by Isobel Carr
‘You bastard.’ She shoved him back until he foundered up against the opposite wall, growing even more incensed by his allowing her to do so. He didn’t resist at all. He was that enamoured of his new plan. ‘That’s not what I agreed to.’
‘That’s exactly what you agreed to, my little wanton. And I promise you this: the only way you’ll ever have any other man in your bed will be if you break your word: either our bargain or our marriage vows.’
Beyond response, George stalked out of the alcove, blundered into the middle of the game taking place in the hall, and was immediately caught by the blindfolded Comte de Valy.
He smiled as his hands closed on her waist. ‘I would know that perfume anywhere! It is Mrs Exley.’ The crowd cheered and the young Frenchman removed his blindfold and leaned in to claim his kiss.
From the edge of the crowd Dauntry caught her eye. She turned away and gave the comte a far warmer kiss than the game required.
Valy kept his hold on her as she broke the kiss. ‘As usual, you have on the dress that puts all the others to shame. It is so rare to see an English woman with such Gallic flair. C’est magnifique!’
George smiled and accepted his praise with a nod of her head. Somehow the comte frequently managed to praise and denigrate with a single breath. It was a gift of sorts. But nowhere near as insulting as what Dauntry had just said to her.
Brimstone appeared behind the comte to claim her for their promised set. George took his hand and allowed him to return her to the parlour.
Dauntry was ahead of them, calling for his coat. George watched him leave, anger nearly choking her. As soon as the door had shut behind him she threw herself into an orgy of flirtation, fervently hoping her antics would be prominently displayed in the gossip columns. It would serve him right to have to read reports of her amorous adventures over his morning coffee.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Numerous reports of a raucous game of Blind Man’s Bluff put the C— de V— among the pack vying to be next in Mrs E—’s good graces.
Tête-à-Tête, 16 January 1789
Philippe handed Mrs Exley down from the hackney and gritted his teeth as her lumbering footman climbed down behind her. She never been accompanied by a servant in the past.
If he’d had her all to himself, a world of possibilities would open: a hole in the ice leading to a watery grave in the muck of the Thames, a blow to the head allowing him to do anything from strangling her to fucking her to selling her to the lowest sailors he could find—he shivered as visions danced through his head, taunting him.
None of the fates he’d been debating would be hers today, however. Today she was being attended by the largest footman London had ever seen. A hulking brute with the cauliflower ears of a pugilist. His livery coat strained across shoulders it had clearly not been designed to encompass. Damn those clumsy peasants who’d so botched what should have been an easy job. He was now hemmed in by velvet-encased oafs.
Seething, he led her down the stairs that normally led to the churning crowd of watermen. Today they had been replaced by a swarm of peddlers, hawking everything from ribbon and oranges to hot cross buns and gin. Copious, swirling, stinking amounts of gin.
Loud voices, obviously of low origin, assaulted him from every side. Hands plucked at his pockets, searching for a wallet, a coin, a handkerchief.
Philippe shoved them away, jabbing the slowest boy with the pointed end of his walking stick. The boy squealed and glared, pig-like eyes malevolent beneath a cap of greasy hair. A filthy little guttersnipe.
‘Throw them a penny.’
‘Non.’
‘No?’
‘Very well.’ Better to keep her mollified, happy, trusting. He dug into his pocket and flicked a ha’penny at the boys, being careful to send it as far from the fat, glaring one as possible.
He bought a small sack of roasted chestnuts and peeled them as they walked. Rowdy audiences had formed around the makeshift stages that had been erected on the ice. They cheered the bawdy performances.
Mrs Exley paused before a puppet show. A particularly obscene Punch was busy molesting a nun on the small swag-hung stage.
Philippe peeled another nut and popped it into his mouth. He held the scalding flesh carefully between his teeth and blew. How long was he going to have to stay here? This entire day was turning into a huge waste of time.
Judy erupted onto the stage, beating Punch and the nun with a cricket bat. The crowed gave a roar of approval. Philippe chewed, counting the minutes until he could escape. As the puppet show ended and the crowed began to disperse, Lord Morpeth and his family spotted them and the boys came running across the ice. Philippe groaned as their two parties merged and the countess linked arms with Mrs Exley. It needed only this to complete his day of misery.
The comte sank back into the squabs of the hackney as they arrived back at The Top Heavy. Her bodyguard-cum-footman climbed down from the box, his weight causing the well-worn carriage to squeak and squeal in protest. He lowered the steps and George smirked into her tippet as a pained expression crossed they young Frenchman’s face when Hay bounded out past him. He had not been pleased when they’d encountered the Morpeths on the ice; even less so when Hay had abandoned his parents and to join them for the rest of their excursion. Her footman handed her down, and she thought she heard the comte sigh with relief as the door shut behind her. George could almost feel sorry for him, if he’d been less of a prig.
Dismissing the man she and Hay had been torturing ever since they’d joined forces on the ice, she turned her attention to her godson. The boy’s grin turned to laughter as George led him up her steps and into the house. Whatever the comte had expected when he’d invited her to attend the Frost Faire, it had not included the infantry. Children were decidedly not his forte.
‘I can’t imagine you’re in the least bit hungry after all the treats you consumed today.’ George ushered Hay up to the main drawing room. ‘So we won’t bother with luncheon. Don’t you dare tell your mother I let you eat nothing but gingerbread and hot cross buns.’
Hayden assured his godmother that he’d never betray their secret, with such a serious face that George was unsure how he could maintain it. ‘Imp.’ She ruffled his hair and pushed him into the drawing room.
Inside she found Brimstone playing chess with Colonel Staunton in the otherwise deserted room. His eyes lighting up, Hay made straight for them. He drew up a chair beside the colonel and absently petted Caesar while he observed the game.
‘What have you been up to, my boy?’ Brimstone moved his knight, putting the colonel’s rook in jeopardy.
‘Bullocking Aunt George’s Frenchman.’
Both men laughed and Hay prattled on, relating their day’s adventures. He was still talking when his father appeared some twenty minutes later.
‘I knew once he was here you’d never dislodge him. Come along, you young scamp, your Aunt George has basked in the glow of your admiration long enough. You’ll make all her suitors jealous if you stay any longer.’
When the earl had taken his son off, George threw herself down on the settee. ‘Any word on when I might be allowed out of doors without what looks like a cadre of dockworkers at my heels?’
Brimstone chuckled. ‘Don’t like the looks of Addington’s men?’
‘I could care less what they look like. Having Adonis and Paris constantly peering over my shoulder would be just as irritating.’
‘I highly doubt that.’ The colonel tipped his king over, conceding defeat. He crossed the room to take a seat beside her. ‘And I’m sure you’ll agree that a bodyguard or two is preferable to being shipped away to Scotland?’
‘Vastly.’ George did nothing to hide the sarcasm in her voice. Of course it was better, but only just.
‘Cribbed, cabined, and confined.’
‘Keep your damn quotes to yourself, Brimstone.’ She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. He was busy readying the chessboard for its next game, setting all to rig
hts in his fastidious way. ‘Unless you’ve something more instructive than Macbeth?’
‘Sadly, no, sweet termagant. Nothing of interest to report from your expedition upon the frozen Thames?’
‘Nothing besides what Hayden has already told you. The ice was overrun with players, chestnut roasters, and sellers of gin. But not a murderer to be seen.’
‘Which I know frustrates you to no end, but we mere men would prefer the criminal caught without his taking another shot at you.’
‘As would I, but I’d settle for some more active plan in which he were allowed that shot if it would relieve me of my hulking shadows.’
‘Another fight I’ll leave to Lord Glendower.’ He rose from the chess table and sketched her a bow. George made a rude sound in the back of her throat. ‘For the colonel and I are otherwise promised for the evening, and we’ve just time to make our engagement if we leave now.’
The colonel likewise stood and the two of them strode out of the room. Their steps echoed in the hall as they descended the stairs, claimed their coats, and left her to brood.
It had been two days since Helen Perripoint’s party, and she’d not seen so much as a nosegay from Dauntry. Damn him.
She crossed the room and peeked out the window, watching her friends stride off down the street, the two of them already deep in conversation.
She turned to warm her hands at the fire. Dauntry couldn’t really mean to go through with his threat, could he?
Chapter Twenty-Five
We must apologize most profusely concerning our reports regarding the incomparable Mrs P—. She has not, in fact, traded down for a baronet, but up for a duke.
Tête-à-Tête, 16 January 1789
Ivo sat uncomfortably in the Morpeths’ red and gold salon, tea untouched, mind racing. The countess had called a council of war and George’s defenders had come out in force. Her bulldogs were present, as were her father-in-law, Bennett, Alençon, Cardross, Colonel Staunton, and her brother-in-law, Viscount Layton.
They were agreed that simply waiting out the killer wasn’t going to work. Some action had to be taken. The question was, what could be done to flush him out? Under what circumstances could they both protect George while luring her enemy into the open?
His own thoughts were muddled and impaired, whirling with plans of his own. Plans for more than making her safe from this single threat. A simple declaration would not do the trick; George would very likely decline it. Nor would another public display be in his best interests. Putting her on the spot again could only be disastrous. A bold gesture was called for, but just what constituted bold when it came to George was open to debate.
Ivo was struggling to follow both the discussion taking place around him as well as the one raging in his own head when the door opened and they were joined by Lord Morpeth.
‘Need I even ask what you’re plotting, my dear?’ the earl inquired, crossing the room and perching on the arm of the settee beside his wife.
The countess looked at him crossly. ‘You know very well what we’re up to, Rupert. You were invited, after all. And if you’re going to join us, the least you can do is enter into the spirit of the thing.’
‘Oh, I do, my dear, but I have my reservations about dangling George about like so much bait, not that my objections are likely to win out with this unholy coalition. So, do you want to enlighten me? What grand scheme have you hatched between you?’
‘Well…’ the countess began. ‘Lord Frampton’s masked ball at Vauxhall seems too good an opportunity for the killer to pass up. The crowd, the fireworks, the dark walks. Ideal for his purposes, wouldn’t you think?’
‘Perhaps too ideal?’ the colonel said. ‘A knife in the crowd, everyone masked.’
‘What’s the alternative? To keep her confined until he burns her house down around her ears?’ Ivo realized with a start he’d spoken aloud and the entire room had turned to look at him. ‘Honestly,’ he continued, ‘Addington’s men have gotten nowhere. It’s a waiting game. We’re waiting for the highwayman to make another attempt, and he’s waiting for us to let our guard down. And eventually both of those things are going to happen, preferably not at the same time. The masque might be our best hope.’
‘Well,’ St Audley said, setting his tea cup aside, ‘if we’re going to do the thing, we’d best discuss the particulars, because there will be no room for mistakes.’
Brimstone gave a low chuckle as they arrived at the door of Number 6, Dover Street. George threw him a stern look. The party of starchy ladies they’d just passed were clustered on the pavement, the girls scurrying behind their mother like rabbits scenting a fox.
Even now, as they stepped through the portal of that august men’s sanctuary, the ladies were straining to catch a clearer glimpse. Should she have Gabriel lead her back out to take a little bow, perhaps to sign the guidebook the mother had been clutching?
She could picture the entry the girls would make in it later: Saw the famous Mrs Exley entering Manton’s on the arm of a dissolute rake. Her gown was beautiful, but how can she? Father would never permit.
The poor little dears. They had no idea what threats the wide world held, what delights it offered. And they never would, by the look of them.
Inside, Bennett and Morpeth were waiting, alongside the proprietor. Her brother-in-law was examining a fowling piece, while St Audley looked on, both their faces serious as they evaluated the gun. Sydney tested the balance, switched hands, switched back, and then was finally persuaded to hand the piece over to St Audley, who promptly set about doing exactly the same thing.
They’d be indignant if she were to openly compare them to ladies in a draper’s shop, but that was exactly what they put her in mind of.
George smiled and accepted a glass of ale from Bennett before unpacking her new pistol. Brimstone had acquired it for her the day before, something small enough for her to carry about her person, to conceal within in a pocket, but deadly all the same.
Today they had reserved the famous shooting gallery so she could practice firing it. Those who weren’t examining guns in the shop were busily engaged in the shooting gallery. Some of the gentlemen had brought their own guns, while others were busy testing those that the Mantons had for sale.
George took a sip of ale and set about loading her pistol. It was important to get to know its quirks. Did it pull to one side? How far was it accurate? How hard was it to retrieve from her pocket? Did the hammer or frizzen catch when she did so? She’d brought several different pockets to try out. Her best guess was that the small day hoops would be the best choice, but for something so serious, she had to be sure.
Off to one side, Brimstone and Bennett were grimly testing a pair of duelling pistols. St Audley stood at the ready to set targets for her. She finished her ale and nodded to him to set the first one and stand aside…
Chapter Twenty-Six
Is it our imagination, or does Mrs E— appear not in her usual spirits? Could it be that she has finally been the first to be dismissed? What man could be so foolish?
Tête-à-Tête, 3 February 1789
Tonight was the night.
The trap had been carefully set. Her regular visitors had all been appraised of her attendance…All that remained was for the highwayman to show his hand.
Would he? Was the opportunity they were presenting as irresistible as they’d imagined?
Had they all turned a series of unrelated events into a conspiracy that didn’t exist?
She’d dressed carefully, purposefully wearing her usual amber, heavily embroidered in gold. Over this, she draped a plain black domino. Even with her loo mask hiding the upper half of her face she was easily identifiable.
The ride to Vauxhall passed quickly enough, since the road was not choked with the throngs that flocked to the gardens during the season. The city flashed past the small carriage window like a series of vignettes. George tried to breathe steadily, to control the quaking sensation roiling her stomach.
So
on enough she found herself being helped from the carriage by a serious-faced Brimstone. He’d for-gone a domino, and wore only a simple black loo mask. George smiled up at him as he claimed her hand.
‘Good evening, Gabe,’ she said, slipping her arm into his and stepping aside to allow the earl and countess to exit the carriage.
‘Good evening, my Lady of Mystery,’ he responded, leading her into the gardens in the wake of their hosts.
The gardens were nearly overflowing with masked guests. It must have cost Lord Frampton a fortune to rent the gardens out for the night. Normally, Vauxhall wasn’t open in the winter months, but Frampton wanted to puff off his latest find, a plump little soprano from Poland, and so he’d arranged with the proprietor to open it for one night only, at his expense. He’d issued gilded cards of invitation to the ton, and notices had been inserted in the papers, advertising a Venetian masquerade, the cost of admission for those without a card being enormously steep at two guineas.
George glanced about as Brimstone escorted her to their box. Scandalously clad courtesans mingled with the ladies and gentlemen of the ton. Wealthy merchants and barristers took their supper boxes next to the lords and ladies.
London had been quiet of late, and everyone was looking for an escape from the dreary weather. The gentry and merchant classes flocked to those few occasions when they could be assured of rubbing elbows with society. George felt a flicker of anticipation deep in her chest, blooming, filling her, undercut by a shiver of fear. Was he here tonight? Was he out there in the dark garden, waiting? Or was he mingling with the colourful crowd, watching her?
The walkways were lit with colourful globes and the musicians had already begun to play. The mob of bright masqueraders was seething with suppressed merriment. Everyone waiting for the fireworks to set the evening off, or searching for someone or other in the crowd. It felt like the evening before a battle. Everyone just a little too gay, a little too loud. It was exhilarating in a way a simple ton drum could never be. The evening had an edge to it.