“You’re scaring me, Sir Donald,” she said, wondering what she needed to do to bring him out of his reverie.
What had she said to send him into the trance?
Are you new to London?
That couldn’t be what had the man nearly comatose. Could it? When he didn’t pick up the pace, she moved her hand from his elbow down to his hand. She gripped it, giving it a shake. “Adonis!” she shouted over the sound of the increasing wind and blowing leaves in the nearby shrubs.
Adonis was suddenly staring at her, glancing down at how she held his hand, his eyes finally turning up to find her parasol hovering over him, his head angling about as if he were trying to determine where he was.
When he finally returned his attention to her, he lowered his head and closed his eyes. “You should have left me, my lady. You should be inside where it’s warm and dry,” he murmured, an expression of pain crossing his face.
“I would do no such thing,” Lydia argued in a shout. She tugged on his hand again and they hurried to the French doors, Adonis’ limp apparent in his broken stride.
Alfred held one of the doors open, an umbrella dangling from one hand as if he had intended to come out to look for them. By the time the two stepped through the doors and into the ballroom, the knight’s shirtsleeves were nearly soaked through. The bottom of Lydia’s gown was damp, although Adonis’ superfine topcoat had kept her shoulders dry.
“Oh, faith, I didn’t realize you two were still out there!” Adeline Carlington said as she hurried into the ballroom. “Everyone else has moved to the parlor for the refreshments and music.”
Lydia didn’t miss the implication of their hostess’ words. She had been in the company of Sir Donald—without benefit of a chaperone—for a long time. They had no doubt been missed when the weather turned.
Lydia quickly doffed the topcoat and wrapped it around the knight’s shoulders, managing to say, “You’ll catch your death,” just as the butler removed the man’s top hat and offered the two of them bath linens. She turned her attention back to Adeline. “We were having the most pleasant conversation about tulips and didn’t even realize it was about to rain.”
Adeline glanced at Adonis before stepping up to whisper in Lydia’s direction. “Is he well?”
Lydia blinked but managed a slight shrug. “Just a bit soaked from the rain is all,” she replied sotto voce. She didn’t believe her own words though. Something had captured Adonis’ attention, something in his mind’s eye. Something so arresting, it had the man’s complete and utter attention.
What had Adonis behaving so? Whatever it was, she wasn’t about to ask him. He still seemed a bit discombobulated and ever so embarrassed over the matter. In fact, he suddenly pulled a cheque from a pocket inside his damp topcoat and handed it to a rather startled Adeline. “Thank you for the invitation. I really must be going,” he said before giving them both a deep bow. Retrieving his top hat from the butler, he quickly took his leave of them.
Alfred, caught unawares, had to hurry to give the man his cane, the accessory pulled from his hand when the butler helped him into his topcoat.
Lydia curtsied and frowned as she watched the knight limp from the ballroom, his boots making uneven tapping sounds on the polished wood and then on the marble tiled floor of the hallway, all the way to the vestibule.
When Lydia was sure he had taken his leave of Carlington House, she turned to her hostess. “I’m not quite sure what just happened, but I couldn’t just leave him out there.”
“I know, darling. I’m sure no one noticed but you,” Adeline said with a wave of her hand. The marchioness took a look at the cheque Adonis had given her and raised an eyebrow. “I will have to be sure Sir Donald is invited to all my charity soirées, though,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“Oh?” Lydia replied, wondering at the comment. When Adeline held out the cheque so Lydia could see the amount written in a bold, even script, Lydia’s eyes widened. “Oh, my,” she whispered.
Five-hundred pounds!
How could Adonis Truscott afford such a sum? Lydia wondered. The title of ‘sir’ implied the man had been knighted for service to Crown and country. He probably wouldn’t have earned such a sum from his ...
She furrowed her brows. Soldier.
Had he been in the army? Or the navy?
The wound on his cheek had been caused by a bayonet, which suggested he could have been in either. Perhaps the man had been an officer. Or perhaps he was the younger son of an aristocrat. How else could he afford such a large contribution to Lady E’s ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’? Why, five-hundred pounds was enough to cover Lydia’s living expenses for nearly two years and pay for an entirely new wardrobe!
“Rather generous of the man,” Lydia finally replied with a wan smile. She couldn’t help but remember the way his eyes stared into space, though. How blank they had been.
Unseeing.
The marchioness hooked an arm into Lydia’s and led her out of the ballroom. When they reached the parlor doors, Adeline made a motion indicating Lydia should precede her into the parlor. “I’m just going to check on the tea and take this to the study,” she said as she indicated the cheque.
Lydia acknowledged her comment with a nod and paused before stepping completely into the parlor. Disheartened to see so few women—and even fewer gentlemen—still in attendance, she pasted on a smile and breezed into the room as if she’d merely been detained by their hostess. Hurrying to where Adele sat at the piano-forté—the countess was playing a minuet as the others in the room chatted quietly—Lydia moved to turn the pages of the music.
“Did he leave already?” Adele asked, never taking her eyes from the sheets of music as her long fingers danced over the ivory and black keys.
Lydia nodded. “Quite suddenly, in fact,” she replied, not bothering to hide the concern in her voice. She dared a glance at the others in the room, a bit relieved when no one seemed to be paying her much attention. Perhaps her delay in making her way into the parlor had gone unnoticed by the other guests.
“I do hope you didn’t mind the introduction. I almost didn’t grant the man his request, seeing as how I barely know him myself.” Adele seemed to concentrate on the sheet of music before adding, “If you’d like, I can ask Grandby what he knows of Sir Donald.”
The younger woman arched an eyebrow at this bit of news. She had hoped the knight was an acquaintance of Adele’s husband and Lydia’s cousin, the Earl of Torrington. She sighed. “I didn’t mind, of course, but he is a bit of a chap.”
Adele finished the musical selection, and Lydia moved another sheet of music into place. “Well, he is an old fogey,” the countess replied, giving Lydia a quick glance before she started to play again.
An old fogey? Well, Adonis was certainly a wounded soldier, Lydia realized, thinking of the scar on his cheek and remembering his noticeable limp.
“According to his sister, he hasn’t been the same as before he left for the Continent. That was well over a year ago.”
Lydia nearly missed the cue to change the page of the music. “Sister?” she prompted as she quickly turned the page. She wondered if she knew the woman.
“Lady Craven,” Adele said with an arched eyebrow.
Her eyes widening in surprise, Lydia had to suppress the gasp she would have allowed had the two of them been alone in the parlor. “He doesn’t seem old enough to be her brother,” she countered in a whisper. Indeed, Priscilla Truscott Craven, Viscountess Craven, had to be at least twenty years older than Adonis. Her daughter had married years ago and had three children before illness took her. The oldest son was already at university! Adele’s comment suggested she had spoken with Lady Craven recently, but given Viscount Craven’s reputation—he was reported to be a gambler of the worst sort—his independent wife took her leave of London on a regular basis and spent most of her time at their country estate in Herefordshire.
“Is she in town now?” Lydia asked in a whisper, leaning down a bit so she
could turn the page and be heard over the music put out by the piano-forté.
Adele nodded. “Just a month or so, I believe,” she murmured. “She wanted to attend Huntington’s ball and check on Sir Donald. Seems his valet sent word when he became ... concerned.”
The younger widow wondered if Sir Donald’s arrival in London coincided with his sister’s, but realized to put voice to another query involving the knight would only lead Adele to believe she had an interest in the man.
Of course, she had no interest in the man.
She had, however, changed her poor opinion of him. Seeing his vacant eyes and then the sudden change in him when he was brought back to the here and now was astonishing. Although it didn’t explain his behavior in the museum, something had apparently happened whilst he was away.
Is he staying with his sister in London? she wondered. Perhaps they had both been at the country estate since Adonis’ return from the Continent.
Lydia shook her head as if to clear it. What does it matter? I am not the least bit interested in Adonis, she reminded herself.
Adonis.
Sir Donald.
Sighing, Lydia remembered how he looked as they conversed in the garden.
He is a beautiful man, she thought with a sigh. A beautiful, broken man.
Chapter Nine
A Brother Reports for Dinner with a Sister
Later that evening
“You’re soaking wet!” Persephone Craven, Viscountess Craven, complained when her brother appeared in the vestibule of her townhouse in Curzon Street.
“Just a bit damp is all,” Adonis replied with a shake of his head. Rain showered from his hair, dripping down his face and from the shoulders of his topcoat. When a maid appeared with a stack of bath linens, he gave her a nod and helped himself to one. “Merci,” he whispered, knowing Persephone would scold him for thanking a servant if she overheard the word. The maid gave a surreptitious nod before disappearing.
“Where have you been?” the viscountess asked as she took the linen from his hands and began brushing the water droplets from his topcoat in less than gentle swipes. “I do expect you’ll be spending the night here. The weather is a fright. The guest bedchamber is made up and all ready for you.”
Once his topcoat was clear of water droplets, Adonis shrugged out of it and allowed his sister to do the same to his waistcoat. He kept hold of his topcoat despite the butler’s attempt to take it from him. “I was riding out at the Serpentine,” he finally replied, not bothering to add that he had stopped at Carlington House for the garden party on his way home. “Although I appreciate the offer of your hospitality, I do have my own rooms in Green Street. I shan’t be spending the night here,” he stated, hiding his annoyance at her insistence he take the guest room for the night.
The comment had his sister frowning. “Because you’ll be spending the night at Mrs. Gibbons’ brothel, no doubt.”
Adonis winced, wondering why she would think such a thing. But then he wondered if maybe he had at one time patronized the place and simply didn’t remember doing so.
His head was such a muddle these days.
Had he paid a visit to the notorious brothel since his return to London? He was quite sure he hadn’t. Why, it had never been his habit to gamble or spend a night with a prostitute before he left for the Continent. Indeed, anything his brother-in-law did had him pursuing the opposite when it came to nighttime activities.
“Never,” he finally replied with a shake of his head, suddenly rather shocked when he realized his sister mentioned a brothel out loud. And even more shocked that she would accuse him of patronizing one. “I have no desire to go to a brothel or even a gaming hell,” he whispered, hoping a servant hadn’t overheard Persephone’s accusation. “Not all of us are like your husband, after all.”
He immediately regretted the comment. Where had it even come from? It was as if he didn’t have control of what he said these days, as if he could only speak the truth when he spoke at all. “I apologize. I ... I didn’t mean that, sister.”
Although Persephone should have reacted in horror at his original comment, she merely frowned and rolled her eyes. Everyone in the ton knew her husband was a gambler, but that didn’t necessarily mean he frequented houses of ill repute. She had long ago ceased to be embarrassed by his actions, though. He had just the year before finished paying off a debt that threatened to send him to prison. “Dinner will be served in a half-hour,” she finally said with a sigh, apparently ignoring his comment. “I still need to change. Use the guest chamber at the top of the stairs, and do try to dry off, won’t you?”
Adonis nodded, realizing his sister was no longer capable of feeling embarrassment due to her husband’s actions. He gave a slight bow and made his way up the stairs to the bedchamber she suggested, glad to find a fire already lit and the room warm.
The guest bedchamber had at one time belonged to his late niece. Given their ages, she had been more like an older sister to him. The thought had him blinking back the sudden image of Elizabeth at her come-out. Resplendent in a white satin gown featuring a sarcenet overskirt in silver, she appeared confident and quite ready to insert herself into the ton. Although she hadn’t secured an offer of marriage that night, nor any offers the rest of that Season in 1797, Elizabeth had married a banker who was the third son of a duke. She gave birth to three children before pneumonia took her life in 1808. The oldest, a son, was already at university.
Although Adonis had been too young to attend the ball, he had spent the night hiding behind drapes in the grand hall, spying on the array of glittering ladies and their elegantly garbed escorts as they lined up to be announced.
If only he hadn’t been discovered by the butler! Off to bed he went, wondering when he would graduate from trousers to the satin breeches so many of the men sported that night. And where was his nephew-in-law now? Somewhere on the Continent with his great nephew and a great niece who was said to be the spitting image of her mother.
Emelia, he remembered, although he had never actually met the young lady.
Adonis shook himself from his reverie, determined to stay in the here-and-now. “Study the room,” he said to himself in a whisper.
Decorated with Louis XIV furniture and a plethora of gold velvets and brocades perfectly positioned on a rich Turkish carpet, Elizabeth’s bedchamber suggested a level of decadence that couldn’t be found anywhere else in the townhouse. Although it was easy to imagine spending the night in such fine surroundings, there was another bedchamber in which he would rather spend the night.
That of Lady Lydia Barrymore.
The image of her alone in a bed had his cock coming to life. At least something of me wasn’t damaged on the battlefield, he thought as he moved to stand before the fireplace.
Mesmerized by the flames, Adonis continued absently drying off his face and clothes with the bath linen. Staring at the flickering fire, it was easy to simply allow his thoughts to drift off, to take him to another place, another time ...
He jerked himself out of the beginning of the reverie. That other place wasn’t a pleasant place to be, he reminded himself. Indeed, every time he was there, his leg gave him excruciating pain. Every time he was there, someone other than Lydia was there with him.
Allowing himself a moment to remember how she had kissed him, Adonis closed his eyes and allowed the barest hint of a smile to form.
This is better, he thought with a sigh. So much better.
A knock at the door brought him out of a memory of seeing Lydia in her sprigged muslin gown, wearing his topcoat, standing on her tip-toes so she could lean in and kiss him. He lifted his topcoat to his face and inhaled, sure her perfume lingered there. He would have to warn his valet not to brush it just yet. Orange blossoms, he thought with another sigh. Orange blossoms and some kind of ...
Another knock, this one more urgent, jerked him back to awareness.
“Come!” he called out, rather annoyed at the interruption.
The butler appeared around the door’s edge, his face tinged with worry. “Dinner is served, Sir Donald.”
Adonis blinked, shocked to discover the hands on the mantle clock had reached ten past eight o’clock.
Oh, damn it! Persephone would not be pleased. A half-hour had passed without him even realizing it!
“I’ll be right down,” he replied with a nod.
Pulling on the nearly dry topcoat, Adonis made his way to join his sister for dinner, rather pleased when a waft of orange blossoms drifted past his nose.
Chapter Ten
An Agent Reports for Duty
Earlier that afternoon
Not easily stunned, Matthew Fitzsimmons realized he had experienced two events in the past day that left him feeling at least a bit surprised. First, the unexpected appearance of his wife in his bedchamber last night had him hoping she would visit him again.
Every night.
Second, the unexpected appearance of Donald Truscott that morning, exactly one year to the day of his near fatal mission, had the viscount wondering if perhaps the agent wasn’t as addled-brained as the man’s sister implied.
The third unexpected appearance occurred at precisely four o’clock in the afternoon that same day—the day of Lady Morganfield’s garden party.
He knew there was to be a garden party, for his wife had mentioned it that morning, her infectious enthusiasm for the first outdoor event of the Season bringing an unusual smile to his lips. Actually, the smile might have been due to what her fingers were fondling at the time. Anyway, she told him all about the party to be held at Carlington House before she left his bed.
Before she left and took all the warmth with her.
The memory of her luscious body beneath his had helped to rekindle some of the warmth he’d felt upon falling asleep last night. Even now, a sort of glowing ember seemed to be lodged dead center in his chest.
Either that, or he had a case of heartburn from the lunch of cheese and roast beef his clerk had delivered from the Crown and Anchor.
The Enigma of a Spy Page 6