Her hand tightened on his arm, and she looked up at him with a teasing sparkle in her eyes. “Arabella Saunders went with me yesterday to your mother’s dressmaker. You shall soon not have to blush for me.”
The devil! He wanted to take her in his arms right there in the street and kiss her senseless.
“Were you wearing a sack, I shouldn’t blush for you.”
Her hand trembled on his arm. “Lord Strangeways!”
Putting a hand over hers, he said, “Surely you can guess how much I admire you!”
“But you scarcely know me! And . . . and I am an American, lest you forget.” She looked up at him, wonder in the doelike eyes, her full lips trembling. “Shall you still admire me when I am an ocean away?”
Her question startled him. He had never forgotten she was an American, of course, but for some reason he had forgotten her intent to return there. An ache took up residence in his heart. He breathed in deeply before replying, “My admiration is certainly not contingent on your nationality.”
She was quiet. Eventually she remarked, “It is a lovely morning. The rain last night washed away the coal smoke.”
“Do you find the coal a bother?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Remember, I’m a country girl. I enjoyed those days we spent at Southbrooke.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” This was the opening he needed. “Speaking of Southbrooke, my butler, Reams, said a Mr. Sagethorn called on you there. Who in blazes is Mr. Sagethorn? A rival for your affections?”
The hand on his arm tightened before she drew it back. “Mr. Sagethorn? I wish . . . I wish I could tell you. He claims he knows me, but of course I don’t remember him. Not at all!”
She was really quite distressed, and it hurt him to see it. “Was he imposing on you?”
“Yes. Yes, he was. He wanted to trade on a relationship that we supposedly have.”
“The blighter! Where is he to be found? I’ll set him straight!”
Her eyes would no longer meet his. “I sent him away. I don’t think he’ll bother me anymore.”
Tony thought her voice didn’t sound entirely certain. Wait until Sandby found him! He would settle Sagethorn’s hash.
A cold wind sprang up, and a small cloud blocked the sun. Virginia shivered. He took her hand once more and placed it on his sleeve.
“May we go in now?” she asked. “It is cold, after all.”
“We shall. You did not wear your pelisse.”
Smiling impishly, she said, “Of course not. I wanted you to admire my new dress.”
* * *
He found Beau lunching at the club and joined him. Today his friend wore his pale-blue suit—one of his more egregious ensembles.
“Ah, Tony! Just the man I need to see. I want to inquire into the health of Miss Livingstone.”
Beau was a friend since Oxford days, and they had shared many an exploit prior to his friend’s recent marriage. Not too long ago, Tony had helped the now Lady Wellingham nurse Beau back to health after an injury that nearly felled him for good. Their friendship had deep roots. However, his insistence on making Miss Livingstone a villain was like a great nagging toothache.
“Come now, Beau. It is not her health you care about,” said Tony.
“Has her memory returned?”
“No.” Tony ordered a glass of claret and a steak-and-kidney pie.
“She is a stunner,” his friend said.
“Do you think so?” asked Tony. “She is not beautiful in the conventional fashion, but I find her appealing. The whole package, actually.”
“Careful. If you are in danger of falling for the lady, you had best find out her political stripe.” Beau was addressing his luncheon with enthusiasm, further annoying Tony.
“You mean whether she is a spy,” he replied dryly.
“No news in that direction, I suppose?”
Tony decided not to tell his friend about Sagethorn. Not used to being evasive where Beau was concerned, he grew uncomfortable. “Nothing to report.”
“Penelope plans on calling on her soon to extend a dinner invitation. We shall include you, of course. Who are her other friends?”
“Let me guess. You are hoping to trap her in your library or some such nonsense.”
“I think it a fine plan,” Beau said.
Tony ruminated on this. It probably was a good plan. If she showed no interest in his private papers, perhaps Beau would give up. But if she did . . . well, then they would both know.
“She likes the Ruisdells very well. And she has a dreadful relation—the Honorable George Tisdale—staying with her aunt. You had probably better invite the two of them.”
“Why, if he’s so dreadful?”
“I believe the aunt is trying to instigate a marriage between them. Inviting the aunt means Miss Livingstone will be able to accept the invitation. And where Lady Ogletree goes, the Honorable George goes. Lady Ogletree certainly doesn’t like me above half.”
“Is she really such an ogre?”
“Dreadful woman. I was forced to entertain her at Southbrooke, and nothing pleased her. She showed no concern for her niece whatsoever. She keeps her on a very tight rein.”
Beau appeared to ponder this. “Sounds very unpleasant, indeed.” Then he gave one of his quick smiles. “Never mind. I don’t think I told you, but Ernest is home on shore leave. He will be there.”
“It will be good to see the fellow. But how is this going to work with Miss Livingstone? Surely he will want to share news of the war.”
“I will warn him in advance not to share anything about future strategy. I think he wouldn’t do so, in any case.”
“Howie would be happy to see him had I not sent him to Southbrooke.”
“What is that about?”
“Gambling. He has exceeded his allowance again. I have decided to keep the stud operation to give him another interest in life.”
“Wise move, most likely. I hope it pays off.”
“The party sounds a jolly one,” said Tony.
“I hope for your sake that it doesn’t end in an arrest.”
“It won’t. Then perhaps you will forget all this nonsense about her being a spy.”
* * *
When Tony returned home after lunch, he realized his good mood of the morning had vanished. Once again he was tied in metaphorical knots. The devil take this business!
He found a note waiting for him from Mr. Sandby, his Bow Street runner.
My lord,
Had a bit of luck. Started in the East End and found the fellow for you pretty quick. Not many Americans there! He’s lodging at 117 South Street.
Sandby
That was fast! After changing into less conspicuous clothes, Tony set out by cab for the East End. Maybe he would be able to settle this business one way or the other, but he dreaded the meeting.
The smells of rotting horse dung, sewage, and boiled cabbage assailed him as he arrived in the poorest section of London. It always smote his conscience to see this side of his city.
Driving past the duchess’s Soup Kitchen for Wounded Soldiers with its long line of men wearing ragged, dirty uniforms, his heart went out to the woman for conceiving such a compassionate project. The Duchess of Ruisdell was one in a million. Would that he could find such a lady.
When they arrived at the address Sandby had given him, he paid the jarvey, walked up the stoop to the dwelling, and hammered the tarnished door knocker. A shrunken lady in an apron worn over a faded-blue dress greeted him. She could have been anywhere from forty years old to seventy.
“I am here to visit Mr. Sagethorn.”
“At his pub, most loikely. Spotted Pig. Over ’t the market.”
Tipping the woman a shilling, which should keep her in food for several weeks, he took his leave and made his way among the urchins playing heedlessly in the street. His destination was Covent Garden. There, smitten by the smell of the fish market, he maneuvered through displays of fresh berries, apricots, and turnips. Dodging side
s of beef and lamb, he finally located the Spotted Pig. It was a large low-beamed pub, smelling of ale and unwashed men. Consisting of a big common room, it had one large fireplace and no private parlors that he could see. How was he to find Sagethorn?
He bought a pint of bitters at the bar and settled in a booth, looking over the patrons. At this time of day, the market was still open, so patrons were fewer than they might be. He studied each man present. If only he’d thought to get a description from Reams!
He dismissed the men in shabby uniforms—wounded, home from the war on the Peninsula—and concentrated on the men drinking alone. Most of them looked like men down on their luck, dressed in soiled, torn clothing. There was one fellow, however, dressed in brown, reading the Post.
Tony decided to risk it. He picked up his pint and walked over to the man’s table.
“Mr. Sagethorn?” he asked.
The man looked up quickly. “Who’s asking?”
“Viscount Strangeways. You visited my home in Kent a few days ago.” He held out a hand, and the man rose to his feet and shook it.
He was a person anyone would miss in a crowd. His one distinguishing feature was an exceptionally long and pointed nose. For some reason he reminded him of a rat. Tony sat. How was this unpromising fellow connected to the guileless Miss Livingstone?
“You are an American, I understand. You came to visit my friend Miss Livingstone at Southbrooke Hall.”
“As a matter of fact, you’re right. She’s a friend from Virginia. I read about her accident in the Post. I wanted to make sure she was all right.”
“What exactly are you doing here in England with the war between our countries?”
The man’s eyes narrowed with hostility. “What gives you the right to question me?”
He noticed that the man’s voice was more clipped and had less of the relaxed drawl Miss Livingstone’s had. Almost certainly not from the Southern states. Tony decided a little intimidation was called for. “I am taxed with this mission by the Foreign Office.”
Alarm leapt into the man’s eyes, but it was soon replaced by cunning. He looked more than ever like a rat. “I was in this country when the war broke out. Down on my luck now. I’m a cotton merchant. Can’t negotiate any deals with this war on and can’t get home either.”
“I suppose you can provide me with references? Englishmen who know you to be in the cotton business?”
“If I must.”
Tony removed a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. Sagethorn gave him three names of men who lived in Lancashire and Yorkshire, where Tony knew the cotton weaving industry was centered. He wrote them in his book.
“And how are you acquainted with Miss Livingstone?”
“I was employed as an agent to sell cotton for her father. I heard he had died and she was living here. Then I ran across the notice in the Post about her accident. Knew her father would want me to check on her and see that she was doing all right.”
His first mistake. If he had been here since the war started when correspondence between the two countries had been impounded, how could he have received news of Mr. Livingstone’s death and his daughter’s residence in London? Only with a smuggled communication to that effect, possibly through the American War Office.
Tony let the lapse pass. He didn’t yet want the man to know he was on to him.
“Very well. But you are a hostile individual in a country at war. I need to register your address with the Foreign Office. If you move anywhere, you need to inform me.” Tony passed the man his card, hoping he would believe his bluff. “If you try to disappear, we will find you.”
Sagethorn sneered at him, rose from the table, and walked out without a word. With sudden decision, Tony dispatched himself back to Bow Street.
Sandby sat in the dim office, feet on his desk, paring his fingernails.
“You did a good job, Mr. Sandby. I just returned from speaking to Mr. Sagethorn. I suspect he will try to hop it. I’d like you to follow him for the next few days and send me a daily report.” Tony slapped a guinea on the counter. “Here is a deposit.”
The man with the sleepy eye rose and said, “Will do, yer lordship. Glad to be of service.”
Tony retired to his club for the remainder of the afternoon, where he played piquet with Bertie. He played badly, the problem of Miss Livingstone not far from his mind.
He was positive Sagethorn was up to no good, but what did that mean for Miss Livingstone? Perhaps he had imposed upon her for a loan, claiming to be a family friend?
If there was a reasonable explanation, mightn’t she fail to remember it? She had no memories from after the death of her parents.
On the other hand, he had not much doubt that spying or some other illegal game was Sagethorn’s business. He could not picture a successful planter such as Miss Livingstone’s father dealing with such a shady character.
After losing his final game to Bertie, he asked, “What is your opinion of Miss Livingstone?”
“Why do you need my opinion?” his friend asked. “It is clear you are potty about her.”
Tony sighed heavily. “A very dodgy individual, an American, called on her at Southbrooke in my absence. Do you think it possible that she is an American spy?”
“A spy?” Bertie’s eyebrows shot up, and he chuckled. “Whatever put that idea into your brainbox?”
“Beau is convinced of it, and he doesn’t even know about the dodgy character.”
“Seems a very unlikely spy to me. Asked her about this fellow?”
“She claims that she does not remember him. That he imposed upon her some way. She was quite shaken when I asked her about him.”
Bertie took out his pipe and began filling it. As usual he was slow and methodical. Finally, he said, “Since he visited her at Southbrooke, stands to reason you have a right to know who he is. Ten to one, there’s a good explanation.”
Cheered as always by Bertie’s comfortable logic, Tony decided he could do nothing but wait on events.
Chapter Fourteen
When Viscount Strangeways left her, Virginia did not reenter the sitting room but went straight up to her bedroom to think about what had happened.
Did Lord Strangeways have a tendre for her? Virginia felt overwhelmed. Knowing she too felt an attraction, she positively had to address her feelings. And there was no doubt that those feelings were warm.
She loved his gallantry, his kindness toward her. Plus she was tremendously attracted to him.
Dare I think on it more deeply?
What if she was a spy? Had she done anything yet that would be culpable? She had no idea. If so, his knowledge of the existence of Mr. Sagethorn did not bode well. In fact, his mention of the man’s name had thrown her. Just remembering it put her in a quake. If she was discovered, even the kindness of Viscount Strangeways couldn’t save her from the gallows.
At that moment, Sarah tapped on her door. “Lady Clarice Manton and Miss Braithwaite are below for you, miss.”
She knew Miss Braithwaite—the tiny little woman who had taken such care of her at Southbrooke. She had been in one of the balloons. But who was Lady Clarice? The name did seem a little familiar somewhere in the recesses of her mind.
When she arrived downstairs, her eyes were immediately drawn to the small black dog in Miss Braithwaite’s arms. Seeing her, he wiggled with all manner of contortions, begging for release.
“Mr. Hale!” she exclaimed. Her memory of her rescue of the little dog as he was being beaten returned just as naturally as though it had never left. She moved swiftly across the room, took the wiggling dog, and held him away from her so she could look in his eyes. They were sparkling and happy, no longer dull with pain. “He looks well, Miss Braithwaite!”
“You have recovered your memory!” exclaimed the little lady.
Virginia looked at her in surprise. “I do remember Mr. Hale. There was a horrible boy beating him in front of Hatchard’s. Lord Strangeways helped me. He said we should take him straight t
o you.” She turned to the other lady. “And you are Lady Clarice! I remember you now. You have a Siamese cat. And Miss Braithwaite, you own a tortoise—a huge one named Henry Five.”
She laughed, and both ladies smiled at her. Relief coursed through her like a river. Twirling about the room with the dog in her arms, she said, “Mr. Hale! You are my good angel.”
“What else do you remember?” asked Miss Braithwaite.
“The balloon flight,” she said. “It was the most wonderful sensation, flying. But how did I end on the ground?”
“A storm caught us,” said Miss Braithwaite. “Lord Freddie is not the steadiest of captains. From what I understand, he was determined to ride it out. Then lightning struck nearby, and he realized the hydrogen might explode, so he started to descend. The wind upended the gondola, which was a good thing, because the balloon was nowhere near you after you fell into the tree and the lightning struck it.”
“Oh, goodness, what an adventure,” Virginia exclaimed.
“Lord Freddie should be strung up by his thumbs,” said Lady Clarice.
Talk of hanging brought Mr. Sagethorn to Virginia’s mind. Try as she might, she could not elicit any memories of him prior to his appearance in Southbrooke Hall.
Oh, well. Perhaps this recovery is a piecemeal business.
Speaking of Lord Freddie, she said, “I think he has already suffered a set-down at Lord Strangeways’s hand.”
Lady Clarice’s eyes lit up. “I do believe there is some interest there, my dear. Sukey said he was terribly sweet to you and very concerned when you were at Southbrooke. Hopefully you can cure him of that dreadful Pamela Longhurst. She has a beautiful singing voice, but I am afraid she is quite taken with herself.”
Lord Strangeways had a love interest? Virginia’s heart quailed. Her memories weren’t perfect yet, but she did remember that she had felt romantic stirrings between them even before her accident. In fact, they had begun at her first and only ball.
Who was Pamela Longhurst? A vague memory stirred of one of the women she had met in the park.
“Now, Clarice,” said Miss Braithwaite. “You know very well the gel is engaged to Lord Sutton.”
His Mysterious Lady, A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 2) Page 13