by Liz Carlyle
David could see that the battle for the crimson waistcoat was lost. He sighed and moved on to less divisive issues. “You have sent Kitty on her way to Derbyshire?” he asked Kemble as de Rohan was eased into his coat.
Kemble gave a neat jerk on the coat cuffs, then nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, she and the two runners started off around mid-afternoon,” he explained, cutting a quick glance toward David. “And yes, I did speak with the girl at some length. You have the right of it, I collect—what little you have. She knows almost nothing, save for the fact that her sister went into the cellar with two men whom Miss McNamara knew well. French sailors, she says. And recently arrived from India on a merchantman—”
At that, David jerked to attention. “A merchantman? Do you know the name?”
The scowl slipped from de Rohan’s face to be replaced by a look of acute interest. He stepped incrementally closer.
Kemble’s glance shifted back and forth between the two of them. “She did not know, but it seems that Miss McNamara’s friendship with these men was of long standing, and she knew when they were expected in port.”
David turned to de Rohan. “It seems Mr. Rutledge came in from India on the Queen of Kashmir several weeks ago. There, perhaps, is another of your coincidences which does not exist.”
“Perhaps.” De Rohan paused pensively. “It will be a simple matter to check the ownership and registration of the Queen of Kashmir. And depending on her schedule, we might be able to roust some of the crew if it comes to that.”
David sighed and picked up his black evening cloak. “Well,” he said wearily, “let’s get on with this, de Rohan. The night lies before us, and we have much to do if we are to go from St. James’s to Black Horse Lane. For my part, though, I wish we had a few hours to catch some sleep.”
De Rohan barked with laughter. “What you’d best wish for, Delacourt, is someone who can pick locks—quickly and in the dark, too.”
In the process of selecting a pin for de Rohan’s cravat, Kemble’s hand froze over the jewelry box. Slowly, his head turned toward David. “You wish to have a lock picked?”
“Er—yes,” admitted David. Suddenly, he felt a shaft of hope. Inquiringly, he lifted his brows. “But surely you cannot...?”
Slightly alarmed, Kemble’s gaze flew to the police officer and then back to David. Then he lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “Oh, why not?” he returned, selecting a small oval ruby and poking it into de Rohan’s cravat. “When and where?”
———
It would have been too much to hope, David inwardly considered, that perhaps Cecilia had failed to show up for their appointed mission. It was. She sat upon the long brocade sofa just inside his mother’s morning room, her gloved hands demurely folded. As soon as she saw them descend the stairs, she rose and swiftly crossed the distance between them.
Her face flushed with anticipation, Cecilia wore a daring dress of dark rose with a gossamer shawl to match. The color should have clashed with her hair, but instead, it brought out the golden blonde highlights and deepened the blue of her eyes.
“Inspector de Rohan!” she exclaimed, taking him by the hands and lifting them as if she might dance him about the room. “How handsome you look! And that stunning waistcoat! Pigeon’s blood, is it not?”
“Raven’s blood,” muttered David.
“Yes, that’s it!” agreed Cecilia. “I’ve never seen anything half so elegant.”
De Rohan looked acutely uncomfortable. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, drawing his hands away.
“Oh, dear,” said Cecilia with a frown. “We’d best call you Mr. de Rohan tonight, oughtn’t we? And David,” she added, smiling at him as if he were an afterthought, “you are looking very well, too.”
The carriage awaited in the street. David offered his arm and escorted Cecilia out and down the steps. “Where is Lucifer tonight, Mr. de Rohan?” asked Cecilia, looking disappointedly over her shoulder.
“He does not care for formal affairs, my lady,” the officer solemnly returned. “He begs to be excused.”
Cecilia laughed, and soon they were off and traveling the short distance to St. James’s. But they had not yet reached Half Moon Street when Cecilia attempted a coup d’état. “I’ve decided we need to alter our plan,” she said, lifting one finger delicately.
“Have you indeed?” David archly replied.
“Yes,” she said with a succinct nod. “After reconsidering, I fancy we will arouse less suspicion if we go in separately. I shall go first, and take Mr. de Rohan with me. I shall introduce him as my cousin come down from Upper Brayfield to see the sights and sins of town.”
“Why, my dear,” said David, staring at her across the darkened carriage. “I did not know your mother was so... continental.”
“Lady Walrafen,” said de Rohan gently. “We really do look nothing alike.”
Cecilia was undeterred. “My mother’s distant cousin—she was a nobody, the daughter of the local squire—so no one will know the difference. Then, David, you will wait five minutes and come in behind us.”
David crossed his arms over his chest. “I cannot see why this is necessary,” he grumbled.
Cecilia lifted her chin. “I shall tell you why, my lord. If you and I go in together, it will set half the room on its ear, and you know why. Any hope of discretion will be lost to us.”
“Oh, very well,” complained David. “But perhaps you ought to have thought of that before you insisted upon joining in.”
Inwardly, however, he knew that Cecilia was right. David very much wished to slip unnoticed through the crowd, ascertaining who the regular gamesters were, asking a few pointed questions of Lufton’s staff. Indeed, bribing them if necessary. And he would just as soon do that away from de Rohan’s disapproving eye. His only purpose in bringing the police inspector along was the hope that de Rohan might get a good look at Bentham Rutledge, on the off chance that he might recognize the fellow. And of course, they might have the opportunity to see him again elsewhere.
Left with little recourse, David turned to de Rohan, who sat beside him on the seat. “You will look after her, then,” he ordered gruffly. “Now, do either of you know enough about play to bumble through this?”
Cecilia laughed. “Oh, I can play, my lord. I am a vicious whist player, and not bad at the loo table, if they have one. And Jed and Harry taught me to play hazard.”
David made a sound of exasperation. “You will not play hazard,” he warned her darkly.
“You may watch me play, my lady,” said de Rohan kindly. “I am not a bad hand at it. Or, if you wish, we may play at maccao.”
The plan thusly agreed to, Cecilia and de Rohan alit at the door. The porters recognized neither of them, but it took only a glance at Cecilia’s elegant coach and de Rohan’s ruby stickpin to win them admittance. Inside, the place was filled with a surge of people. A few moved from room to room socializing and seeking play, but many more were already bent frantically over card games or hazard tables. The few ladies present played strictly at cards, and along the fringes of the room, Cecilia caught sight of one or two of London’s more exclusive demimondaines, clinging to the arms of their benefactors.
Together, she and de Rohan strolled through the rooms, Cecilia staring first to her left and then to her right. The walls were ostentatiously hung with a tabaret of gold silk, and matching carpets of gold and red adorned the floors. Each room was lit by huge chandeliers with wall sconces strategically placed along the walls above the card tables. It took but a few moments before heads began to turn and lips began to whisper as the players caught sight of Cecilia on the arm of an arresting olive-skinned man no one recognized.
Stiffening her spine, Cecilia merely smiled and nodded at those who similarly greeted her. Suddenly, she caught sight of Sir Clifton Ward playing at a nearby hazard table. The young baronet was a particular friend of Giles’s. And he was coming their way. Drat it, Giles would ring a peel over her head for sure now. There was no hope of escape.
At once, Cecilia tilted her head toward de Rohan’s. “Mr. de Rohan, I fear I have forgotten—what is your Christian name?”
“Maximilian.” The word was a whisper. “Or just Max.”
Sir Clifton came boldly toward them and bowed. “Lady Walrafen,” he said, lifting her hand as he raised one brow in barely suppressed disapproval. “What a pleasant surprise. Does Giles know that you are here?”
“Giles?” Cecilia felt her knees give. “Surely he is not playing?”
The baronet shook his head. “Not at present, no.”
At once, Cecilia recovered her manners and introduced the two men. “Max de Rohan?” mused Sir Clifton, flicking a curious gaze down the inspector’s length. “From Upper Brayfield, no less! Welcome to London. You must let me know if there is anything I can do to facilitate your enjoyment of town.”
Just then, one of the players shrugged his shoulders in resignation. Cecilia could not see his face, but he stepped away into the shadows, as if he now meant merely to observe. Cecilia seized the opportunity. “My cousin wishes to play at hazard,” she interjected breathlessly. “And I should very much like to watch, if that is permitted? Would you mind terribly?”
“Not at all.” Sir Clifton waved an expansive arm toward the table.
In short order, de Rohan had taken his place, and play had recommenced. Cecilia stood behind Sir Clifton and Max de Rohan, one eye on the table, the other scanning the room for David. Surely, more than five minutes had passed. Where was he? She was beginning to suspect he’d been right in telling her she had no business coming here. The heated desperation of the crowd made her acutely ill at ease, and the women in attendance looked as wan and feverish as the men.
Suddenly, Cecilia felt an intense warmth radiating along her arm. Instinctively, she sensed that the man who had abandoned his place at the table had stepped from the shadows to watch more closely.
“Fair cyprian?” inquired the soft, suggestive voice near her ear. “Or jaded wife?”
Shocked, Cecilia jerked away. “Sir,” she said haughtily, snapping her head to eye him over her shoulder. “I believe we’ve not been properly intro—” At once, her words failed, for she was staring straight into the face of the handsome young man she’d seen at Mother Derbin’s.
Almost bashfully, Bentham Rutledge lowered his gaze, brushing a knuckle across his upper lip as if missing a newly shaved mustache. “Oh, dear,” he said quietly, looking up at her from beneath a pair of dark, heavy eyebrows. “I’ve rendered you speechless. I often have just such an effect on women. I never know whether to be pleased or wounded.”
“In this case, sir, you may settle upon wounded,” snapped Cecilia, coming suddenly to her senses. “And widow, to answer your first question. Now, do go away.”
Rutledge looked deeply contrite, and to her surprise, he backed away with a subservient bow. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, his voice suddenly grave. “I have insulted you, when I meant only to flirt.”
To her shock, Cecilia realized he really did mean to withdraw. In fact, he looked genuinely distressed. What the devil was she thinking? This was an unhoped-for opportunity. At once, she pressed her fingertips to her temple. “Forgive me, Mr.—?”
A faint look of hope crossed Rutledge’s face, and he stepped forward a pace. “Rutledge,” he returned, clasping his hands before him like a choirboy. “The Dishonorable Bentham Rutledge, at your service. However, you may call me Hell-Bent if you wish,” he added, a beatific smile spreading across his face. “All the very best people do.”
Cecilia fought the grin which threatened at one corner of her mouth. “Well, Mr. Rutledge,” she responded a little more civilly. “You must forgive me, for I fear I am suffering from the headache. I daresay it makes me snappish. I am Cecilia, Lady Walrafen.”
Rutledge’s expressive eyes widened at that. “So... definitely not a fair cyprian,” he said in a disappointed voice. “I confess, I had hoped to steal you away from whoever had been fool enough to bring you here, and offer you my protection.”
“Protection hardly appears to be what you would offer any woman, sir,” she said smoothly.
At that, Rutledge threw back his head and laughed, his dark eyes crinkling handsomely at the corners. “God help me,” he said, “but I do tend to fall in love with witty, sharp-tongued women.” He lowered his head and looked at her intently. “Whatever do you think will become of me, my lady?”
“It is quite likely,” said Cecilia warningly, “that one of those witty women will eventually hoist you by your own petard, Mr. Rutledge, and flay you with the edge of her sharp tongue for the rest of your life.”
“Good God!” Rutledge feigned an expression of agony. “My petard shrivels at the thought.”
Cecilia felt her face turned three shades of red. Even Rutledge looked suddenly aghast. “Oh, dear,” he said miserably. “I’ve done it again, have I not?”
“Done what?”
Rutledge looked penitent. “Insulted another rich and beautiful woman. And now you’ll never agree to run away with me and support me in the style to which I wish to become accustomed.”
Again, Cecilia found herself struggling against laughter. “A refusal is precisely what you deserve,” she chided. “Indeed, Mr. Rutledge, what a man like you wants is a serious-minded wife and a half-dozen children to keep you out of mischief.”
Was it her imagination, or did Rutledge looked suddenly stricken? For a long moment, he studied her with a gravity she would not have guessed he possessed. “Do you know,” he finally said, “I have recently begun to wonder if you mightn’t be right. But alas, I can think of no one who would have me.”
Cecilia was shocked by the strange undertone of despondency in his voice. She stared up at him, now only dimly aware of the rattle of the dice box. In the distance, she heard de Rohan call an eight. Laughter and hearty backslapping followed. And still Rutledge held her gaze, his eyes oddly shimmering. Logically, she knew that such a man was dangerous, that he could probably enthrall a woman like a snake charmer. But emotionally, she could not help but react. His emotions were not feigned. Surely she would know.
“Persevere, Mr. Rutledge,” advised Cecilia gently. “Use that obvious charisma of yours, and decent women will fall at your feet.”
Rutledge smiled weakly, and Cecilia was left with the impression that she had struck a nerve, though how, and in what way, she did not quite understand. Again, he fell silent, merely staring at her. “Have you ever wished for children, Lady Walrafen?” he finally asked.
Fleetingly, Cecilia thought she’d misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”
“Children,” he repeated awkwardly. “You see, I’m given to understand that most women do want them—indeed, that they want them very desperately.”
Now Rutledge had struck a nerve. A deep one. Strangely, Cecilia found herself wanting to slap him for his impertinence.
But he had not meant to be impertinent, had he? The hint of grief yet lingered in his face. He did not know her, could not begin to understand—or care about—her secret pain. What a strange young man he was. And how peculiar it felt to be here, in this place, engaged in what had begun as a silly flirtation but had somehow become an intensely personal conversation. And yet, Cecilia was left with the oddest impression that they were both dancing around dark edges which neither knew existed. And that they were both perfectly sincere.
“Yes,” she said quietly, willing her voice not to choke. “I should very much like children. And what of yourself, Mr. Rutledge? Would you?”
At that, Rutledge laughed, but it was a sharp, almost brittle sound. “My dear Lady Walrafen,” he said archly. “I daresay I already have a few. That’s the way of us incorrigibles, don’t you know.”
Cecilia should not have been surprised, particularly with a man like Rutledge. But strangely, she was. And she was shocked, too, at the sudden chill in his voice. “And just how old are you, Mr. Rutledge, if I may make so bold?”
Such a personal q
uestion was a mistake. The faint edge of grief had already slipped away. Abruptly, the irreverent light flared anew in his eyes. Until that moment, Cecilia had not realized how close Rutledge stood, but now, she could feel his body heat.
“I am just turned three-and-twenty,” Rutledge softly answered, lowering his lashes and bending his head as if he fully intended to brush her lips with his. “Come, my lady—will you not kiss a young rogue happy birthday?”
Suddenly, Cecilia felt a proprietary, iron-hard grip clamp down on her bare shoulder. “Cecilia, my darling,” growled David, jerking her back against the wall of his chest. “Collect your cousin. Now. It is time we went home.”
A dark sneer had spread across Rutledge’s face. “Why, we meet again, my Lord Delacourt,” he said very formally. “I’m shocked.”
“For my part,” snapped David, “we seem to meet altogether too often.”
Rutledge looked suddenly bored. “I confess, my lord,” he said very quietly, casting his gaze about the room as he withdrew a silver cigar case from his coat pocket. “I grow excessively weary of this game we seem to be playing. Are you not man enough to put an end to it?”
“If it is an end you seek, Rutledge,” David snapped, “then I am man enough to put a period to your existence at Chalk Farm tomorrow morning.”
Cecilia gasped at the blatant threat, her knees almost buckling beneath her weight. The hand clutching her shoulder went immediately to her waist, anchoring her to David’s side. At least half a dozen people were staring at them now, and they could not possibly mistake the possessiveness of his gesture or the anger in his tone.
Rutledge cut a swift glance at Cecilia. “Perhaps we should defer this discussion to another time, my lord,” he said, inclining his head in Cecilia’s direction. “But soon, I think. Very soon.”
Cecilia turned about, forcing David either to loosen his grip or to clutch at her like a madman. She was relieved to see that Max de Rohan was watching them out of the corner of one eye, and counting out his winnings in preparation to leave. Thank God.