Lady Unveiled - The Cuckold's Conspiracy (Daughters of Sin Book 5)

by Beverley Oakley

  “When was Araminta ever smelling of April and May? Certainly not with Debenham.” Sybil sighed. “Araminta brings her own problems upon her shoulders, but I’m sorry that this marriage is such a difficult one for her. The only blessing I can see is that she’s provided Debenham with an heir in such a timely fashion. If he finds fault with her in other ways, at least she’s done him proud in this one respect.”

  “Indeed, she has,” Stephen agreed.

  Back in London, there was no Sybil to rub his weary shoulders to soothe away his troubles. The Home Office was not a place to put his cares aside, but he could not remain at The Grange. He and Sybil had been discreet about their affair for two years and to the best of Stephen’s knowledge, no one, not even the servants—suspected.

  His fears multiplied, of course, as he went about his work. A suspected move to blacken Princess Caroline’s name was afoot. Personally, Stephen thought she was doing a fine enough job on her own, though he had found her surprisingly fetching when he’d met her briefly the year before. Certainly, she was blunt, if not at times coarse in her language—as he’d been warned—and untidy about her person, but he’d found her frankness and directness refreshing. The great surprise was that she should ever have become consort to the fastidious Prince Regent, though, of course, the inducement of 160,000 pounds by his father to cover his debts could explain anything, he supposed.

  And there was the matter of how to explain Debenham’s involvement in the Spencean uprising several years before, and the attempt on Lord Castlereagh’s life. So far, there was no evidence beyond the damaging letter. Damaging, simply not incriminating enough on its own though it hinted at much broader involvement on Debenham’s part. Perhaps Debenham had tucked his head in since then, and if that were the case, did Stephen really want to push ahead to uncover more dirt on his Cousin Araminta’s husband? No one had been killed or maimed in the conspiracy. Perhaps the time had come to simply leave Debenham out of their investigations and concentrate on another line of inquiry.

  Like who was behind the blackmail letter Stephen had received. He’d said nothing to anyone while he gathered his resources to make the necessary payment by Thursday next. What else could he do? Allow the Pandora’s Box to be split open and the world to know that he and Sybil were lovers, thus casting doubt on Celia’s paternity?

  Stephen could not bear such shame to taint either Sybil or Celia. He was a man, and his lack of dependency made him far better placed to withstand the opprobrium to follow.

  But Sybil? And Celia? No, he simply could not risk irreparable damage to the two females in his life he loved more than his own.

  “Distracted?” Stephen hadn’t realized he’d been standing, staring at a tray of jewelry for he didn’t know how long in Phillips, Regent Street’s most high-class jewelers. He’d thought to buy a token for Sybil. Something to match her green eyes. He wanted to see them light up because they’d been clouded with worry when they’d farewelled one another three days before, and Stephen couldn’t bear Sybil to be worried.

  Of course, Sybil knew something was in the wind. She could read him like a book. Just another of the little things he loved about her. Sybil also knew the nature of Stephen’s work and one of the things he loved about her—yes, another! —was that she never pushed him to divulge anything merely to satisfy her curiosity.

  He looked up to find Ralph Tunley gazing at him from across the dim space, for the evening shadows were closing in though the trade being done by the Phillips store was brisk.

  Stephen had met Tunley a few times, though the young man didn’t frequent the social haunts favored by his brother, Lord Ludbridge. He supposed that a sixth son forced to remain in the employ of a villain like Debenham would have little in the way of funds for entertainment.

  He nodded. Although it had not been stated to him directly, he understood that Tunley was among a band of shadowy informers placed in positions of importance to monitor the activities of suspected traitors, and those with undesirable intentions toward the Government and the Crown. Like Stephen.

  “Good day to you, Tunley. About to dip a toe in Parson’s mousetrap?” He indicated the tray of betrothal rings in front of Tunley.

  “Lord, if only I could afford it!”

  “At least you’re not swimming in the River Tick to support what can’t be sustained like I was at your age until fortune favored me. Take heart; anything can happen.”

  “I’m of an optimistic turn of mind, but I’d rather it be through my own enterprise that I make, if not my fortune, then at least a respectable living that would enable me to make a certain young lady a marriage offer.”

  “The West Indies Company, perhaps?”

  Stephen didn’t miss the brief flare of excitement before Tunley resumed the impassive look he’d obviously needed to perfect for his line of work. In a resigned tone, he said, “That is just the kind of adventure I’d have leaped at had I not been bound by sentiment.” He tapped his heart. “You can laugh, but no inducement could tear me from within walking distance of a certain young lady who is very dear to me.”

  “You must feel the pressure more days than others in your present position,” Stephen remarked, and Tunley laughed at the oblique reference to Debenham.

  “Lord, yes.” He dropped his voice as he glanced about to ensure they were not being overheard. “Care to join me for a pot of porter? We can go just around the corner, for it’s occurred to me that you might be very well placed to aid me in a little inquiry I am bound to investigate.”

  Stephen happily accepted his offer and was expecting more in this vein as he slid into a nook. Instead, he discovered a much more serious underlay to Ralph Tunley. Clearly, that was why Tunley had succeeded so long in Debenham’s employ, for it was easy to disregard him as a fixture—a bland and unassuming one.

  Now, Tunley said, wiping the froth from his mouth, as he put down his drink. “Cranborne, we both answer to the same master; I know that. So I won’t beat about the bush. Someone has been making blackmail attempts which have already claimed the lives of several of those unwilling to pay up.”

  “Murdered?” A frisson of dismay ran through Stephen as he recalled the looping handwriting of the letter he’d received dancing in front of him like a macabre reminder of how precarious his position was.

  “No, no, they’ve taken their own lives. Lord Calder’s death came shortly after he received a letter threatening to reveal certain secrets. A blackmailer is in our midst, and will continue his work with impunity unless more people are willing to step forward and admit they’ve been targeted. The reason I’m saying this is because you move in more exalted circles than I; in fact, among the very people most likely to have the secrets and the money to keep them that way.”

  Another wave of discomfort swept through Stephen. Tunley may well be right, but Stephen was not about to divulge either his blackmail demand or secret to him right now. He stared into his half-finished porter. “How do you go about persuading people who are prepared to pay money to a blackmailer to safeguard their secrets that they should instead tell you.”

  Tunley sent him a sudden, disarming smile. “Trust. I invite trust, which is perhaps why the other night I was visited by a distressed young woman who suspected she might be the next target. She asked for my help as she’d become aware of the activities of a blackmailer targeting high-profile society individuals. Fearing that her own secret may be divulged—though she did not tell me the nature of that secret—she exhorted me to discover and apprehend the blackmailer.”

  “She came to you? Why?”

  “She knows of my connections. Our connections. She hoped I’d be in a position to help, just as I would hope to be in a position to help you, if you went so far as to trust me.”

  Stephen’s arm jerked in surprise as he brought his tankard up to his mouth. Surely Tunley knew nothing of—

  Tunley cut off his train of thought. “Of course, if one has no dark secrets, one is not at risk of exposure, and you, Mr. Cranborn
e, are renowned for your exemplary life—that is, after your untidy youth.”

  “Untidy!” Stephen laughed, partly out of relief. “I was no different from any other soldier of war wanting what scant comfort was available.” There was no point in regretting the wantonness of his early days. From the moment he’d learned he was to be a man of consequence and left his grandmother’s cottage with little more than a couple of trunks, he’d taken his duties seriously. In fact, he’d made a vow in front of his grandmother that he’d make something of himself given this unlooked-for opportunity. And indeed he had, traveling by horseback across the country to The Grange.

  Unbidden, the image of the top of a golden head of shiny hair came to mind, and he nearly reeled with…. horror, yes, horror! The golden ringlets he’d gazed down upon in youthful rapture as their owner had pleasured him in a small storeroom, in the most unexpected encounter of his life, did not belong to his golden-haired Sybil, whom he’d encountered for the very first time the following day when he’d finally arrived at his destination.

  He ought to feel shame, perhaps, for his ongoing affair with Lord Partington’s wife. Yes, the wife of his very own benefactor and the man to whom he owed so much. The truth was, that while he might be her knight in shining armor, she was so much more to him. He’d rescued her from…how had she put it? ‘A barren, emotional wasteland.’ How could that be sinful? No, Stephen didn’t regret his ongoing actions one bit, and he intended to continue loving Sybil for as long as they both had breath.

  What he did regret was his naivety the day previous to his auspicious meeting with his benefactor’s wife; yes, he bitterly regretted not understanding in time that Lady Julia was a conniving minx, who’d flattered him in order to entice him into that conveniently located storeroom just down the passage from where her husband had staged, and then altered, the outcome in a bet over a pair of mating spiders to ensure he fleeced Stephen out of one thousand pounds. Lady Julia was complicit in this plan to cheat Stephen, only she’d taken perhaps more pleasure along the way than her husband knew about.

  He squirmed at the memory. She’d pushed him into the semi-darkness, fondled his groin, murmured words of passion and then taken him in her mouth. Stephen had not known what it felt like to have a woman of class—as he’d thought her at the time—show interest in him like this, or show such lack of restraint. Of course, he was wiser now. Of course, he should have understood there was more to her motives than met the eye. But he’d spent six years fighting on the Peninsular before, injured, he’d lived in quiet solitude with his grandmother; his mother having drunk herself into her grave long after his father had died a similarly ignoble death.

  He knew he could not excuse his actions, which made him feel grubby and disloyal to Sybil, even though he’d not met Sybil until later.

  Lady Julia, clearly, had not felt the same remorse. Fortunately, Stephen didn’t often encounter Sir Archie. Whenever he did, though, he wondered if Sir Archie knew to what lengths his wife had gone when, no doubt together, they’d hatched the plan for her to divert Stephen on his way back from pissing in the chamber pot farther up the passage. Yes, Sir Archie was indeed complicit in the plan whereby he and his friend Barston would swap the tiny male spider Stephen had confidently predicted would be vanquished by the female, with another. The reversal of what Stephen knew to be a natural act of nature had been engineered into a false outcome, seeing Stephen lose every last farthing he possessed in the world, and more.

  True, Lord Partington had engineered matters so Stephen could have his revenge, but the fact was that Sir Archie had acted with thorough ignobleness, though Stephen knew he now held some position which required that he had dealings with the Home Office. Fortunately, their paths did not cross.

  Yet, did Sir Archie suspect how far his fair wife had gone in their shared quest to distract Stephen? Did he know—Stephen shuddered at this—that when she’d almost pleasured Stephen to the pinnacle of his endurance, she’d unexpectedly hiked up her skirts and straddled him, climaxing at the very same moment Stephen had? As if she’d truly found their lovemaking as incendiary as he had? No wonder Stephen had—for about ten minutes—entertained thoughts of jumping astride his charger the very next day and taking Lady Julia into the sunset with him. What had he been thinking? She had twin boys in the nursery. He hadn’t given a thought to that little fact. He’d thought she was choosing love with Stephen above all else.

  And then, the next day, Stephen had met Sybil. Simple reflection of her calm sweetness made his insides stop their churning. She was everything he needed. Everything and more.

  “Wild days,” said Tunley. “It seems you left your past behind when you arrived back on English soil a little less than three years ago. You can’t pretend you don’t know you’re in the sights of every designing mama who has a debutante to launch. You are in London on Government business, and you dutifully attend many social events, yet you show no discernment, and as soon as possible, you return to the country.”

  Stephen licked dry lips and managed a weak smile. “I had no idea my movements were so minutely scrutinized. What interest might you—or others— have in my conduct if it has so little impact on anyone else?” He was deeply worried now. All this time he’d thought he’d been so clever, avoiding interest, gossip and, ultimately detection. The thought that Tunley, so self-effacing, should have taken such a keen interest, bordered on terrifying.

  He dismissed the irrational notion Tunley’s question might be prompted by suspicion that Stephen had something to hide; that Stephen had joined the ranks of the blackmailed, almost before it had even lodged in his mind. Of course, Tunley knew nothing of Stephen’s secret life. What Tunley was demonstrating, however, was that he took account of minor matters in an almost scientific way; that he played a key role in the move to nail down the increasingly active blackmailer who was wreaking havoc among the ton.

  He wanted to prize from Stephen anything that might be of minor interest, something that might be potentially useful.

  Tunley shrugged. “I’m suggesting that while I can conduct my observation from afar, you might be able to tell me more of interest, given that you move in more exalted circles than I do.”

  The comparison flashed through his mind that Tunley’s impecunious situation was not dissimilar to Stephen’s if one turned the clock back three years. Both had been born into wealthy families and brought up as gentlemen, but shackled in their expectations since a fat pocketbook wasn’t part of the deal.

  Stephen had found luck, of course, by being invited early to The Grange as Lord Partington’s acknowledged heir. Tunley was hoping honest toil would see him rewarded. Presumably, that was the intention when he took on the role of secretary to Lord Debenham—or rather, continued in it.

  “You’re an asset to King and Crown, and we serve the same master,” said Stephen, “but I don’t know that it makes me ready to divulge my secrets to you.”

  “Your secrets? Why, that’s a confession if ever I heard one.” He peered more closely at Stephen. “And if perchance you ever received a poison pen letter, you’re insinuating that you’d rather hold onto your secret than tell me?” He shook his head. “You’d choose to trust that your blackmailer will be satisfied with the filthy lucre he mines from you, rather than divulge your secret to a man who might be able to help you?”

  Stephen nodded, decided. “I trust you enough to concede that I have a secret, but I’m afraid I would go to any lengths to keep it hidden,” he said.

  “Even if that means satisfying the ever greater demands of a ruthless blackmailer?”

  Stephen nodded.

  Chapter 12

  Octavia’s hand felt small and insubstantial in Silverton’s grip as he led her onto the dance floor. He could tell she was nervous, so his smile was bolstering for her benefit.

  The light was kind to her sallow complexion. He’d thought she looked tired and somehow diminished from the last time he’d observed her back in the country. But then, she’d been com
fortable in the domain over which she reigned; assisting his mother with her jam-making, he recalled, being the last time he’d seen her. He’d not expected then to make her an offer.

  He’d never expected to make her an offer. He’d acted rashly, of course, penning her the letter inquiring after her thoughts on matrimony with him after he’d learned Kitty was to be marrying Lord Nash.

  The whole Nash affair had been a debacle. And if Silverton felt he’d been shackled to a marriage he did not desire, it was through his own lustful impetuosity.

  Kitty had been in the church saying her vows to Nash, for God’s sake, when Nash’s father had objected, seeming to bear up the fact that Nash was planning a sham marriage. When Kitty had rushed out of the church, Silverton had felt only the most enormous relief. Now he could have her at last.

  She’d all but admitted she loved Silverton, but would marry Nash because she was fond enough of him to accept what she wanted above all else—honest matrimony.

  How ironic that Silverton’s hasty seduction had put paid to Kitty’s chances. Yes, she had the man she loved, but she’d never get the marriage Nash offered. And that was because of Silverton. His lovely, good-natured Kitty had not appeared to harbor a grudge. Besides, that was not Kitty’s way. Her sweet purity was what he loved about her.

  He forced himself to remember that Octavia had a similar sweet purity. What did it matter that Octavia was plain and shy and disliked the social whirl? That, other than her good and pure heart, she couldn’t be more different from Kitty?

  Another pang.

  “Are you all right, Silverton?”

  He glanced with surprise at Octavia as he positioned himself opposite her for the cotillion.

  She looked concerned. “I wondered if a sudden pain had beset you.”

  “Lord, I’m as fit as a fiddle.” Then, as they had a moment to fill before the dance began, “Don’t worry that I’ll turn into a gouty old codger or leave you a widow too early, dearest.” Silverton had thought long and hard about how he must train his heart to do what it ought. If he could trot out the terms of affections and similar endearing sentiments, then he might find that the processing of turning his sympathy for Miss Mandelton into love, would yield results.