A Perfect Gentleman

by Candace Camp

  He was going to kiss her, Abby thought, her body tensing in anticipation. It seemed different here in the light of day, somehow more real. More genuine.

  A knock sounded on the suite door. Graeme froze.

  “Molly!” Abigail leaped out of bed, too alarmed to be concerned about revealing a glimpse of her naked body. She grabbed her dressing gown and wrapped it around her as she walked out. Pulling the bedroom door shut behind her, she hurried to the hall door, hastily tying her sash and running her hands back through her hair. A blush rose up her neck. Molly had been aware Abby was meeting Graeme here last night. As soon as she saw Abby, she would guess what had happened.

  And though Molly was Abby’s maid, she was also the closest thing Abigail had ever had to a mother. It was embarrassing—and made even more so by the fact that Molly knew Graeme’s reluctance to consummate their marriage. However much Abby pretended to Graeme that she was matter-of-fact, she was not blasé about any of it, including talking to the woman from the brothel yesterday. In fact, if she let herself think about it, she would probably feel humiliated. And that was why she shoved it aside, as she had learned to do with many things for the past ten years.

  She opened the door a few inches, blocking it. Molly stood there, looking grim, holding a tray in front of her as if it were a weapon.

  “Molly, what are you doing here? I told you I would call you this morning when I was ready to dress.”

  “I brought you breakfast.” Molly peered into her face. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m fine.” With a sigh, Abigail opened the door and grasped the tray, practically pulling it from her maid’s hands. “I’ll send for you when I need you.”

  She closed the door before Molly could come up with any reasons to stay. Setting the tray of food down on the table, Abby returned to the bedroom. There she was disappointed to see that Graeme had gotten up and pulled on his trousers and shirt and was now in the process of putting on his socks and shoes. The intimate interlude of a few minutes earlier was gone.

  Abigail paused, ill at ease now in her dressing gown, her hair doubtless a rat’s nest from sleeping. She pushed the heavy mass back over her shoulders. “Um, Molly brought some breakfast.”

  “Oh.” He glanced up, then quickly back down at his shoes. “Thank you, that sounds very nice. But I should leave.” Graeme stood up, as armored in courtesy as ever. “It is no doubt late.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She hid her disappointment with the small practiced smile that covered any number of social occasions. It would be better if he left, really. She still had a few things to do before she met her mysterious informant tonight, and the current situation was awkward. What was one to say in a moment like this? Thank you? Shall we make another appointment?

  It was suddenly dispiritingly tawdry. Abby turned away, occupying herself with drawing back the draperies. Behind her she heard Graeme walk toward the door, then stop.

  “Perhaps . . . that is, I thought that we . . .” Abby turned to face him, and he finished hurriedly, “I wasn’t sure if you had a social engagement this evening. I could escort you.”

  Abby froze. Naturally he would offer to escort her tonight, the one evening she absolutely could not have him with her. “I—ah, that is—I wasn’t really planning to—I’ve already promised to attend a—a—” She couldn’t very well tell Graeme she was meeting a man who was going to reveal his father’s embezzlement. She was seized with inspiration. “A dinner! So you can see it would not do to arrive with an escort. It would throw the numbers off.”

  “Ah. Of course.” His expression turned even more remote. “Very well.”

  “And I have to go,” she went on, thinking he would wonder why she didn’t send her regrets and spend the evening with him instead. It was precisely what she would have done had the situation actually existed. “I wouldn’t want to be rude to . . . Mrs. Brown. The American ambassador’s wife.” That would be someone he wouldn’t know. “She would feel snubbed, you see. She is a little ill at ease . . . the British . . .” She realized she was explaining too much. She willed herself to stop.

  A faint frown had replaced the aloof expression on his face. “Yes. No doubt. Another time, perhaps.”

  “Yes!” She started to suggest the following evening, then thought that would be too forward. He already thought her far too pushy. She didn’t want to do anything to make him dislike her more.

  He lingered. “Well, good day, then.”

  “Good-bye.” She trailed after him into the other room, hoping she didn’t sound as forlorn to him as she did to herself. Graeme picked up his jacket from the chair where she had tossed it the night before and glanced back at her. Abby began to blush, remembering her former boldness.

  Graeme hesitated, then nodded and was gone. Abby sighed as she watched the door shut behind him. It was silly to feel lonely now. She had spent the last ten years without Graeme Parr. One night with him did not make him indispensable.

  It was useless to wish they were nestled on the sofa, sipping their coffee and talking, smiling, maybe now and then pausing for a kiss. That wasn’t the sort of life Abby could have with Graeme.

  She couldn’t afford to spend the time it would have taken, anyway. It was late, and there were a number of things she had left to do today, chief among them visiting a gunsmith.

  Meeting her informant outside a tavern sounded even less savory than their first meeting place. The weapon she carried last time had done well enough, she supposed, but it would be far safer to carry a pistol. She had decided to purchase a small gun that would fit into her pocket. Doing that and learning how to shoot it would take up most of her afternoon.

  There was no time to waste mooning about over a man like some lovestruck girl. With that firmly in mind, she settled down on the sofa to eat her solitary breakfast.

  Ten hours later, Abby stuck her head out the window of the cab and glanced up and down the dark street. The only streetlamp hung at the corner of the Crimson Pirate, faintly illuminating the weathered sign over the door. Cracked and fading, the color of the figure on it might once have been red; it was more difficult to identify the form as a pirate. The rest of the street lay in shadows of varying degrees. Nothing moved, but there was no way of telling what might be waiting in the darkness.

  Abby closed her hand around the derringer in the pocket of her cloak. Stepping out of the carriage, she looked up at the driver. “Stay here. If you do, there’ll be five pounds in it for you.”

  “Aye, I’ll wait,” the rough voice above her said. “But I tell you, best you get back in and I’ll take you back to the ’otel. Ain’t no place for a lady.”

  “No doubt you’re right. Still, this is where I have to go. If you’ll just stay here, I’m sure I shall be fine.”

  The coachman shrugged and settled back in his seat. Abby started briskly toward the tavern. One thing she had learned over the years was that one could not afford to look afraid. Confidence—or the appearance of it—had carried many a day.

  She paused at the edge of the light, reluctant to expose herself to full view, and glanced around. The hack was still there, waiting. The river must be nearby; she could hear the lap of water. The rank smell of it was almost overpowering.

  Skirting the arc of light, she drew near the tavern. The sound of the water was louder. Glancing down, she saw that only a low rock wall separated the street from the river’s edge. A shoe scraped on the pavement. Abigail peered into the darkness.

  A shadow separated from the side of the building and a man came forward, stopping too far away for her to make out his features. “No Montclair this time, eh?”

  “I came alone as you instructed. I must say, you have chosen an even more disreputable area than last time. If you expect to conduct business with me, I insist you find a better meeting place.”

  There was a muffled snort, which she realized was amusement. “I can see you’ve got Price’s fierceness; for your sake, I hope you’re not as heartless.”<
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  “You know my father?”

  “I met him. I worked for Lord Reginald. That’s how I know about the money he ‘borrowed’ from the soldiers.”

  “The soldiers?” She frowned. “What soldiers?”

  “The wounded and infirm. The charity he sponsored. The tale is he took it from their funds, meaning to pay it back after he made a fortune buying that stock of your father’s. It was going to be a windfall—well, it was a windfall for Price when he sold out and sent it crashing. But not for Montclair or that fund.”

  “Do you have any proof of this story?”

  “Did you bring the money?”

  “Yes, I have it right here. But this is very little information. Do you know anything worth buying? Did my father know Lord Reginald had embezzled the money?”

  “Know?” He had moved forward as they talked, so that now he stepped into the dim edge of the light. His lips drew back in a humorless grin. “Oh, Price knew, right enough. He was the one who suggested that it be done.”

  Abigail felt the blood drain from her face. “He encouraged the theft?”

  “Yes, he said how easy it would be—no one would know what Montclair had done; he’d double the money and have it back before anyone knew, right and tight.”

  “Oh God, no.” Abigail pressed her hand to her stomach. This was worse than she had suspected. Thurston had urged him to take the money, knowing that he would lose it all and be disgraced. He was responsible for everything that had happened. “And I presume you’re suggesting I pay you to keep silent.”

  “I’m no blackmailer!” The man’s voice rose in indignation. “What you’ll pay me for is to learn the rest of it. That story is what it appeared to be. But I know what really happened.”

  “What do you mean? Are you saying the story is false?”

  “Oh, your father did what I just said, right enough. And the money disappeared. But maybe it wasn’t Lord Montclair that took it.”

  “What?”

  “If you want to hear the rest of the story, you’re going to have to hand over the money.” He held out his palm.

  Abigail nodded and reached into the pocket inside her cloak. A sharp pop sounded in the night, startling her, and she swung around. But as she did so, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her companion jerk and crumple to the ground. She ran to where he lay beside the low stone wall. Just as she dropped down to her knees beside him, another pop sounded behind her.

  “Are you all right? What happened?” The dark stain spreading across his shirt answered both her frantic questions. He had been shot. She grabbed the bottom of her cloak and pressed it against his wound, trying to stem the bleeding.

  The man made a horrible bubbling sound. Abby’s attention was on him, so she was only vaguely aware of the sounds of panicked horses behind her and the clatter of feet running across the street. Someone slammed into her from behind, knocking her against the wall. She toppled over the wall into the darkness. She landed on muddy ground, but her momentum carried her down the sharp slope. An instant later she hit cold, black water.

  chapter 13

  Graeme toyed with his dessert spoon, the pudding before him untouched. He cast a surreptitious glance toward the clock on the mantel. He wondered where Abigail was. And what was she doing? She had been suspiciously evasive with her answers this morning.

  “Do you have an appointment, Montclair?” Lady Eugenia asked. “That is the fourth time you have checked the clock in the past ten minutes.”

  “No. I beg your pardon; I was unaware.”

  “Are you seeing Lady Montclair this evening?”

  “I think not.”

  The dowager countess was unaffected by the repressive tone of his answer. “I had hoped things had improved in that regard. Norton tells me you did not return home until this morning.”

  “Grandmother, I have no intention of discussing the details of my marriage with you.”

  “I have no desire to hear them, I assure you.”

  He was tempted to ask why she was interrogating him about it, then, but courtesy was too ingrained in him. He merely inclined his head. “What are your plans for the evening?”

  From years of experience, Graeme kept an expression of mild interest on his face without actually listening as Lady Eugenia related the reasons she was not attending any of a large number of parties available to her. His mind returned to the problem of Abigail.

  He had begun the day bathed in a warm glow of satisfaction. There had been some awkwardness, of course, in waking up with his arms full of his wife’s soft, warm body and realizing passion was stirring in him again. But the conversation that followed had been absurd, and Abigail’s tale of tracking down and interrogating one of the denizens of a bordello had been appalling, really.

  It doubtless said something equally appalling about him that he found the story amusing and titillating, as well. He had spent a good portion of his day wondering exactly what Abigail had learned from the woman. If only that blasted maid hadn’t chosen that moment to knock on the door, he might have found out.

  Then Abigail had turned down his offer to escort her this evening. That rankled a bit. It wasn’t that he was so eager for her company (although he would admit that last night was well worth repeating). Still, one would think that now he’d agreed to her bargain, she would be more interested in getting on with it. Perhaps all she wanted was the victory. Or she had no interest in his presence in her life outside of the bedchamber. The idea wasn’t complimentary, but there was no reason to brood over it. That was what he preferred, as well.

  There was no reason to feel offended. Or to wish that she had not turned him down. But what was she doing? And with whom? The likeliest answer was that she had plans with Prescott. But why hadn’t she said so? He would not have protested. Graeme didn’t like the man, but he wasn’t jealous of him. There was no reason to be jealous—he had learned last night in the clearest way that Prescott had never been Abigail’s lover.

  “Graeme, why are you smiling? Are you listening to me?”

  He started. “What? Of course. You were discussing . . . um . . .”

  “Mrs. Ponsonby’s ill health.”

  “Yes, of course. I, um, wasn’t smiling.” He cast about for some plausible excuse.

  “Oh, I am sure Lord Montclair was just trying to lift my spirits,” Mrs. Ponsonby hastened to say. His grandmother’s companion cast a timid smile at Graeme. “So good of him.”

  “What nonsense, Philomena. The boy is obviously champing at the bit to go somewhere, and we are delaying him.” Lady Eugenia arose regally from her chair.

  Graeme started to deny it, then stopped. What was the point in clinging to courtesy when the truth was he was itching to leave? Abigail was right; there was something freeing in candor. He stood up and bowed to his grandmother as she left the room, trailed by Mrs. Ponsonby, who paused to give him a small, apologetic curtsey.

  The butler carried in a bottle of port, but Graeme waved him away. “Not tonight, Norton. I’m going out.”

  “Very well, my lord. Shall I send round for your carriage?”

  “No, I’ll walk. Clear my head.”

  There was no reason to turn his steps toward the Langham. Wherever Abigail was going and whoever’s company she would rather keep, it was nothing to him. He was glad she was undemanding; it would make their arrangement far easier.

  It was just that she had so obviously lied about her plans—the stumbling answers, the way her gaze shifted from his—the same way she had lied about the note slipped under her door a few nights ago. That incident had been the impetus to her slipping out secretly to meet someone in an unsavory part of town, which, by the way, she had never adequately explained. What if she was doing it again? And why the devil was she determined to keep it a secret? It was enough to make anyone suspicious.

  Just because he had thoroughly enjoyed last night didn’t mean he could turn a blind eye to Abigail’s scheming. No matter how exciting and enticing she was, he would be a f
ool to trust her. It would be even more foolish not to make clear to Abigail that she had not deceived him.

  The doorman at the Langham greeted Graeme with a smile; it turned even brighter when Graeme handed him a gold coin. “How can I help you, guv’nor?”

  “Has Lady Montclair left the hotel yet?”

  “Yessir, you just missed her.”

  “Where was she going?”

  The man’s face fell. “Sorry, sir, ’fraid I don’t know. She won’t tell me anymore.” He sent an accusatory look at Graeme.

  “Ah. Sorry.” Graeme gave the man a rueful smile and headed inside. It took him only moments to wangle a key to his wife’s suite from the manager. When he opened the door, his wife’s maid jumped up from a chair as if she’d been shot, the petticoat she was mending falling to the floor.

  “Oh. It’s you.” Molly scowled. “What are you doing, coming into Miss Abby’s room like that?”

  “Are all American servants like you?” he asked, returning her frown.

  She crossed her arms. “We’re not afraid of a man just because he’s got a ‘lord’ in front of his name, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Actually, rude was more what I was thinking. Where is your mistress?”

  Molly’s frown deepened, but there was now as much worry as dislike in her expression.

  “What?” he asked sharply, taking a step forward. “What do you know? You’re afraid of something; I can see it.”

  “Not of you.”

  He sighed. “That’s hardly remarkable, since I have no intention of hurting you. Nor Abigail. Why are you worried?”

  “Because she’s not safe!” Molly burst out. “I told her that little popgun wasn’t enough to—”

  “She has a gun now? Good Gad, the woman’s a walking arsenal. Where has she gone? Why does she need a gun?”

  Molly looked at him, torn. He waited. Finally the words rushed out of her. “The Crimson Pirate.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s a tavern. By the Thames.”

  “The docks?” His voice rose. “She’s gone to a dockside tavern?”