by Brenda Hiatt
“That is something I had not heard.”
Bridgeport snorted. “In addition to being free with her favors, she freely compares her lovers. I wonder if she is equally open with him. That could explain how he learned when and where to find us. But it makes it even odder that he would bother. If he cannot ignore her affairs, he will face either incarcerating her or bringing a divorce suit, in which case this may become even more public.”
“Maybe he thinks to force you into taking her off his hands.”
“Never. I would retire from society before doing anything that stupid.”
“But you have a reputation for accepting anyone to wife.”
Bridgeport sighed. “Reputations are damnable things. I suppose I must disabuse him of that notion. All else aside, I want an heir who carries my own blood.”
Carrington dropped the subject of marriage, knowing it was not a topic his friend wished to recall. “Is it true that you had the audacity to finish with her before accepting Wainright’s challenge?”
Bridgeport shrugged, but his eyes twinkled. “I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb—or skewered in this case.”
Richard stomped his feet in a vain attempt to warm them. “Why did you take up with someone so recently married? That is not like you.”
Mark pulled his greatcoat tighter. “She initiated the contact, two weeks ago.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Nor do I, now that I think on it. Hopefully, Wainright will be satisfied with pinking me.”
“You will let him win then?” asked a surprised Carrington.
“I must, as you would agree if you thought about it a moment. But I will make him work for the victory.”
The arrival of a second carriage cut off Carrington’s response. Like Bridgeport, Wainright had eschewed servants this day. Albright was driving. Wainright was a slender gentleman only a few years older than Bridgeport. Normally of a placid temperament, today his eyes glared with anger and hatred.
“Watch out,” warned Carrington as he removed Bridgeport’s jacket and cravat. “He seems determined to make an end of you. This affair smells worse every minute. Albright said something just now that makes me think that his wife was merely an excuse. I heard a rumor that he blames you for several recent gaming losses. Knowing you as I do, I had not believed the tales, but his eyes look crazed.”
“Ah.” Bridgeport sent a rapier glance toward his rival. “So that is what this is about. I too had heard those stories. They are false, of course, so if that is his complaint, I will have to fight to win.”
The two men took their places and executed the ritual salute. Carrington was suddenly glad that Mark had chosen swords. Given Wainright’s emotional state, Mark might have been forced to kill him.
The combatants were evenly matched, and tension built in the onlookers as the morning air rang with the clash of steel. The sun rose, burning away the fog. Back and forth the action moved, the thrust and parry continuing unabated for more than half an hour. But Carrington gradually relaxed. Their skills might match, but Mark had the greater stamina. Wainright’s guard was slipping. As Mark made a lightning move to his right, Wainright’s foot caught, throwing his sword wide. Mark’s point bit deeply into Wainright’s left shoulder, and Albright called a halt.
Bridgeport murmured a few words to Wainright, stayed on the field long enough to hear the doctor proclaim that the wound was not serious, then joined Carrington in his carriage.
“Let’s get out of here before someone happens by.”
A week later, the Marquess of Carrington appeared in Bridgeport’s breakfast room while the earl was still at the table.
“What brings you out so early?” Mark motioned to the sideboard.
Richard filled a plate. “Wainright died last night.”
“What!” Bridgeport signaled the footman to close the door behind him as he left.
“His valet discovered him just before dinner. As soon as I heard the rumors, I roused the doctor. He swears that Wainright’s heart gave out, for all he was not yet forty. The shoulder injury was healing and showed no signs of infection.”
“What rumors?” asked Mark, a piece of toast poised halfway to his mouth.
“There are already whispers that you killed him,” admitted Richard. “All nonsense, of course. But Wainright’s valet went into hysterics and blurted out a twisted version of the duel, insisting that the wound was responsible for the death. Even if the doctor convinces the authorities otherwise, you will be questioned.”
“Dear Lord.” Bridgeport bowed his head in grief and horror. “And I probably am responsible. He was noticeably flagging toward the end. The exertion may have been too much for him.”
“Fustian!” exploded Richard. “There has never been a hint that he was not fit. If the fight had contributed anything, he would have died that night. You are in shock—and who can blame you?—but I hope you do not mention such a possibility to the authorities out of a misplaced sense of martyrdom.”
“Do you really believe I would be that stupid?”
Carrington sighed. “Of course not. I am in shock myself, or I would never have suggested such a thing. But I fear you are in for a rough week, my friend. I have an absurd feeling that there is more to this than meets the eye.”
Mark could only agree. He spent the day adhering to his usual routine, knowing that any difference in his demeanor would increase the rumors. Either his sparring partner at Jackson’s knew nothing or he was hiding his curiosity well. White’s was not so congenial. He could see the awareness in everyone’s eyes, despite the friendly greetings. It was the worst experience of his life. He had suffered similar scrutiny in the past, of course—the scorn and laughter engendered by his various betrothals, the embarrassment he continued to endure from that cursed nickname, and the deliberate derision he had courted in his youth by establishing a reputation as a gamester—but never before had he fought a duel or been suspected of murder.
He ignored the stares, calmly conversed with friends, and played several hands of whist. The buzz when he won increased his fury, for apparently rumor now suggested he was also a cheat, but his demeanor remained carefree. When he and Richard dropped by Manton’s, he was gratified to find that his aim remained as steady as ever, allowing him to break ten out of ten wafers.
A runner awaited him at home. It was not a pleasant experience, but at least the man had accepted the doctor’s explanation. What he wanted to know was how Wainright had been injured.
“An embarrassing accident,” murmured Bridgeport, allowing chagrin onto his face. “We were practicing together last week when the button loosened on my foil. Unfortunately, neither of us noticed until I scored a hit on Lord Wainright’s shoulder that bit into the flesh.”
The runner did not believe the story, decided Mark, but since both Albright and Carrington had told the same tale, he had to be content. A hysterical valet’s words would never outweigh three lords. Yet the lie bothered him.
Worse, the furor did not die down.
“I don’t know where the rumors originate,” complained Richard a week later. “It may just be irresponsible speculation among the younger lads, but Reggie told me an appalling story last night.”
He and Mark were ensconced in a corner of the reading room at White’s where they could talk without being overheard. Both maintained the faces of gentlemen without a care in the world who were exchanging the most trivial of on-dits.
“What was that?”
“You deliberately killed Wainright by tipping your sword in poison—though how anyone can believe that, I do not understand, for rumor admits they were your swords, making the choice of weapons his. No one can possibly accept that you would risk tipping both. Anyway, your motive is presumably Lady Wainright. You fleeced Wainright of his fortune and now mean to make off with his wife.”
Fury was blazing in Bridgeport’s eyes, though his face remained bored. “There must be more behind this than one hysterical valet,�
�� he growled. “I know the man has repeated his charges all over town, but how can anyone believe him over the doctor?”
“There is something deeper going on,” agreed Carrington with a frown. “The fleecing story was making the rounds even before the duel.”
“The man never lost a shilling to me,” insisted Mark. “I cannot even recall having played against him. You know how rarely I visit the tables.”
“I have no doubt he was fleeced though,” said Richard. “It is the only way to account for his hatred. Perhaps a Captain Sharp convinced him that he was hand-in-glove with you. You know that you’ve a reputation for luck, for never losing a personal confrontation, and for uncanny judgment. The least hint that you are backing a particular side in any contest involving skill can change the odds. An unscrupulous person might claim you had asked him to anonymously place a wager on a long shot, offering to place a similar bet for the pigeon. If he had previously set the fellow up with a couple of sure winners, he would be in a position to abscond with a fortune when the long-odds big bet lost. Even worse, he might have deliberately implicated you. There was considerable wagering on your bout with Jackson last month. Our hypothetical sharp might have claimed that you would refrain from landing a blow. If Wainright bet heavily against you, he would have lost when you planted that facer.”
Mark shivered. “Who could be that desperate? Such a scheme is bound to become public.”
“I don’t know, but there is worse,” warned Richard. “Lady Wainright is ignoring all convention and returning to town. If you ignore her, people will say you are merely biding your time to mislead the gossips. If you speak with her, you will confirm all the rumors.”
“Damnation!”
“If there is a malevolent force working, it might be best to leave for a while,” suggested Richard, finally arriving at the point he had been striving for since the conversation began.
“You want me to run away?” demanded Mark, so shocked that his face slipped into incredulity.
“Not exactly, but I have a very bad feeling about this. There is more here than meets the eye. Frankly, I think someone is out for your blood, not just your reputation.”
Mark frowned. Over the years he had developed a healthy respect for Richard’s odd sense of trouble. It had warned him of impending disaster more than once, allowing him to sidestep perilous situations. If Richard believed that leaving town was necessary, then he would seriously consider it.
“Is there no clue to who might be behind this campaign?”
Richard shook his head. “If someone is fleecing people in your name, there could be any number of men who have a grievance. I will do what I can to find the culprit. Perhaps I can trace some of these rumors back to a source. But you had best retire for your own safety.”
That was blunt enough. “Very well. I will have to receive an urgent summons to straighten out an estate problem. Unfortunately, too many people know that my estates rarely have problems.”
“Is there none that could use supervision?” asked Richard in surprise—and envy.
Mark’s frown suddenly eased. “Treselyan. I have meant to visit there for years, but it is a minor property somewhere in Cornwall and the journey never seemed worth the effort. It only runs a few sheep.”
“Perfect.”
“I am dining with the Marchmonts tonight. It is as good a place as any to announce my departure. Will you be attending?”
“Ralph is my cousin, you might recall. Of course.”
That evening, Bridgeport presented himself at Marchmont’s house on Curzon Street. He generally avoided dinner parties, for they offered too many opportunities for tête-à-têtes. That was the negative side of his chosen way of life. It was inevitable that the guest list would include ladies with whom he had had affairs. Since it was invariably he who terminated a liaison, there were always old connections who hoped—in vain—to rekindle his interest. Thus he found himself eschewing more and more society entertainments.
He was getting too old for this life.
The thought flashed through his mind without warning, shocking him as much as the unwarranted rumor attack. But it was true. He had enjoyed little of his public life for some time. Even Jeanette, his official mistress and the most accomplished seductress he had ever met, no longer satisfied him. His upcoming exile began to look attractive. He could use it to cut all current affairs, decide what he wanted to do in the future, relax from the pressure of town living, and further his private activities. Why had he not considered rustication earlier? It might even revive the spark that had been missing lately.
The guest list contained as many annoyances as he had anticipated. He managed to avoid entanglements by striking up a discussion of the Peninsular War with Major Daniels, Captain Hardaway, and others. Lady Marchmont was unhappy about so many gentlemen ignoring the ladies, but Carrington deflected her from breaking it up.
Mark was not so lucky at dinner. He was seated beside the widowed Mrs. Woodleigh, with whom he had been enjoying a casual liaison for the past month. Outside of bed, she was a totty-headed widgeon who rarely stopped talking. Within minutes his head was pounding.
“You should have visited Hyde Park this morning,” she twittered between nibbles of fish. “The most delicious sight. I was riding with Lord Marcus Uppington—the poor dear seems to have the most shocking tendre for me, though I cannot abide such a callow youth. Mature strength is so much more appealing.” She batted her lashes and simpered like a schoolgirl. “But you wouldn’t believe who we saw! Lord Oaksford was walking with Miss Severton—I had no idea he was dangling after her! He must have been up before dawn to have achieved such sartorial splendor by nine. Or perhaps he had not yet been to bed. Gentlemen keep the most shocking hours!” Her glance this time was openly seductive. “Miss Severton was fine as five-pence as well, turned out smartly enough for Almack’s—though you would not know that, I wager, having very naughtily skipped every assembly so far this Season.” She sipped wine with hardly a pause in her words. “But I was telling you about Lord Oaksford and Miss Severton. I cannot imagine what they found to discuss, for both are so high in the instep they rarely deign to notice others, but they were so engrossed in their topic that neither paid the slightest attention to the lads playing nearby. All at once, a stray dog joined the boys, luring them into a chase that bowled the strollers over. They landed in the Serpentine where both promptly succumbed to hysterics. The rumors of Oaksford’s clutchfistedness must be true, for he is certainly skimping on a quality wardrobe. His coat bled all over his cravat, and his pantaloons bagged. Not that Miss Severton noticed. Pond weed was plastered across her face, her gown had turned nearly transparent—for someone so proper, she wears shockingly little underneath!—and her teeth were chattering with cold.”
Bridgeport had paid only the scantest attention to her recital, a situation that was duly noted by Lady Means across the table. She waited until he seemed thoroughly bored before ignoring all rules of conduct to address him.
“Will you be attending Lady Wharburton’s masquerade next week?” she asked. Mark inwardly winced. He had been avoiding her eye since sitting down. He had broken with her more than a year before and had no wish to resume the connection. But ignoring the unmannerly interruption did no good, for Mrs. Woodleigh immediately picked up the question.
“Oh, I do hope you will be there,” she trilled, again batting her lashes. “I have devised the most deliciously scandalous costume. I’m sure you will love it.”
Lady Means glared.
“I had planned to, of course,” Mark lied, smiling at the opening she had provided rather than at her. “Unfortunately, I just received an urgent summons from one of my estates. There is a problem that can only be resolved in person, so I will regretfully be from town.”
“But you will return soon.” Mrs. Woodleigh’s heated eyes and throaty voice announced their relationship to the entire table.
Thrusting aside a strong desire to strangle the woman, Mark assumed a resigne
d expression. “Not for some time, Mrs. Woodleigh. The estate is in Cornwall and the problems will take several weeks to resolve. I doubt I will be back before the end of the Season.”
“Poor man,” commiserated Lady Means, again speaking across the table. “It will be dreadfully lonely to be stranded so far from civilization. Cornwall might as well be China, it is so different from London.”
“I have heard horrid tales about murder and mayhem there,” mentioned Mr. Groves, joining the sudden informality of the table. His glare implied that Mark should fit right in.
“Almost everyone is a smuggler,” announced Lord Stoverly in an authoritative voice, though he had not, to Mark’s knowledge, ever traveled farther west than Oxford.
“Or a wrecker,” sneered Mr. Groves. “No wonder you are having trouble if you must find estate workers among such folk.”
Mark tried to ignore both the statements and the odd undercurrents, but he was unsuccessful in turning the topic. Mrs. Woodleigh began expostulating on imagined dangers and begging him to remain in London where he would be safe. Mr. Groves interrupted her to regale the table with a convoluted tale of a wrecking that had occurred at least a hundred years earlier, if at all. Lord Stoverly was simultaneously horrifying his neighbors with stories of smugglers’ disputes that Mark was sure had happened long ago in Kent. Lord Marchmont weighed in with the damage smuggling was doing to the war effort, ably seconded by the military gentlemen. Lady Marchmont appeared furious at the fractious disintegration of her dinner party.
Carrington met Mark’s eyes, his own dancing with laughter.
Lady Means finally lent her voice in support of Bridgeport remaining in town and suggested he send his secretary to Cornwall instead. “You owe it to yourself to stay where your friends can keep you safe and happy,” she murmured huskily, her eyes promising all manner of delights if he would only see reason. Mrs. Woodleigh seconded the sentiments, going so far as to stroke his sleeve.
Mark shivered, determined to escape the complications of town for a while. Mrs. Woodleigh’s exhortations and sudden possessiveness hinted that she had plans for a more permanent future.