by Allison Lane
“More. He started with six hundred thousand. The Tsar’s troops captured a few thousand – a very few. Only eighteen thousand survived the retreat, and many of them were in pitiful shape.”
They settled down for a long discussion of the war.
“So we are finally winning?” Devall asked at last.
“One cannot be overconfident, and many call me an incurable optimist, but I believe it will be over within the year.”
A new gust of wind blew into the room as the porter hurried to assist another arrival.
Atwater.
Devall’s good cheer vanished. Refilling his glass, he motioned Jack to stay put and casually sauntered toward the porter’s desk as Atwater headed for the gaming room.
The collision almost appeared accidental – two preoccupied men bumping into each other – but the wine that spilled down Atwater’s cravat, waistcoat, and evening jacket was no mistake. Nor was the hatred that blazed from Blackthorn’s eyes.
“You just cannot avoid running people down, can you?” he demanded icily.
Atwater’s face contorted in rage, but he turned without a word to accept the porter’s help.
Devall cursed himself for again forcing a confrontation without the audience necessary to assure success. For some reason, he couldn’t keep his mind on the job this time. First Miss Warren had intruded, and now Jack. Never had he been so careless with a mission.
But never had it mattered so much. Recognizing his emotional involvement gave him pause. He must keep a clear head. Lydia deserved better.
Sighing, he resumed his seat.
“What is your quarrel with Atwater?” asked Jack quietly. “If it is justified, I’ll second you.”
“We will discuss it later.” He returned to their interrupted conversation, but it was long before he could relax and enjoy Jack’s company. No matter how hard he tried, suppressing his fury at Atwater was impossible.
Dawn was approaching when they adjourned to the gaming room.
Atwater had repaired his wardrobe and was now enjoying an evening of piquet. Harley announced that he had lost enough, starting a jovial discussion over who would next partner the earl.
Devall’s hatred again burned white hot. At last he had a perfect opportunity. “I would never be so foolish,” he commented to Jack, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry to the table.
“Is he that good a player?” asked Jack carefully.
Devall suppressed a grimace. Jack might be his closest friend, but until he knew the details, he would steer clear of this feud. So he must go it alone for now. But at least he could bounce barbs from Jack to Atwater.
“He wins uncommonly often,” he replied, his tone implying that it was not due to skill.
Gasps rose from every corner. The sanctity of White’s made the allusion even more serious.
“Are you going to take that?” demanded Shelford, staring at the earl.
“I’d call out anyone who implied such a thing,” slurred Harley, who had imbibed more than was good for him. But his eyes drifted to the pile of vowels in front of the earl.
Atwater’s face remained impassive. Several voices rose in support of his integrity, though the consensus was that such a charge could not go unpunished.
Devall locked gazes with Atwater, the ice passing between them nearly visible. He could feel the earl’s fury – and his rigid control.
Atwater lowered his gaze first. “Shelford, would you care for a game? Ignore his feeble attempt to divert our memories from Graceford’s very odd losses.”
Nice recovery, Devall had to admit, though disappointment coursed through his breast. Atwater had turned the tables completely. Several gentlemen were already looking at him askance.
“Trying to deflect attention from yourself, Atwater?” demanded a voice from the far corner. “We all know Graceford was caught cheating in Naples. I’d say losing to Blackthorn was no more than he deserved.”
Garwood. Devall identified the speaker even as men perked up on all sides, but this wasn’t the time to consider his unexpected support.
“I say! He’s right!” exclaimed someone.
“We were all nicked by Graceford,” slurred another. “Owe thanks for recognizing a sharp.”
“Maybe his eye is still in,” suggested a third, trailing off into hiccups.
“But Atwater’s luck is no better than mine,” said Shelford quietly.
“Or mine,” agreed another. “Should call out anyone who thinks otherwise.”
Atwater gritted his teeth, indulging in one hate-filled glance at Devall before turning back to Shelford. “Ignore the rogue. He is no gentleman so cannot be treated as one.”
Devall twisted his mouth into a sneer. He’d almost had the bastard. What now? Gabriel apparently planned to ignore the rules of gentlemanly conduct – hardly surprising when set against his other crimes. The hell of it was that he could get away with it. His reputation was so solid that society would forgive him nearly anything.
So he needed a new approach. Somehow, he must weaken the man’s credit. Turning on his heel, he left, Jack at his elbow.
“If you have a legitimate quarrel, why not just challenge him and be done with it?” Jack asked as they hurried through the rain.
“I prefer swords.”
Enlightenment struck. “He is no fencer. I take it first blood won’t end the fight.”
Devall nodded.
Jack’s eyes closed briefly. “Dammit, Devall! Won’t you ever learn? What has he done to draw such ire?”
“Murder.”
* * * *
Hyde Park was sparkling clean as Garwood and Angela joined the crowds for the fashionable hour. Last night’s storm had washed all trace of soot from the trees and shrubs, leaving every leaf sparkling. The sight raised her spirits.
Lady Forley had kept her up half the night, haranguing her for her set-down of Atwater and vowing that she would never approve a betrothal with anyone else. When Angela had reminded her that Andrew was her guardian and thus responsible for approving any suitors, the woman’s fury had erupted into a full-fledged fit. Filial duty required that she accept her mother’s guidance; only a title and fortune would enhance her social position; and on and on and on…
Angela shuddered. She cared nothing for social position, but her mother’s mind was closed. The woman flatly refused to believe that Angela’s interests did not mirror her own. Thus it was vital to bring Garwood up to scratch as soon as possible.
But she had no idea how to go about it. Too much pressure could send him running – as she herself longed to do whenever her mother launched one of her lectures. Eliciting proposals was probably another of those skills most girls had learned along with flirting and making pretty conversation, but she lacked that sort of training.
“I see Lady Stafford has recovered from her brief indisposition,” said Garwood, breaking into her reverie.
“Then it must not have been a chill after all, for she was abed only one day.” Angela returned her gaze to Garwood. “And just as well. She is increasing again.”
“I had not heard.” He sounded aggrieved.
She laughed. “Does a list of those in a delicate condition make the rounds of the clubs? I thought the topic more suitable for drawing rooms. Lady Debenham mentioned it last night, and she usually knows such things.”
“You would be surprised what gets discussed at White’s, to say nothing of wagered upon. But did Lady Debenham actually steal a march on Lady Beatrice?”
“Pigs will fly first. I swear Lady Beatrice has an informant in every house in town. How else can she learn what happens almost before the participants? But what was that about wagers?”
“Gentleman frequently bet on odd things,” he admitted sheepishly. “Which of two water drops will descend a window first; whether the next horse to turn down St. James’s will be brown or black – silly wagers.”
“How did that come to mind in relation to Lady Stafford?”
He grimaced. “I
should have kept my mouth shut. There are those who wager on human events – whether a couple with four boys will next produce a girl, or the exact date of a birth.”
“And I suppose they also speculate on how soon after a wedding that birth occurs? Or the nature of the Season’s attachments? Will Lord A succeed in winning Miss B? Or Lord C manage to seduce Lady D? What a despicable practice, reducing people to pawns.” Undoubtedly they were also betting on when she would accept Atwater. It was yet another strike against his suit. She had a perverse desire to confound every betting man in London.
“There are those who will bet on anything, but I am not of their number.”
She relaxed. “I know, and I apologize for my outburst. It just seems so degrading to find ladies’ names being bandied about the clubs.”
“Your outrage does you credit and is one reason I care so deeply for you.” He must have realized how close he had just come to a declaration, for he bit off further comment, determinedly switching to neutral topics.
She sighed but could only follow suit, reverting to park chatter as they greeted friends. It was frustrating. He was so close, but hadn’t yet taken the plunge. And so she faced yet another evening of Atwater’s hovering and Lady Forley’s pressure.
She caught sight of Blackthorn in the distance, locking onto his eyes as usual. She had sent word to Hart about Mickey, but she had no idea when he would collect the boy. Nor could she figure out why Blackthorn had brought Mickey’s plight to her attention. Aiding an orphan hardly fit his reputation, but even discounting that, he surely could have handled the problem by himself. Hart did not run the only orphanage in England. Was he testing her for some reason?
“He tried to force another argument on Atwater at White’s last night,” said Garwood, following her gaze. His voice contained an odd mixture of disgust and approval.
“Does anyone know why?”
He shook his head. “His innuendo was patently false, so he must have been manufacturing a quarrel to cover his real complaint.”
“If he has a legitimate charge, why does he not make it public?”
“Honor does not always allow such exposure.”
Men! They could cloak the oddest behavior in honor. More than one tradesman was in dire straits because honor demanded that a gentleman pay gaming debts before bills for goods and services. And settling disputes on a dueling field was barbaric, recalling the I’m-stronger-so-I’m-right bullying so prevalent in medieval days.
“Honor is laudable,” she said carefully, “but I will never agree that violence solves anything.”
Blackthorn’s actions with Mickey had made her wonder if his core was less black than rumor suggested. Had she jumped on that idea because she wanted him to be good? It would make her feel less guilty for liking the scoundrel.
She shivered. After such an admission, could she ever trust her judgment again?
But the situation was even worse than that. She had felt an unaccountable link to the marquess since the first time she had met his eyes. Was a misplaced infatuation responsible for her inability to love Philip? Such a disaster could destroy her life.
Garwood put on a determinedly cheerful face. “Enough of unpleasant topics. Did you see the way Miss Sanderson stared at Mr. Crawford last night?”
“Yes. How shameful that her chaperon retired to the card room. What Lady Sanderson was about to leave her daughter in the hands of so avid a whist player I cannot imagine. Of course, I also have trouble believing the girl has developed a tendre for such a cawker. They disappeared into the garden for one whole set. Heaven knows what they were doing.”
“I think heaven knows quite well.” He chuckled. “It is the gossips who lust after the details.”
“Or envy them. Their speculation contains more excitement than condemnation.”
He laughed, then abruptly sobered. Glaring at an approaching curricle, he deliberately turned his eyes away and set his horses to a trot. Pain exploded in the other driver’s eyes.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“I cannot abide dishonesty.”
“Nor can I. What has he done? That was Lord Renford, was it not?”
“Yes. He used to be a close friend.” Agony underlay his voice. “I just discovered that he stole some papers from my study.”
Her eyes widened. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“They concerned investments I am considering, including detailed information about some property. Whoever buys it should reap large profits as soon as certain plans become general knowledge. They were on my desk when he called yesterday morning, but gone after I had seen him out. He wasted no time. When my agent offered for the property at noon, it had just sold. I can still make a profit, but not what I’d expected.”
“Is he so desperate?”
“No. He is wealthier than I, which makes his behavior incomprehensible.”
“He did not explain when you asked about it?”
“There was no point in starting an argument. No one else had access to them. I will not countenance deceit among my friends.”
She nodded. “Nor I. Trust is vital to any relationship. As is honesty.”
“I’m glad you understand, for not all ladies are so insightful. Perhaps you have been equally cursed by liars and cheats.”
She silently nodded. A neighbor had been caught working for Napoleon. Another had tried to cut his older brother out of an inheritance. The world unfortunately held too many liars and cheats.
“Renford is not the only gentleman I have been forced to cut,” he said with a sigh. “A schoolmate seduced one of my tenants, then lied about his responsibility for her resulting condition. And one of my cousins fleeced a friend, though he also lied about it. I cannot understand how anyone can deny their own actions. It only makes matters worse.”
“True. Much better to admit a fault and take steps to correct it. Repentance can lead to forgiveness, but obstinacy merely adds new grievances.”
They left the park in companionable silence. His high standards matched her own – honorably moral yet broadminded about her education. Even his willingness to uphold the rights of tenants by condemning a friend boded well. They could forge a good partnership out of a marriage.
Chapter Seven
Devall halted in amazement. Miss Warren was leaning over a ragged soldier on Piccadilly, pushing something into his filthy hand. Every time he thought he understood the chit, she did something to blast the image to pieces. He had considered her sympathetic to helpless orphans, yet Mickey had still been huddled in that derelict shed two days before. So he’d decided she had been playing him for a fool, yet here she was, succoring a beggar.
The man grasped her hand as she turned away, mouthing a seemingly emotional entreaty.
Devall stiffened. Had he been wrong? The fellow was undernourished but able-bodied and might be trying to force his attentions on her. But she smiled and patted the man’s arm before turning to leave.
His unexpected concern for her safety made Devall furious. She had occupied his thoughts far too often in recent days.
“Such sympathy!” He fell in beside her. “Do you feel worthier if you toss a penny to a beggar now and then?”
She pulled her pelisse closer and tried to brush past, but he grabbed her arm, forcing her to face him.
“Let go!” she demanded. “Even your reputation does not include assaulting ladies on public streets – or are you embarking on a new vice to keep boredom at bay?”
“What a waspish tongue, but more believable than alms for the poor. Why the pretense? Are you trying to impress me?”
“Conceited, aren’t you,” she observed caustically. “Do you actually believe that you are so important that your very presence can influence everyone’s behavior? Frankly, I didn’t see you. Besides, no one of sense would seek to impress you. What I want is for you to leave before you ruin my reputation.”
“Always so concerned for your reputation.”
“As I must be.
Why do you insist on accompanying me when you disapprove of everything I do?”
“Accosting beggars is unsafe for women.”
“Talking to you is even more dangerous.”
“So you really do distribute alms to street beggars?” He carefully kept his voice neutral, not revealing his own very private support for the flotsam of war.
“I wish I could, but I haven’t the means. If you must know, I was attracted to Mr. Jacobs by his uniform, which is identical to that worn by one of our tenants who died last year at Badajoz. I wondered if they had been acquainted and if he could give me an accurate description of Robin’s death, for the letter from his commanding officer was clearly a formula he used for any death in action. A heroic demise fits neither the realities of war nor poor Robin’s character.”
He stared before signaling his groom to help her maid onto the perch. “Get in.”
“Why?”
“So we can finish this discussion away from prying eyes.” She was right. And harming her reputation would add yet another blot to his, making his efforts to gain access to society balls more difficult.
She stared a moment, then shrugged and allowed him to hand her into his curricle.
“So did he know your tenant?” he asked, turning away from Piccadilly.
“Yes.” Her eyes filled with sadness. “It was as I thought. Robin died in great pain from wounds incurred when a riderless horse trampled him as he tended spare mounts behind the lines. His mother must never learn that, of course, but his father will appreciate the truth.”
“So you gave him your tenant’s direction?”
“No, I will tell him myself. I asked him to contact my brother. If Andrew cannot find work for him, I know our neighbor can.”
He remained silent, mulling her words. Was she really this caring, or was this an easy way to thank the man for answering her questions? “Why did you not help Mickey?” he asked.
“I did.”
He stared.
“I told you it would take time to arrange. He was picked up yesterday and should have reached the orphanage by now.”