A Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

  David gave a disdainful grunt. “More likely she’s simply disappeared to save her own skin,” he said. “The letter was carefully worded such that should it fall into the wrong hands, there’d be no way Grimes could claim she’d peached on the operation. The important part of the message was conveyed verbally. Were it a trap, she’d hardly have taken such care.”

  Grimly, de Rohan shook his head. “I disagree, Delacourt. You do not know these people as I do. They are far cleverer—and more ruthless—than you give them credit for.”

  Cecilia sat forward in her chair clutching a glass of sherry. “What will you do now, Mr. de Rohan?”

  “We’ll set our own trap,” said de Rohan, his voice hard yet pensive. “But that passageway is very narrow. So we’ll need men in a boat on the river as well.”

  “I want to be there,” said David firmly.

  De Rohan rolled back his shoulders and sat erect in the chair. “This is smuggling,” he said firmly. “A dangerous business—the business of the River Thames Police, to be precise. We don’t even know what sort of situation we will be walking into. Civilians have no business there.”

  David leaned back in his armchair, aimlessly rolling the goblet between his hands, swishing the golden liquid. “But... you will not stop me?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  De Rohan’s mouth drew taut. “I can’t think how such a miracle could be accomplished,” he said caustically.

  David cupped his mouth and nose over the goblet and inhaled with satisfaction. “Good,” he said softly, lifting his gaze to capture de Rohan’s. “Where shall we meet?”

  The inspector shrugged in surrender. “Midnight tomorrow at the Wapping station house. Since they’re allegedly approaching from Blackwall through the Limehouse Reach, I’ll put two boats with two men each in the shadows just upriver. And one man on the street in addition to ourselves. We can risk no more, for there’s no place to hide.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Last Waltz

  Leaning over the balustrade which ringed Lady Kirton’s ballroom, David lifted his glass to his eye, carefully skimming the swirling crowd of dancers. To his frustration, he could find no sign of Cecilia. He had had a devil of a time persuading her to attend as planned, while explaining to her that he certainly could not. And yet, here he was.

  David had already given up trying to understand his behavior where Cecilia was concerned. Even as Kemble was dressing him in his best evening attire, David had kept telling himself that he merely wished to reassure himself that she was accounted for. That she hadn’t gone haring off on another dangerous undertaking. That she was safe.

  And so he had come to Lady Kirton’s affair after all, stuffing a change of clothing inside his carriage and telling himself that so long as he dashed out the door by eleven, all would be well. Oh, he would make his midnight appointment with de Rohan. But first, he meant to have a waltz with Cecilia. Just in case.

  And he was going to hold her most shockingly close, perhaps even allow his hand to drift just a bit lower than was thought proper. If neither his conduct toward her in Lufton’s nor his driving her down Oxford Street had publicly staked his claim, a few moments of blatantly proprietary behavior tonight would certainly do the trick. And as soon as this dreadful mess with de Rohan was resolved, he meant to personally deliver the announcement of their betrothal to the Times, and to every other rag in town, before she had time to change her mind. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d run such an errand—but it would damn sure be the last.

  Just then, he caught sight of her, attired in a dress of shimmering gold satin, her long, burnished tresses swept up elegantly. And she was already waltzing. With Giles Lorimer.

  ———

  As the sound of the violins resonated sweetly through the ballroom, Cecilia felt Giles’s fingers dig into the small of her back. His face had gone white with anger, his eyes glittering and more narrow than she’d ever imagined possible. Good heavens! Giles looked as if he wished to strike her.

  And why had she chosen to break the news here, of all places? Because in truth, she’d had little choice. Though it was none of his business, Giles had already begun to question her long absences from home, and following David’s overprotective actions at Lufton’s, rumor had run rampant—with Sir Clifton Ward waving the flag before it, most likely. So the secret was out.

  But it was her secret. And damn it, she was tired of always arguing with Giles over what was or was not proper. Now, however, the whirling dancers about them, the rhythm of the music, even the oppressive heat of the ballroom seemed to fade from her awareness in the face of Giles’s shocking wrath.

  “Surely you cannot mean this, Cecilia,” Giles hissed, his voice cold and bitter. “You jilted him years ago. Why would you now wish to wed him? Delacourt! My God, Cecilia, you must know what he is!”

  With great effort, Cecilia steadied the smile on her face. “Giles, your fingers are hurting me,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “And yes, I do know what he is. A good and honorable man.”

  “Honorable?” Giles sneered.

  “And good,” she firmly repeated.

  Without missing a step, Giles whipped her into the next turn. To all but the most careful of observers, they doubtless appeared to be enjoying themselves.

  “Cecilia, my dear,” Giles finally said, his tone conciliatory, “you are still very innocent. My father protected you—or perhaps neglected you—to the point that you have not been exposed to the ways of Lord Delacourt’s sort. It won’t do. Believe me when I say you simply cannot marry such a man.”

  “When you say?” Cecilia echoed, no longer able to maintain her amiable façade. “Indeed, Giles, I do not think it is your place to say anything at all.”

  “Damn it, Cecilia, we are—” Giles gritted out the words, slowing his pace as if searching for just the right phrase. “We are family.”

  “I think we are a little more than that,” she retorted. “We are dear friends. Which is why I’ve shared my joy with you. But if you persist in maligning my choice of husband, I fear that our friendship will be in some jeopardy.”

  At her words, so coolly spoken, Giles simply jerked to a halt in the middle of the dance floor. “Your pardon, then, ma’am,” he said bitterly. “I am obviously detrop.And since pressing business calls me elsewhere, I must go.”

  And then, Giles dropped her hands, spun on one heel, and stalked away. Cecilia stared after him in mute amazement, dreading the tittering gossip which was sure to follow such a cut. But suddenly, warm fingers encircled hers, and another man’s hand slid about her waist.

  “How kind of Walrafen to surrender you with such good grace,” whispered David, sweeping her so flawlessly onto the floor, it seemed as if Giles had done precisely that. “I shouldn’t have thought him so generous.”

  “David!” Warmth flooded her body, but Cecilia’s mind snapped to attention, overriding it. “Oh, but listen! Did you get a good look at Edmund Rowland?” she urgently whispered. “He’s in the card room. Half in his cups, too, by the smell of him.”

  “Ah, the romance!” David sighed. “Yes, love, I saw him. It may simply be an act. Perhaps he means to feign intoxication as an excuse to leave early.”

  Uncertainly, Cecilia shook her head. “I don’t know...” she mused. And then, her gaze slid back to David’s. “And as to that, what are you doing here? I thought you did not mean to attend.”

  Deliberately, David pulled her close. And then closer still, scandalously so, until they were no more than six inches apart. “I’m making a statement,” he said, his lips pressed fervently against her ear. “I feared it could not wait, and from the look on Walrafen’s face, I came not a moment too soon.”

  Lightly, Cecilia laughed and pulled incrementally away. “Oh, Giles and I were just arguing. He could not possibly be interested in me.”

  David stared down at her, lifting his brows. “Could he not?” he softly remarked. “Very well, then. But I am interested in you. And
I wish everyone to know it.”

  Demurely, Cecilia lowered her lashes and stared into his shirtfront. “Then I daresay you’ve achieved your objective, my lord,” she chided. “For half the ballroom is now staring at your hand—the one which has worked its way well past my waist.”

  Softly, David chuckled, his breath warm and comforting on her ear. Her argument with Giles forgotten, Cecilia felt suddenly at peace. Just then, the music stopped.

  With obvious reluctance, David released her, stepped away, and made her a neat half-bow. “I thank you for the pleasure, my lady,” he said with an unexpected wink. “My hand looks forward to completing its journey in the near future.”

  His mission accomplished, David returned her to the edge of the dance floor. Oblivious to the crowd, Cecilia turned to press one hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath her palm.

  “You’re leaving, then?” she asked uneasily. “You really do mean to go through with this?”

  David did not bother to ask what this was. “Yes.”

  Impulsively, she seized one of his hands. “You do not need to go, David,” she whispered urgently. “Indeed, I beg you not to do so. You have nothing more to prove to me.”

  Again, he looked at her with that maddeningly nonchalant expression, his brows lightly lifted, his face devoid of fear. “But perhaps, my dear,” he said very quietly, “I have something to prove to myself?”

  And with that, David strolled calmly toward the door.

  “My dear girl!” said a soft, unsteady voice from the knot of people at her elbow. “You seem to dispatch your waltzing partners with an alarming alacrity! That’s the second in the space of five minutes, and both of them headed for the door as if bent upon some life-or-death mission.”

  Despite the prickles of unease which ran up her spine, Cecilia turned and flashed Edmund Rowland her most blinding smile. “It really is most disheartening, Mr. Rowland,” she agreed with spurious despair. “Do you think perhaps I trod upon their toes unknowingly?”

  Delicately, Rowland laughed. “Perhaps you’ve simply accepted the wrong partners, my lady,” he replied, thrusting out his elbow. “Might I have the pleasure of the next?”

  Already, the violins had recommenced. Glancing quickly about the room, Cecilia forced a self-deprecating expression. “I think I dare not risk it,” she whispered. “Perhaps you might fetch me a glass of punch instead?”

  With a civil nod, Edmund was off. But Cecilia’s hope of escaping in order to observe him at a distance was quickly dashed, for soon he returned, not with punch but with two glasses of champagne. “I know this is your favorite,” he simpered, giving her a silly little wink. “I saw you drink it with some relish at our February soiree.”

  With another lame smile, Cecilia took the stem from his hand. Discreetly, and with no small measure of alarm, she observed his condition. If Edmund Rowland were faking inebriation, he deserved a private dressing room at the Theatre Royale. Already there was a slight stagger to his walk, and his eyes were barely focused.

  Unsteadily, he offered her his arm, and for the next half-hour, she was forced to endure his company. When at last she managed to rid herself of him by murmuring something about the ladies’ retiring room, her freedom was short-lived. By the time the clock struck midnight, he was again at her elbow, and showing no sign that he remembered having spoken with her earlier.

  By then, his eyes were bloodshot, his cravat slightly askew. Again, she was subjected to recitation of his holiday plans at Brighton. His wife’s dreadful headache which had sent her to bed betimes. The sorrel hunter he’d sold for a small fortune. And then Edmund spent another quarter-hour crowing about his recent good luck at hazard. Soon, it was apparent that the man did not mean to leave her side, never mind the room.

  By now, they stood near the door to Lady Kirton’s entrance hall. In the distance, Cecilia could hear a clock strike the hour. One o’clock! There was no way, Cecilia weakly realized, that Edmund Rowland was the man de Rohan and David sought. Or, if he was, he plainly did not mean to attend the offloading tonight.

  What if de Rohan and David were simply walking into a trap? It was quite possible. De Rohan had said as much. Indeed, he had tried very hard to keep David away. The realization sent a shaft of fear into the pit of her belly.

  Suddenly, Cecilia knew she had no choice. She must make her way to the river in all haste. Someone had to warn them. “Your pardon, Mr. Rowland,” she said abruptly. “I find that I, too, am suddenly stricken with the headache. I believe I must call for my carriage and go home at once.”

  Without waiting for Rowland’s response, she pushed her way through the crowd and into the entrance hall, hastily retrieving her black velvet cloak from the liveried footman who stood stiffly waiting. Through the door, she could see another servant pacing up and down the pavement as he expertly dispatched the departing carriages into the night’s thick fog.

  With a sinking sensation, Cecilia realized that the line was quite long. There was no way on earth she could summon her carriage and make it to Wapping in time to stop them! Not in this weather. Panic almost choked her, but she fought back with logic. Perhaps a hackney might be had in Piccadilly? Cecilia drew tight her cloak and rushed out the door. In her haste, however, she collided with a tall, broad-shouldered man who stood in the shadows. Her arm caught him squarely in his rock-hard chest.

  “Good God,” muttered an all-too-familiar voice as the man stumbled against the stair rail.

  “Giles!” Cecilia leapt awkwardly aside. “I thought you’d gone.”

  Giles studied her for a moment. “And so I meant to,” he coolly replied, his gaze drifting down her length. “But my leader came up short a shoe and had to be taken to the livery in Mount Street. But look here, Cecilia—what the deuce is the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Desperately, Cecilia cut a glance up and down the street, mentally counting off the carriages. Giles’s equipage stood third in line for departure. “I may as well have,” she said weakly, “for I have the most dreadful emergency!”

  “An emergency?” Giles looked faintly alarmed. “Are you unwell?”

  “Oh, Giles!” Cecilia looked up at him in desperation. “I know you are very put out with me just now, but would you—oh, please, could you take me to Wapping this very minute?”

  “Wapping?” he responded, his voice soft. “Whyever would you wish to go to Wapping, my dear?”

  On the pavement, the footman motioned away the next carriage, and Giles’s rolled nearer the door. Hastily, Cecilia grabbed him by the arm. “Just come on,” she insisted. “I shall tell you all about it once we’re inside.”

  ———

  David had arrived at the Wapping station house a quarter-hour early to find de Rohan, as grim-faced and implacable as ever, awaiting him in the entryway. At once, de Rohan had snapped his fingers, and an eager young constable by the name of Otts had leapt forward to assist.

  With military efficiency, David’s attire was inspected, his weapons—two pistols and a knife—extracted and examined, and, finally, his face wiped down with boot blacking. A second officer had rushed in to tell de Rohan that the police launches were now in position on the water.

  After a few quick words of strategy, they set off on foot, making their way through a fog so thick David simply prayed they didn’t step off an embankment and into the Thames. Yet, de Rohan moved confidently through the night, as if he possessed the vision of a cat and the tenacity of a mule. After a few minutes of walking, they had reached their destination, and Constable Otts had vanished into the night, while he, de Rohan, and the dog had settled down for a long wait.

  They were huddled now behind a half-dozen empty barrels which had been conveniently stacked across the street from the Prospect of Whitby. From such a vantage point, they were able to watch the entrance of the narrow passageway which ran alongside the tavern and back to the river. They could also observe the last of the night’s revelers as they stagge
red out the front door and into the main thoroughfare.

  The pub closed early on Sunday, and, like clockwork, Mr. Pratt came out at midnight to sweep the doorstep and bolt the door. Then, one by one, the flickering candles upstairs, already muted into yellow smudges by the fog, began to die away. And as they vanished, the night’s chill set in with a vengeance.

  David had harbored some faint hope that the warm memories of his waltz with Cecilia would sustain him through the night, but by half past one, the river’s damp had seeped through his heavy woolen overcoat to permeate every layer of clothing beneath. He was rapidly developing a deep appreciation for de Rohan’s devotion to duty, not to mention his bloody fortitude. David now felt as though he mightn’t be able to rise from his crouched position if his very life depended upon it—which it just might, he wryly considered.

  To ease the pain in his joints, he shifted slightly to the left and rose just an inch. At once, a hard, determined hand came down upon his shoulder. “Damn it, keep still,” hissed de Rohan from the shadows.

  Behind him, the mastiff gave a grunt of canine displeasure, as if he, too, were annoyed by David’s inexperience. But the tension was driving David wild. “God, I’d kill for a good cheroot just now,” he muttered under his breath.

  De Rohan rose up to peer over one of the casks. “I shouldn’t, if I were you,” he whispered out of one side of his mouth. “Ages the skin, you know.”

  David sighed and massaged one knee. “I’ve heard.”

  “Of course,” the inspector added, “if you mean to rush into that alley and do something brave enough or foolish enough to get yourself killed, I daresay it won’t much matter.”

  “Why, Max!” said David dryly. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “Paperwork,” muttered de Rohan in the dark. “Don’t want the bloody paperwork. Peers killed on mywatch. It won’t do, that’s all.” At that moment, however, a candle in a third-story window wavered, then went out.