Robert Emery Crispin St. John, Earl of Barrington…Rob.
Her earl…if only for a brief interlude.
Rob paced like a caged tiger across his study, watching the rain drench peonies and sweet woodruff. His gardener would be displeased by the broken branches and debris flung from the trees that marred the perfection of his handiwork. The earl had always enjoyed a good, cleansing storm, upon occasion even venturing out to ride during a downpour. He smiled ironically, recalling how he had eagerly accepted Fantasia’s offer of shelter in her coach, when he certainly did not require it.
But he had wanted to talk with her. The woman had been a fascinating enigma from their first awkward interview. If Gaby was sweetness and fire during their “lessons,” then Fantasia was arrogance and ice during their “debates.” But as he began to spend time with her, he sensed a wary vulnerability beneath the clever wit and erudition. She was one of those “unnatural political females” men such as Byron detested. There had certainly been a time before he became engaged in the reform movement when he would have agreed.