Dickon raised a quizzical brow. “No? But you do provoke me, Mrs. Lytton, at every opportunity.”
“Nonsense!” Livvy touched her borrowed pearls, the finest gems it had ever been her privilege to wear. In the pit and gallery, the ton strolled and visited, quizzing each other and gossiping about the fortunates currently in favor with the Regent and the luckless who were out. “It only seems so because you are accustomed to being indulged by all the world.”
Dickon’s arrogant features melting into a heart stopping smile. “How long have you wished to deliver that set-down?”
Livvy considered the question. “Since first we met, I suspect. I must warn you that I am one to bear a grudge.”
“Did I insult you?” asked Lord Dorset. “It seems to be a habit of mine. Shall I offer my apology?”
“I should not accept it.” Livvy was discovering that intimate conversation with the Earl had an effect almost as giddy-making as Madame Arbuthnot’s brandy. She hoped the after-effects would not be as severe. “You offered observations on my personality and appearance that were both unsolicited and unflattering.” And she could well remember her chagrin. “But there! You who are born to the purple cannot be expected to consider those less fortunate with anything but contempt.”
“My words rankled, did they?” The Earl exhibited every indication of enjoyment. “I do apologize, and regret my lack of discernment. You are a diamond of the first water, sweet Livvy, and cast every other woman here quite into the shade.” Again that damnable smile. “I include the Paphian sisterhood.”
Livvy studied her long white gloves. “I was not angling for a compliment,” she said quietly. The theatre audience, grown restive at the long interval, gave vent to various forms of protest, including catcalls, hisses, and the thudding of canes against the floor.
“Had I thought you were,” Dickon replied, “I would not have paid you one.” Livvy looked up shyly. His sapphire eyes were twinkling “As you rightly pointed out on that occasion, I am a monster of inhumanity.”
In the manner of females from time immemorable, Livvy changed her mind. “You are not,” she protested. “It was unforgivable of me to say such a thing.”
“It was,” agreed the Earl cordially. “And you thus revealed yourself to be of as reprehensible a character as I.”
Livvy was determined to wear sackcloth and ashes. “I am surprised that you do not read me a terrible scold.”
“In public?” inquired Lord Dorset. “It would be extremely foolish of me, particularly in view of our circumstances. If it will ease your merciless conscience, I will endeavor to box your ears in private by and by.”
“Wretch!” snapped the widow, good resolutions flying out the window.
The Baroness turned her head. “Pay attention, children! The farce has begun.”
“So besotted am I with my darling Livvy,” said Dickon, “that any other matter must seem a dead bore. I find that I can concentrate on nothing but the approaching nuptials.” The object of the earl’s affections received a sly wink.
“Ah, young love,” sighed Lady Bligh. “How well I remember.” So, with nostalgia, did Sir John. “In consideration of those of us who have outlived such excesses, pray keep your voices down!”
“I suspect,” murmured Livvy, who found better entertainment in the Earl’s nonsensical conversation than in what transpired upon the stage, “that you are laying it on much too rare and thick! You will have the world thinking that I have taken your fancy to a most alarming degree.”
“You have, my darling!” Dickon played his part with an expertise born, Livvy suspected, of long practice. “Believe me, I am driven wild by thoughts of you.”
“Palaverer!” retorted Livvy. She glanced surreptitiously at the fourth member of their party. “Do you seriously expect Sir John to believe you are suddenly anxious to settle in matrimony?”
“It is an odd thing,” Dickon murmured thoughtfully, “but I anticipate little difficulty in that regard. It is from other sources that incredulity will come.” His proud features were amused. “With your compliance, dear Livvy, I cannot but succeed.”
“You are as bad as Hubert for speaking mysteriously! I have agreed to help you.” Livvy decided to ponder Dickon’s cryptic remarks at some other time. It was typical of the man to offer no thanks for efforts undertaken, however unwillingly, in his behalf. “I suspect the lot of us will speedily find ourselves in hot water.” She recalled Newgate’s forbidding facade. “Or worse!”
“Such a lack of courage!” Lord Dorset mocked. “Reflect that almost overnight you have been pitchforked into the midst of the ton. Polite society watches with fascination as I assiduously court you.”
“It has never been my ambition,” Livvy retorted, “to make a byword of myself.” She thought of the ton’s reaction when this playacting was done and Lord Dorset deserted her to pay court to ladies more in his style. Polite society would then be less kind. “Let us talk of other things. Why are you so determined that your son should not come to town? London must hold incomparable delights for a child.”
The Earl’s brows lowered but he made no attempt to avoid the question. “I don’t care to have Austin involved in this thing, nor would I expose him to curious eyes. My son doesn’t speak.”
“I’m sorry.” Livvy found herself disarmed by Dickon’s obvious devotion to the boy. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know.” The Earl studied her. “In view of our supposed betrothal, it would be odd if you did not. The doctors find no reason for Austin’s silence. It resulted from an accident that occurred when he was in Gwyneth’s care.”
“I see.” Livvy could not imagine the Countess Andrassy in a maternal role. She wondered if this accident had anything to do with the subsequent divorce. “You don’t think Gwyneth would be a beneficial influence on her son?”
“I think,” Dickon replied seriously, “that the sight of her would send Austin into hysterics. It has happened before.”
“Does anyone know what has brought her back to London at this particular time?”
Lord Dorset grinned. “Pin Arabella’s murder on my ex-wife and I will be forever in your debt! No reward can possibly be adequate.”
Livvy, intrigued by the notion of holding the Earl thus enthralled, gazed pensively about the theatre, magnificently rebuilt after the fire that had, in 1808, resulted in the deaths of twenty-odd people and the destruction of £15,000 worth of properties. Sir William was, thankfully, not in attendance that evening. In the opposite box, Gwyneth observed Livvy as Hubert looked on. The Earl was leaning close to whisper in his fiancée’s ear, and Hubert laughed spitefully at Gwyneth’s expression.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Dorset murmured. “I find myself intrigued, Livvy, by the secrets that hide behind those lavender eyes.”
“No secrets, I assure you.” It was much too easy to forget the reason for this masquerade. Livvy reminded herself sternly of the Earl’s perverse character. Many another lady who had earned the Earl’s warm regard had lived to rue the experience. “I am a very ordinary person, with ordinary thoughts.”
“I doubt that very much. Dulcie would have little interest in such a nonentity.” There was laughter in his voice. “Now you are the one who frowns and forgets your role.”
Livvy smiled ferociously. “No, no!” the Earl protested. “Your expression must be gently triumphant, as befits the lady who finally caught me.”
“Had I caught you,” Livvy retorted, striving for the requisite air, “I should have speedily thrown you back!” Lord Dorset roared with laughter, a feat that Gwyneth during several years of marriage had never managed to perform. From across the width of the theatre, the green-eyed beauty studied her successor speculatively.
Lady Bligh, exhibiting no concern at these various indications that her rakeshame nephew meant to get up a real flirtation with Lavender, leaned conspiratorially toward Sir John. “I believe that an exchange of information might prove b
eneficial to us both.” Her dark eyes were compelling. “Will you oblige me, John?”
The Chief Magistrate knew that he would come out on the short end of any such exchange. “What sort of information?” he- inquired cautiously, abandoning his efforts to overhear the Earl’s murmured conversation. Sir John was pleasantly surprised in Dickon’s fiancée, for Mrs. Lytton was several cuts above the Earl’s usual conquests. The Chief Magistrate, whose vast knowledge of humanity had inspired him with little faith in the durability of the tender emotions, wondered how long the infatuation would last.
Lady Bligh was undismayed by his lack of faith in her. “You might explain to me the functions of a receiver of stolen goods.”
This seemed an innocent enough request. Sir John frowned. “What notion have you taken into your head? Never mind! I’m sure I’d rather not know. It’s simple enough. A fence moves stolen property back into circulation, whether it’s clothing, trinkets or jewels. Identifying marks must be removed, of course; in some cases, others are substituted.”
“I see.” The Baroness gazed innocently upon her escort. “Where would one find such a creature?”
“Dulcie!” Sir John grasped her arm. “I won’t have you prying into such matters.”
“Dear John.” Her tone was close to a caress. “Will you also take it upon yourself to see that Dickon does not hang?” Silently, the Chief Magistrate released her. “I thought not. You may set your mind at rest; I ask simply for information.” Still he did not speak. “If you do not oblige me, John, you may be sure that Gibbon will!”
Even a man as dedicated as Sir John sometimes grew weary of hearing cases and making decisions that meant life or death, but an evening in Dulcie’s provocative company could hardly be considered a restful interlude. “Very well. They are often connected with small businesses licensed to deal in gold and silver.” He mistrusted her expression. “You’re up to something, and I don’t like it. I’ll tell you no more.”
“You need not.” The Baroness was unperturbed. “Such a fussbudget you’ve become, John! Relax and enjoy yourself, if you can remember how.”
“Relax? When I expect you to be momentarily dragged into Bow Street?” The Chief Magistrate spoke with little hope of being attended to. “And what information do you have for me in return?”
Dulcie pinched his cheek. “Nothing now, for I cannot be sure. Hush, John, or we shall miss the play.” As if she had not a single care, Lady Bligh leaned forward, the better to observe the stage. Sir John sighed heavily, victim of a fleeting impulse to throw the Baroness over his shoulder and vanish into the night, leaving murderers and thieves to wreak havoc as they would while he exacted from her a singularly sweet revenge.
Chapter 9
Lord Dorset’s city residence was a superb stone-fronted townhouse, constructed by Adam, in Cavendish Square. Gwyneth gazed about the first floor drawing room, a chamber fourteen feet high with a finely moulded ceiling, in which were discs of lunettes painted by Antonio Zucchi, wedded to woodwork with carved swags and wreaths, medallions, vases and paterae. The room contained eighteen oval-backed chairs, numerous wall mirrors and candle sconces, a large sideboard, countless tables, and a couch covered with striped horsehair. “This, at least, you haven’t changed.”
The Earl was bored. “It’s not a chamber that I use frequently. Out with it, Gwyneth! What has brought you here?”
The Countess Andrassy settled on the couch. “I hope I may call upon my own husband without exciting undue comment! I thought it time that we spoke privately.”
“Your divorced husband,” Dickon amended, un-mellowed by memories of connubial bliss. He lounged against the delicately worked Carrara marble mantelpiece. “What is it you want? I don’t imagine that we have much to say to one another—at least of an amiable nature.”
Almost, in Dickon’s presence, she forgot the purpose of her visit. “How quickly you forget! It is otherwise with women.”
“It is?” Indifferently, Lord Dorset inspected his visitor. “I have never found it so. These lachrymose airs do not suit you, my dear. You are of too robust a figure to sink easily into a decline.”
Gwyneth’s brief weakness, inspired by the almost overwhelming masculinity of her onetime spouse, abruptly vanished. “I loathe you!”
“Much better,” commented Dickon. “Far more convincing than your imitation of a watering pot.”
“Mrs. Lytton is of a less emotional disposition, I daresay!” It was galling, just when one contemplated an amorous interval, to suffer insult. “I wonder at you, indeed I do! But it is none of my concern if you wish to shackle yourself to an icicle.”
“Hardly that. Mrs. Lytton suffers no excess of sensibility, but I have seen in her no indication of a lack of passion.” The earl regarded a vase-shaped knife-box that sat upon the sideboard. “It is a matter that I cannot yet discuss with any exactitude, you understand.”
Gwyneth’s humor grew increasingly sour. “What’s this? You worship at the feet of your goddess instead of stealing quick embraces in conveniently darkened rooms? How odd! You were never one to observe the proprieties. Either your nature has changed beyond recognition or Dulcie is proving a strict chaperone.”
Though the Earl’s mouth twitched at this notion of the Baroness in the role of duenna, he preserved his sanguine air. “You speak of the past; my eyes have been opened at last. If my treatment of Mrs. Lytton perplexes you, Gwyneth, you must reflect that I have never felt for any other female what I feel for her.”
“I see.” Gwyneth was further provoked by his lazy, careless smile. “I pity the wench, then, for you are bound to make her miserable.”
“I doubt that Mrs. Lytton would have much use for your sympathy.”
Abruptly, Gwyneth rose. “You may fool all the world, but you shan’t fool me! That insipid female means nothing to you.”
“Insipid.” The Earl eyed his ex-wife calmly as he tested the word. “You may call my sweet Livvy a number of things, but hardly that. Still waters run deep, my dear. I find myself much more intrigued by fires as yet unlit than by volcanoes who spill molten lava upon all who come near.”
“So you’ve turned chicken-hearted! Was Arabella too spirited a handful for even the legendary Dorset?” Gwyneth’s tone was sulfurous. “It is no use to speak to you! You are unwilling to recall even the happy moments that we shared.”
“Ah, but they were so few. As you have pointed out innumerable times, we made a ghastly mistake. You may spare yourself the travail of enacting me any more tearful scenes, nor need you bring Arabella into this. You will not be permitted to see Austin.”
“You underestimate me, Dickon. I will see my son, with or without your consent.” Pale with anger, Gwyneth strode to the door. “I will go to any lengths to insure that Austin is placed in my care, as I will do my utmost to see Arabella’s killer hanged.”
“It is not Arabella’s killer that you wish to see apprehended, but myself brought low; just as it is not Austin that you covet, but control of his fortune.” The Earl was at his most blasé. “You seriously delude yourself if you believe I shall allow you to touch either.”
“His fortune?” Gwyneth’s fury was arrested. “So his eccentric uncle did make Austin his heir. Oddly enough, that thought had never entered my head. Thank you, dear Dickon, for an extremely enlightening interview!”
* * * *
It was not surprising, considering this prelude, that Crump found Lord Dorset in a most unamiable mood. He had expected to interrupt the Earl in a gentleman’s usual morning pursuits, holding colloquies with his tailor, bootmaker, and dog fancier, or perfecting the creases of his pristine cravat; instead, the whole household was going about on tiptoe, as if the slightest strident noise might bring the structure tumbling down about their ears.
Lord Dorset, on the verge of departure, did not greet his visitor with any great affability. “The button,” he remarked. “I thought we should get around to that. Be seated, Crump. Or would you prefer that I accompany you to Bow Street?
”
“There’s no need for that, your lordship. Not just now, at any rate.” Crump selected one of the oval-backed chairs. The Earl dropped carelessly onto the couch, muscular legs stretched out before him. “Since you brought up the matter, perhaps you’d like to explain that missing button of yours.”
“I’d like to very much.” Lord Dorset appeared remarkably sincere. “Alas, I cannot! It is extremely unlike my man to be so careless.” One eyebrow rose. “It is a pretty puzzle, is it not? I am missing a button from an evening coat. You have found a button, from a similar evening coat, at Arbuthnot House.” The eyebrow lowered. “How extensive is your knowledge of mathematics. Crump?”
“Broad enough to know that two and two make four!” The Runner did not care for this condescending attitude. He thought of the great John Townsend, hired by fashionable people as protection against pickpockets, and wondered if Townsend suffered equal frustration on those many occasions when he was paid handsomely to mingle with haughty aristocrats. “Was it your button, Lord Dorset?”
“How should I know? Ascertaining such details is your job. If it is my button—and I am far too ignorant to venture an opinion on the matter—I can assure you it was not, er, torn from me on the night of Arabella’s death.” The dark features were mocking. “I was with my. fiancée, if you will recall. Believe me, Crump, the last place I’d take Mrs. Lytton is to Arbuthnot House!”
“You may not’ve taken her there,” Crump retorted, recalling all too vividly his most recent interview with Sir William, “but she’s been at Arbuthnot House all right, and recently.”
“You intrigue me. Crump,” said Dickon. “I did not imagine Mrs. Lytton would feel it necessary to proffer sympathy.”
Dulcie Bligh Page 12