A Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

  Lifting one finger from the table, Cecilia looked as if she might speak. Rapidly, David continued. “It seems they had a rendezvous there with two French sailors, and one can only assume they saw something they oughtn’t, for that very night they packed their things and fled with the younger sister in tow.”

  As a precaution, David slipped his foot from his shoe just in case he should be required to kick Cecilia in the shin.

  De Rohan seemed not to notice anything amiss. “And did your songbird have an opinion about what they had seen?”

  Cecilia opened her mouth as if to answer. Swiftly, David moved to intercede. Unfortunately, at the last second, he decided to aim for her ankle, and when his toes brushed beneath her skirts and his flesh skimmed up her calf, the sudden jolt of desire caused his heart to drop into his stomach. He was compelled to fight for control of his tongue.

  “She—ah, she implied that the cellar was being used for smuggling,” he managed.

  “Smuggling?” asked de Rohan archly.

  But to David’s shock, Cecilia had mistaken his gesture and had slipped off her own shoe. Seductively, she slid her stockinged foot along his arch, and up his ankle, leaving a trail of heat along his skin.

  It should have felt silly, almost adolescent. But what it felt was erotic. Deeply so. A mixture of lust and relief coursed through him as Cecilia let her toes play up his shin. At least she no longer seemed indifferent toward him. He struggled to remember de Rohan’s question.

  De Rohan made a soft hiss of impatience. “My lord, did she say there’d been smuggling, or did she not?”

  David tried to focus. “Er—not. Not exactly. She merely suggested it, but whether she knew that for a fact or merely surmised it was not clear to us. Er—to me.”

  “Anything else?” asked de Rohan, apparently oblivious to David’s heated emotions.

  Abruptly, David swallowed hard. To his acute discomfiture, Cecilia was still stroking his leg like a cat, her head tipped slightly back, her lips slightly parted, and her long dark eyelashes almost shut. His insides felt as if they’d been turned to mush, but a part of him was feeling quite the opposite.

  Ruthlessly, David snagged his lip and bit down hard. “Ah—yes,” he managed to answer after the pain cut through his lust. “Yes, indeed. She also claimed that there was a man, a Mr. Smith, who called on Mother Derbin every Monday morning to collect the rent.”

  “And is that all?” asked de Rohan, more impatient now.

  David felt his face flush with warmth. “I believe so.”

  Suddenly, de Rohan looked at him curiously. “My lord, are you well? I hope you have not succumbed to the influenza yourself, for your color has taken a bad turn.”

  At that, Cecilia’s eyes snapped open and her foot fell away.

  Relief coursed through him. David tried to feign surprise at de Rohan’s question. “Why, I am perfectly well,” he announced with a degree of hauteur. “Now, as I was saying, it was her opinion that Mother Derbin was very frightened of this Mr. Smith. Moreover, Mr. Smith possessed a key to the cellars. Unfortunately, Mr. Smith does not answer Rutledge’s description by any stretch of the imagination.”

  De Rohan laughed bitterly. “Mr. Smith is probably just a lackey,” he answered. “A man with Rutledge’s family connections mightn’t wish to sully his hands with the goods.”

  “A good point,” responded David. “And as for my songbird, whatever she knows—or doesn’t know—she’s not apt to speak with the police or give evidence of any sort.”

  Slowly, de Rohan nodded. “And so you mean to break into this cellar, do you not?”

  “Well,” David coolly responded, “you know what we aristocrats are like when we get bored.”

  De Rohan’s eyes narrowed. “I really don’t think I wish to hear any more about this.”

  Faintly, David smiled. “I thought not.”

  De Rohan’s black expression relaxed just a bit. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you see reason.”

  David waved one hand airily. “Oh, do not mistake me, de Rohan. I’m going. And I rather doubt you’ll attempt to stop me. But I understand completely if you choose not to be involved.”

  At that, the police inspector shoved his leather folio across the table with disdain. His eyes flashed, black and vicious. “You put me in an untenable position, my lord.”

  “There’s nothing untenable about it,” answered David. “I mean to go.”

  Obviously no longer able to restrain herself, Cecilia burst in. “My God, David! Do you mean to get yourself shot—or worse?”

  De Rohan smiled grimly. “She is right, you know.”

  “I mean to go,” David slowly repeated, fixing his stare on de Rohan. “And yes, I agree that you’d best be out of it.”

  “You know I cannot do that,” the policeman bit out. “You’re apt to get yourself killed. And I can assure you that a dead peer in the East End will draw a vast deal more attention than any sort of smuggling you care to name.”

  “Regrettably, I’ve done far more stupid things than break into the cellar of a whorehouse,” said David with a tight smile. “So, touching though it is, I wish you would not overly concern yourself with my welfare.”

  “What I wish,” said de Rohan, his glower darkening, “is that the Home Office had sent this bloody case to Bow Street where it belongs.”

  Lightly, David lifted his brows. “Then shall we say tonight?”

  Angrily, de Rohan flipped open his folio and took up his pencil. “Blister it! What time?”

  “Well,” said David softly. “That all depends on whether or not you wish to accompany me first to St. James’s. There is a gaming hell in Jermyn Street which Mr. Rutledge frequents.”

  Finally, Cecilia shoved herself a little away from the table. “Really, David! You go too far. You are like to get yourself hurt if you insist on poking about in this matter.”

  De Rohan tilted his head toward Cecilia. “She is right, of course.”

  David turned his gaze on Cecilia. “I am apt to get hurt?” he asked archly. “And who, madam, was the one who insisted upon going inside—” He let his words break away, then began again, more conciliatory. “Look here, we none of us want someone else harmed. But what if it is Kitty next time? We cannot hide her forever.”

  Cecilia blinked a little too rapidly and looked away. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, I take your point.”

  De Rohan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Belatedly, David realized that their argument had taken on the tone of a lovers’ spat. “I cannot attend a club in St. James’s,” the policeman said firmly. “I have neither the clothing nor the credentials for admission.”

  “It’s a hell, not a club, so the only credential is to look like a well-heeled wastrel,” said David with a casual shrug. “So if you’re in my company, you’ll be admitted without question. Come to Curzon Street at nine o’clock tonight, and my man will fit you out. Really, you want only a different coat, perhaps a silk neck cloth. Kemble will see to it.”

  De Rohan’s discomfort appeared to increase. Abruptly, Cecilia butted in. “I mean to go as well,” she said firmly. “I shall be at your house by nine.”

  “Absolutely not. It is not appropriate for a lady.”

  Cecilia rolled her eyes. “Oh, David, that is ridiculous, and you know it! Besides, which hell do you mean to visit?”

  “Lufton’s,” he snappishly admitted.

  Cecilia spread her arms wide, lifting her shoulders expressively. “Well, there you have it! It is a hell, yes, but not an especially grim one. Some married women and widows go there. As for you, Inspector de Rohan, you will blend in perfectly well. Moreover, I daresay it will look far less suspicious if the three of us go together.”

  “She is right, you know,” de Rohan said for what seemed like the fifteenth time.

  David looked at him darkly. “Why must you keep saying that? Do you agree with every harebrained woman whose path you cross? I vow, you must be a married man. Your defenses seem to have been wo
rn down by them.”

  “Them?” Cecilia’s brows went up. “Who, pray tell, is them?”

  David found himself at a loss for words. But clearly, de Rohan had had enough of their arguing. He shoved back his chair and jerked to his feet, snaring his folio from the table. “Tonight at nine o’clock, then,” he said gruffly. “I bloody well don’t like it, but I will go.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  In Which Her Ladyship Receives Some Prudent Advice

  Cecilia found afternoon tea at Lady Kirton’s a trying affair indeed. Giles had arrived at the mission in one of his haughtier moods, a state which had not been improved by David’s insistence on escorting her down to his waiting carriage. The two men seemed to dislike one another on sight.

  She and Giles had arrived to find that Lady Kirton’s drawing room was hot and overcrowded, the company abysmally dull. People drifted from one part of the room to another, speaking to those they knew and showering congratulations on the affianced couple. Cecilia was happy to add her good wishes, but she should have preferred to do it without Edmund Rowland breathing down her neck.

  Was it impossible to offend the man, she wondered? Or should she simply attempt to extort another five thousand pounds from him as punishment for inflicting his company upon her? Terribly tempted, Cecilia stood with her teacup in hand, watching Giles and the other guests mill about the happy couple. Beside her, Edmund yammered on about his bootmaker, his new cabriolet, and his plan to redecorate his home in Mount Street.

  Good God. The man was an insufferable bore.

  Suddenly, a low, feminine voice resonated at her elbow. “Darling,” Anne Rowland purred to her husband. “Do share Lady Walrafen with the rest of us.”

  Cecilia watched Edmund’s face drain of color, like a schoolboy caught out in some bit of wickedness. “But of course, my dear,” he returned, stepping away from Cecilia at once.

  But if Anne Rowland’s request had been motivated by jealousy, Cecilia certainly could not discern it from her expression. Mrs. Rowland was possessed of a dark, brittle beauty, but just now, her countenance was as open and friendly as Cecilia had ever seen it.

  “My dear Lady Walrafen,” she said brightly, offering Cecilia her elbow. “I believe we never had that turn about the room which I promised you at my soiree. How lovely you look. And how handsome your stepson is.”

  Cecilia had little choice but to accept the proffered arm. Over her shoulder, she watched as Edmund turned his attentions toward Lady Kirton.

  Mrs. Rowland inclined her head a little closer to Cecilia’s. “I apologize, my dear,” she said softly. “My husband does tend to drone on rather dreadfully, does he not?”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Rowland,” Cecilia lied. “I find him most diverting.”

  At that, Anne Rowland tilted back her head and laughed richly, a hauntingly familiar sound. “My dear girl,” she replied, her voice brimming with humor. “Such tact must have stood you in good stead during your marriage to Walrafen.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cecilia managed to reply. “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

  “Well, it is just that some husbands can be a bit tedious, can they not?” answered Anne Rowland in a confessional tone.

  They had made the turn to walk back down the length of the room. “I never found Walrafen boring,” answered Cecilia softly, “if that’s what you mean. In truth, I scarcely saw him. He was very busy with his political career.”

  Mrs. Rowland simply nodded. “But now, my dear, you’re a widow. You are free to do as you please, and many women would envy your freedom. But then, I daresay a clever woman can always find a way around a man’s dictates.”

  Cecilia looked at her uncertainly. “I wouldn’t know,” she said simply. “I don’t think Walrafen ever dictated to me.” In truth, he’d paid very little attention to her one way or another, but Cecilia was not about to admit that to Anne Rowland.

  But it seemed that Mrs. Rowland ascribed another meaning to her remark. “No, perhaps he did not, at that,” she mused. “Perhaps he did not dare.”

  Cecilia felt distinctly uncomfortable. It must have shown in her face, for suddenly, Anne Rowland lost a little of her color. “Oh, my! I hope you do not think I am implying that dear Edmund bullies me? We have the most congenial of marriages.”

  “I am relieved,” said Cecilia a little breathlessly. But inwardly, she wondered if Anne were afraid of her husband.

  Anne simply smiled, patting Cecilia on the hand, and changed the subject. “Now, my dear, tell me about this mission of yours. I own, Edmund speaks of it incessantly.”

  “But of course,” said Cecilia smoothly. “Nothing should please me more, given that you and Mr. Rowland are such generous benefactors.”

  Anne’s face brightened. “As I told Lady Kirton,” she said fervently, “Edmund is very keen upon paying you a visit. And he wishes me to find a way to be of help to your organization.”

  Cecilia could see no way out of it. “We should be honored.”

  “In fact, I have already thought of a small way in which I can assist.” Mrs. Rowland smiled, a look of genuine warmth. “I need, you know, a new lady’s maid. You do let your girls be taken into service, do you not? I heard you had obtained yours in just such a way, and your hair—well, it is always so cleverly done.”

  Nervously, Cecilia put up one hand to pat the back of her hair, finding only the usual untidy mass of tumbling curls. Had Etta unknowingly set some sort of trend? Cecilia wanted to laugh. “Well, we do not precisely let our women be taken into service,” she demurred.

  Mrs. Rowland looked surprised. “No?”

  Cecilia shook her head. “They choose a job which interests them, and we try to facilitate the training. Etta was simply bold enough to choose highly, and I thought she ought to have the opportunity. That’s all.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Rowland, looking vaguely confused. “I daresay Edmund will wish me to think of something else, then.”

  But at that moment, Giles came sweeping across the room toward them, bearing an ancient, doddering dowager on his arm. It was Lady Kirton’s elderly aunt from Shropshire, to whom she had been promised an introduction. But apparently, ancient dowagers held no interest for Mrs. Rowland. Gently, she patted Cecilia on the hand again. “I must go,” she said softly. “But a bit of parting advice, if I may be bold?”

  Mystified, Cecilia nodded. “Of course.”

  “Your handsome stepson, my dear,” Mrs. Rowland whispered. “You really should be seen less often in his company. A snarling guard dog tends to put off suitors.” And then she drifted away and into the crowd.

  ———

  By a quarter past nine, the tension inside Lord Delacourt’s dressing room could have been cut with a knife. And Max de Rohan looked as if he wished to brandish his own—and use it on his lordship’s valet.

  With his chin pinched thoughtfully between his thumb and forefingers, Kemble circled the police officer, first this way, then that, like a spinning top which hadn’t quite found its center. Periodically, he made odd little clicking noises in the back of his throat.

  Seton, the laundry maid who had been brought in on the off chance that some emergency stitchery might be required, stood in quiet awe to one side. Across one arm she held a black superfine coat, and across the other, six luminescent silk neck cloths. Clearly, Kemble had whipped her into shape, for her eyes were round as saucers.

  At last, Kemble ceased his pacing and let his hand fall away from his chin. “Extraordinary,” he announced, glancing at David. “Simply extraordinary. The calves are of an excellent length, and the shoulders! Almost perfect!”

  David let his gaze run down de Rohan’s length. “He’s taller, and rather heavier, don’t you think?” he said, looking at Kemble uncertainly.

  De Rohan’s black eyes flashed. “I’m not one of your bloody overbred horses being sold off at Tattersall’s, Delacourt.”

  David’s gaze drifted back up again. “Forgive me, sir,” he smoothly responded. “I perceive
that we have offended you. Don’t take it personally. For good or ill, gentlemen of fashion talk of such things all day long.”

  “No wonder you wish for a second career as a cracksman,” sneered de Rohan. “You must be bloody bored to tears.”

  “Do you know,” mused David, quite unoffended, “I rather think that I was.”

  Suddenly, Kemble’s wrist flicked out and he snapped his fingers twice. Seton hastened forward, and after his hand hovered over her outstretched arm for a moment, Kemble lifted one of the cravats and delicately draped it around de Rohan’s neck.

  Again, he stepped back, running an appraising eye down de Rohan’s length. “He has a few inches on you, my lord,” said the valet as if they’d never strayed from their topic. “But the trousers are of a good material, and so they will do. The coat is... not irredeemable. But the waistcoat—no, no, no!”

  As de Rohan rolled his eyes, Kemble fashioned the cravat into the flawless folds of a mail coach. Then he stepped back, frowned, and rewrapped it even more simply. “Stock!” he cried out, and Seton darted forth with the stiff black fabric. Expertly, Kemble fastened it, then nodded. “Excellent! Severe, yes. But with his black hair and good neck, he wears it well.”

  “Well indeed,” said David appreciatively. “What about the waistcoat?”

  Kemble snapped his fingers again and motioned toward the rack of waistcoats. “The crimson one, Seton,” he ordered. “Fetch it here, if you please.”

  David gasped in outrage. “But—but—but that’s my raven’s blood! You said it had to go! You said only a raging lunatic would wear it!”

  “Well, that’s that,” muttered de Rohan. “The bloody thing was surely meant for me.”

  Ignoring de Rohan’s aside, Kemble lifted his brows in disdain. “You dare to question moi?” he asked David archly. “His coloring is different! His skin is swarthy! It looks good on him, whereas on you, it looks like a gunshot wound.”

  “But—but—” David tried to protest.

  Kemble turned to de Rohan and patted him neatly on the chest. “I hope you’ll feel free to keep it, Inspector,” he said quietly. “And now, the coat, Seton. Then you may go.”