A Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

  Thomas shook his head. “Meg didn’t use ‘em. She ‘ad a place—a ‘ouse she worked out of.”

  “But she also came here to pick up flats?”

  The lad nodded.

  “Who were her regular customers?”

  “No one particular as I ever saw.” He leaned a little nearer to David and jerked his head in Rutledge’s direction. “But you might arst him. I’m thinkin’ he knew some of ‘er friends. He’s been arstin’ a lot o’ strange questions.”

  David cocked an eyebrow at that, but de Rohan just stared out across the river toward the foggy quagmire of barges and merchantmen which crowded the lee of the Lower Pool. “Tell me, Thomas,” he said musingly, “how was she tied?”

  Thomas looked at him as if he were daft. “She ‘ad a bleedin’ rope around ‘er neck.”

  “But how was the rope made fast?” insisted de Rohan. “What sort of knot?”

  Suddenly, understanding lit the lad’s eyes. “A clove hitch,” he said swiftly. “A proper ‘un, too. Neat and tight. And it was a brand-new rope.”

  “Good lad,” answered de Rohan. “And how long before that since you’d seen Meg in here? Would anyone remember?”

  “Why, t’weren’t more’n three days ago,” said the boy calmly.

  “Three?” interjected David skeptically. “Are you sure?”

  Earnestly, the boy screwed up his face. “Monday, it was. She come in early, near eleven. Pratt ‘ad taken the trap to the Garden to fetch vegetables, so it was just me ‘n Nell ‘ere.”

  “Was she alone?” demanded de Rohan. “How was she dressed?”

  For a moment, the lad looked confused. “In ‘er dark red dress, like usual. By ‘erself. But she was looking for someone.”

  “For a customer?” pressed de Rohan.

  “Can’t say,” answered Thomas. “All she said was, ‘Tommy, keep a sharp eye out for a man who might come in asking for me.’ Then she winked and slipped me a bob. But no one came. At least, no one she paid any mind. At noon, I come out again, and she was gone.”

  De Rohan paused, tapping his long fingers on the tabletop. Like his face, his hands were long and olive-colored. Not for the first time, David wondered at his ancestry. “So she had a little of the ready in her pocket,” the inspector mused. “Was it her habit to slip you something?”

  “No, never,” admitted the pot boy with a snort. “Caught my notice, it did. That, ‘n her just a-sitting there like the cat wot got in the cream. But maybe not, eh?”

  “No,” returned de Rohan softly. “Maybe not.”

  Their conversation with Thomas was at an end. Clearly, Meg had come in to some money, and even David could guess she’d been blackmailing somebody. He looked about the room to see that Bentham Rutledge had slipped unnoticed out the door.

  David was not overly worried. Men of his ilk were easy to find—just look for the nearest cockfight or the hottest gaming hell. David knew just where to search, and if he did not, undoubtedly his not-so-innocent nephew would.

  ———

  In Park Crescent, Cecilia was almost at her wit’s end by ten o’clock. Her morning had been one wretched calamity after another. Despite her frantic search, the mysteriously missing stocking had not been found. Weakly, she’d slunk back up to her bedchamber and taken the rare step of having her breakfast sent up, unable to endure the humiliation of going down to face servants who might be snickering behind her back. So, while Etta prepared her bath, Cecilia had tried to eat her toast, literally choking on it. Then she’d knocked over her tea while coughing bread crumbs all over her sheets.

  Etta bolted from the bathroom to pound her between the shoulder blades, her expression sly and knowing. Weakly, Cecilia had waved her off with the tray and headed for the tub in hope of drowning herself—or at least soothing her wounds with a long, hot soak.

  To her acute dismay, she found that she was terribly sore, and as she settled into the water, she found that one of her wounds was as physical as it was mental. The merest trace of blood stained her left thigh—almost nothing, really. After a life lived in the saddle, it was a wonder she’d bled at all. Still, it was irrefutable evidence. Her virginity was well and truly gone.

  With a deep, agonizing groan, Cecilia let herself slide beneath the surface. When her lungs felt as though they might burst, Cecilia slowly surfaced, marginally resigned to her fate. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected a little blood, or even regretted the loss of what it represented. But good Lord! To lose it to Delacourt, of all people. Dragging the wet hair back off her face, Cecilia tilted her head against the rim and stared up at the high, wainscoted walls of her bathroom.

  It was almost laughable, really. All these years, she’d gone to such lengths to avoid Delacourt, just as he had done with her. And now fate—helped along just a tad by Mr. Amherst—had conspired to fling her into bed with the man!

  But that really wasn’t true, was it? She hadn’t been flung anywhere by fate. It had been her own undeniable lust which had done the job. Yes, she’d taken David by the hand and dragged him willingly up the stairs to her bedchamber. When he had discouraged her, she had pushed. When he had offered to stop, she had begged.

  It was just as she had always expected. She had an abnormal and indecent attraction to handsome, green-eyed scoundrels. At least, she wasn’t alone in her failings. David’s smoldering gaze could make a woman rip off her clothes and hurl herself at him. Indeed, if rumor could be believed, more than a few had. The thought stung. Was she nothing more than another ninny-brained conquest in a long string of David’s sexual triumphs?

  But it hadn’t felt quite like that, had it? Indeed, it had felt like something quite, quite different. Cecilia was beginning to suspect she did not know him as well as she had once believed. Certainly, he was far more complex. His anger last night had been palpable, yes. But it had been driven by a pain so obvious and so deep, it had torn at her heartstrings. And when he had dragged her into his arms and kissed her, it had felt as if he were fighting off demons.

  She had once thought him simply vain, profligate, and decadent. But last night, what she had felt was decency, honesty, and... yes, insecurity. Strangely, the memory stirred in her breast, warming her with hope. But hope for what? Had she become some sort of besotted fool?

  Suddenly, Cecilia began to giggle, and then to laugh out loud. She felt as David must have done that day in her carriage—a Bedlamite, she’d thought him. Mad. Insane. And perhaps she was, for the truth had finally dawned on her.

  She was in love with him. With Delacourt!

  Oh, yes. She’d fallen deeply, hopelessly, head-over-heels for the most inveterate rake in all of England. The one man she’d sworn to avoid. The man who’d sworn to avoid her. Cecilia beat at the water with her fist, unable to restrain the great whoops of laughter.

  Suddenly, Etta was pounding at the door with the heel of her hand. “M’lady!” she called through the heavy wood. “M’lady, are yer all right?”

  Slowly, Cecilia regained herself. “No, Etta,” she gasped, pressing the back of her hand to her brow. “I’m not. I’m afraid I’ll never be all right again.”

  For once, Etta was nearly speechless. “No?”

  “No,” returned Cecilia, standing up in a cascade of water and grabbing a towel. “But I’m afraid there’s no help for it. Just lay out my brown merino habit and send Jed around to saddle up Zephyr. I feel the need for a thundering ride. Maybe I’ll fall off and break my neck.”

  ———

  Cecilia reached Hyde Park at an hour which was, by Town standards, appropriate only to costermongers and street sweepers. Still, she always preferred to ride early so that she might move at something rather more exhilarating than a canter. The alternative was the pokey afternoon promenade of the bon ton and their hangers-on, which she assiduously avoided.

  At the top of Park Lane, Cecilia nudged her mount through the gate and toward the main path. At the bluff, she paused to watch the fog rising off the Serpentine below. The park was indee
d empty, save for a couple of gentlemen strolling along the water’s edge, where a swath of purple crocuses were bravely heralding spring’s return. Satisfied, she drew in a deep, cold draught of air, gave Jed the signal, and cut Zephyr loose.

  For almost an hour, they circled the park, slowing as they reached the footpaths, and thundering along the bridal lanes where possible. All the while, Jed stayed on her heels, watching out for her, yet urging her forward in their enduring competition to see who was the more bruising rider—not that they could kick up their heels much in Town.

  Finally, she slowed her horse to a walk and let Zephyr pick his way back along Rotten Row. The ride had had its hoped-for effect. Her head was clear, her hands steady. Last night was becoming a real and rational problem, rather than the dream it had seemed last night, or the nightmare it had become this morning.

  She was still apprehensive, yes. But by the light of day, she realized there was little she could do to resolve matters. The next move would have to be David’s, heaven help her. Mostly because she had no notion what to do, no understanding of how to go on. No idea as to what she wanted out of this strange, new relationship.

  She knew only that she wanted him—the man he’d been last night. Not the haughty, preening aristocrat he showed the public.

  Yet she had made David a pariah in her own mind for so long that now to be jerked from one mindset and thrust into another left her reeling. And David was as confused as she, Cecilia suspected. Still, the passion which had blazed between them had been like nothing she’d ever known, nothing she’d ever dreamed of.

  But any blaze could burn itself out, and rather quickly, too. She was well aware that David had taken many lovers, and had stayed with none of them above a few weeks. So what hope did she, with her inexperience, have against such odds? Deeply, Cecilia sighed. It was time to go home. Time to set aside this obsession with David for the nonce, since it could not be resolved.

  And so Cecilia forced her attention to the mission—specifically, the mysterious deaths of Mary and Meg. Clearly, Chief Inspector de Rohan felt she could be of help in his investigation, even if David disagreed. And so she had decided that this afternoon she would take a carriage ride along Black Horse Lane. She very much wished to see the house known as Mother Derbin’s. Sometimes a woman’s eye noticed things which a man’s did not.

  She gave Jed the signal to head homeward and reined uphill. But at that moment, she saw the two gentlemen, still standing by the edge of the Serpentine. Cecilia could not see the first man’s face, but the second man was elderly, his long face pinched and pale. Abruptly, he turned away and set off slowly toward the Knightsbridge Road. Attired in a long gray coat and a very elegant hat, the man walked with an uneven gait, as if he favored one leg. Suddenly, he turned onto a graveled path, revealing a glimpse of his walking stick which reflected a dull silver in the daylight.

  A faint memory stirred. Cecilia cut her gaze back to the man by the water. But Edmund Rowland had already spied her. “Good morning, Lady Walrafen,” he called out, lifting his hand as he approached her.

  Cecilia had no choice but to stop and acknowledge him. “Good morning, Mr. Rowland.”

  “What a charming sight you make on such a dreary day,” he said, moving as if to snare Zephyr’s bridle.

  But the feisty gelding took exception to Edmund, jerking his head away with a hearty equine snort. The result was damp and disastrous. Shaking off his hand, Edmund reached delicately with the other, withdrawing a linen handkerchief from his pocket.

  “My deepest apologies, Mr. Rowland,” exclaimed Cecilia, trying to maintain a straight face as Edmund wiped his cuff. “I’m afraid the cold makes Zephyr’s nose run. And unfortunately, he’s a bit skittish of strangers.”

  Rowland smiled up at her tightly and shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Then it seems I must befriend both horse and mistress,” he smoothly returned. “Come, my dear, will you not dismount and take a stroll along the water?”

  Cecilia was left in an awkward position. Rowland was now a very generous benefactor of the mission, thanks to her conniving. It seemed churlish to refuse him, and so she allowed him to help her dismount and gave her reins over to Jed.

  Lightly, Edmund curled his hand beneath her elbow. “I have often heard it said that the beautiful Lady Walrafen sits a horse better than any other woman in London,” he proclaimed as they strolled toward the water. “But I had scarcely credited it until I saw you with my own eyes. And that horse! Why, I am persuaded that few men could handle such a big, magnificent beast.”

  A warm glow swept up Cecilia’s face, and her dislike of Edmund was fleetingly forgotten. “Why, thank you, Mr. Rowland,” she said, knowing full well that her horsemanship was her only vanity. “I must confess, I love riding above all things.”

  Edmund’s brows rose elegantly, and it seemed he tightened his grip on her elbow. “Above all things?” he said softly. “Why, I’m almost sorry to hear it. How dreadfully... confining it sounds.”

  Cecilia suspected at once what he was about, subtle though he was. “I live a rather confining life, Mr. Rowland,” she returned a little sharply. “And I very much prefer it that way.”

  Edmund looked stunned. “My dear child!” he said gently. “I perceive I have insulted you! That was far from my intent. Indeed, I wish merely to be your friend.”

  “My friend?” returned Cecilia, trying to suppress the suspicion in her voice.

  “Simply that,” insisted Edmund as they drew alongside a bench. Reluctantly, she sat, and to her relief, he situated himself at a proper distance. “And as both your admiring friend,” he continued, “as well as my cousin Cole’s nearest relation, I’m grateful for this opportunity to speak with you privately—” He stopped abruptly, looking suddenly uncertain.

  “Yes—?” urged Cecilia.

  Edmund gave a bemused smile and shook his head. “No, no, my dear.” He cast his gaze heavenward. “I should be horsewhipped for airing such contemptible speculation. Let us speak of more mundane things. Tell me, do you go to Lady Kirton’s tea on Friday? I believe that Anne and I have had the honor to be invited. And to the ball as well. No doubt she is grateful for our donation to your worthy institution.”

  The remark about invitations passed almost unheard. “What sort of speculation?” Cecilia asked very softly.

  Edmund tossed his hand in a disdainful gesture. “Lady Walrafen, a virtuous woman should never heed innuendo. Nor pay any mind to even the merest expectation of gossip.”

  “Mr. Rowland,” she said tightly. “I believe I must insist.”

  Edmund looked deeply aggrieved. “Oh, very well,” he whispered, cutting a glance toward Jed, who stood some distance away. “I am sure that Cole, in his airy, impulsive way, gave no thought to the appearance of the thing—” He stopped again and looked away.

  “The appearance of what?” she insisted, growing increasingly ill at ease.

  Edmund’s gaze returned to hers, holding it unsteadily. “Of your working so closely with that scoundrel Delacourt,” he blurted out. “I mean—really—what was my cousin thinking? Everyone knows you jilted that man, and with good reason. After all, you were so very innocent, and he was already... well, already what he is. Moreover, Delacourt is the vengeful sort. But now, to have it written down! Really, it is too awful!”

  Cecilia felt as if she might be sick. “Written... down?”

  Edmund looked truly miserable now. “The, er, the betting books at Brooks’s. I fear the odds are very much against you, my dear. And the speculation—well, it is not a pretty one.”

  Edmund’s meaning was plain, and given such news six years ago, Cecilia Markham-Sands would have promptly bent over and cast up her accounts in the grass. But the Countess of Walrafen would sooner die. Well—that, and the fact that the countess had had no breakfast to speak of.

  So, instead, Cecilia threw back her shoulders and drew herself up, stiffening her spine as if she were a queen. “Mr. Rowland, I’m sure you mean well,�
� she said gravely. “But Lord Delacourt and I have no differences. Indeed, I believe I can safely say that we are... yes, that we are friends now. If people choose to speculate that our relationship is anything more, then I fear they shall find themselves rather lighter in the pocket for its.”

  Edmund leaned over and patted her gently on the shoulder. “My dear, I confess, you have greatly relieved my mind. For some reason which escapes me—account it a devotion to family duty, if you will—I fear that my dear cousin will hold me responsible should any ill come to you whilst he’s away.”

  Cecilia managed a weak smile. She wouldn’t have guessed Cole and Edmund were particularly close. In truth, it took her aback. Had she misjudged Edmund? She thought not.

  “Then rest assured your family duty is done,” she answered. Then, deliberately, she changed the subject. “Now, you must tell me—who was that very tall gentleman I saw you speaking with? He looked quite familiar.”

  Edmund furrowed his brow. “I rather doubt he is anyone with whom you might be acquainted.”

  Suddenly, Cecilia recalled the walking stick. “Oh, I know! He was a guest at your soiree.”

  “No, my dear, you’re mistaken.”

  “Oh, no, I’m very sure I saw him there.”

  Lightly, Edmund laughed. “You may well have seen him. In the corridor, perhaps? But he was not a guest, just my broker—Leadenhall Street, don’t you know,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “And a Jew. So, certainly not anyone whom one would invite to one’s parties.”

  Cecilia thought his attitude rather cruel. “Oh? How dreadful to be disturbed in the middle of an entertainment,” she responded rather coolly.

  “Quite,” returned Edmund, perfectly oblivious. “But there were some papers which most urgently required my signature. By the way, I trust that Walrafen left your affairs in good order? I do not mean to pry, my dear, but I have quite a head for business. Should you ever have any concerns, you have only to call upon me.”

  “Thank you,” she said firmly. “But Giles is forever offering the very same sort of guidance, and no doubt wishes I’d heed it more often.” Cecilia had no inclination to discuss business, particularly not with Edmund Rowland. Nor with Giles, for that matter. She managed her own affairs, as far as the law permitted, and she was perfectly adept at doing so.