by Regan Walker
“Perhaps Devonshire as well,” suggested Emily. “I hear he is content with his mistress.”
“Ah, well, there will be others. That dark hair and purple eyes of yours have captured the gaze of many a man here tonight, my dear.”
“What would we do without Muriel’s compliments?” Emily asked Grace.
“Drown our disappointment in drink?” Grace returned with a small laugh as she finished her punch and set the glass on a footman’s passing tray.
Eustace was striding toward her.
“Ah,” said Lady Claremont, “the rogue comes for his second dance.”
Chapter 6
The ride home the next day was mercifully without incident, and Grace and the other two women, exhausted from the late night before, were happy to travel in silence. Lady Claremont nodded off, as she had on the ride to Wimpole, giving Grace much time to think.
Gazing out of the carriage window at the gray mist still covering the ground, she remembered the ball and being in Eustace’s arms. He’d looked so handsome in his formal attire, his white cravat elaborately tied for the evening and his thick auburn hair framing that aristocratic face. She had danced before, both as a younger woman at her first Season, at balls that followed and then with Charles on the few occasions they’d ventured forth together. But last evening had been like no other. Swirling around the dance floor in the arms of the man she had tried to hold at bay but could not, she had found great happiness.
Looking into his copper eyes, she had sensed he was pleased, too. Was it because he thought he was closer to winning his wager? Close to seducing her? She let out a sigh. Probably.
Pickard had not approached her again. She attributed that to Eustace’s brooding presence. Even after she left his arms for other partners, she felt his eyes upon her. His penetrating stare had often left her feeling hungry for his touch. It was difficult to reconcile that with her need for his protection. The Redheaded Rake was becoming indispensible, a dangerous prospect.
The carriage rumbled along and she wondered, as she often did, when he would end the chase and press her with more forceful kisses. She wondered, too, if she would have the will to resist. Lady Ormond’s explanations and warning had been sufficient at the outset, but would it now serve? Even knowing his motive for wanting her in his bed, she would still have to fight her growing attraction—and now a true respect for the man. And her feelings might be greater even than that, a prospect that had her worried.
Grace spent the following day reading her mail and resting. Before she had departed for the house party she’d left a favorite novel half-read, and after her morning calls she was able to finish it.
Then it was Tuesday. All day she was unsettled, flitting from one task to another, restless and unable to concentrate on anything save the dreaded appointment with Pickard late that afternoon. But remembering that Eustace would be with her gave her comfort. His motives toward her might not be honorable, but she felt safe at the thought of his presence. Pickard would not intimidate Eustace, of that she was certain. He had said he would think of something and she believed him.
If this left her in his debt, she would deal with it later.
* * *
Christopher had not been idle in the few days between first learning of the blackmail and the coming encounter with Lord Pickard. Ormond had connections beyond those Christopher possessed, and so the marquess had helped him in his search for the man’s secrets, anything that might be helpful in fending off the attempt to blackmail Lady Leisterfield.
From what Christopher learned, it seemed the man was a bit of an anomaly. He had no wife, no mistress and no children, bastards or otherwise. His one interest of note appeared to be gaming. Though his estate was mortgaged to the hilt and he had large debts at several clubs including White’s, Eustace’s own club, Pickard paid his vowels when due. So, something was clearly amiss, and to Christopher the answer seemed obvious: Pickard had made blackmail his occupation to feed his gambling habit.
Reining in Castor and Pollux in front of Lady Leisterfield’s town house, he climbed down and raised the hood on his phaeton. The butler showed him in, but Christopher did not hand his hat and gloves to the older man, merely offered his arm to his imminent companion. She had been waiting for him in the entrance hall, her dark blue cloak already secured around her shoulders.
She was nervous, and that emotion was mirrored in the look of concern on the face of her butler. Christopher wanted to take her into his arms, but in the presence of the older servant he refrained.
“Thank you for being so prompt, Lord Eustace. I am anxious to put this behind me.”
There was greater worry in her blue eyes as she smiled at her butler and lifted the hood of her cloak, setting it over the simple knot at her nape. Christopher sensed her resolve to see this through no matter the cost to her, and his gut tightened knowing that this woman whom he’d begun to care for was being hurt by the avarice of another man. The very thought set him on edge. He was glad he had offered to be with her for what they both knew would be an unpleasant meeting. Before he was finished, he would see the blackguard Pickard dealt with.
By the time they arrived at the address Pickard had given her, just off St. James Street, it was nearly dark. The place was a simple brown two-story abode that was not the home listed in The Royal Kalendar as the viscount’s residence in London. That fine town house was near Mayfair. This modest dwelling near St. James might be assumed to be that of Pickard’s mistress if he had one, though there were no well-tended hedges or flowering plants outside such as a woman would insist upon. A cover for Pickard’s nefarious endeavors, perhaps. A place to do his dirty business.
Christopher pulled around to the side of the house and helped Lady Leisterfield from the phaeton. With the hood of her cloak drawn over her head, and the late hour, he thought her well disguised.
They walked up the stairs to the front door. It was slightly ajar. Glancing at Lady Leisterfield, he remarked in a low voice, “Odd, that.” Her brow was furrowed as if she, too, wondered at the door left partially open.
Christopher knocked. Nothing. A few moments passed as they waited on the stoop. Eustace rapped again. Again there was silence. He pushed the door open and they went inside. No butler or servant greeted them.
Quietly Christopher closed the door behind them and took a few steps further into the entrance hall, Lady Leisterfield following on his heels. The entrance was dark, but there was a flickering light coming from what he thought might be a drawing room off to the left. Sensing something was not right, Christopher walked forward.
“Lord Pickard?” he inquired, in a voice loud enough to be heard upstairs. But the only sound was that of the fire crackling in the hearth of the room he now approached.
The double doors were open on one side. Christopher stepped through and immediately spotted the body.
“Oh, God,” Lady Leisterfield gasped from behind him. “Is it—?”
“Pickard? Yes.”
Lying on the rug in a pool of blood beside an upholstered chair was the viscount. Obviously there had been some sort of scuffle, as his hair was in a tangle, his cravat untied and his jacket torn. Blood stained his white shirt a deep red, spreading out from where the ball had entered his chest. A pistol lay on the carpet a short distance away.
Christopher bent to check Pickard’s pulse, unsurprised to find none. Rising, he went to Lady Leisterfield who stood looking down at the body, her hand held over her mouth, her face a mask of horror. He took her into his arms and gently forced her head to his chest. She was shaking like a leaf.
“Don’t look,” he whispered. Holding her close, he waited until her tremors subsided. She was a strong woman in so many ways, but she was obviously a stranger to such violence. “Perhaps you should sit down, my lady, or wait in the entry.”
She pulled away and looked at him. “Did you have something to do with this?”
“Me? You must know me well enough by now to realize murder is not my style.”
>
“But you said you’d think of something—”
“Something, yes. Not this. Now, tell me again, how many letters were there?”
“He said he had a dozen, but I saw only one.”
“He must have a study. I’d best check for the letters before we go.”
Striding from the room, taking Lady Leisterfield with him, Christopher crossed the hall to open the first door he encountered. It was obviously where the man spent a good deal of time. On the desk were stacks of papers.
Lady Leisterfield followed him in. “Shouldn’t we do something about Pickard?”
“The viscount is dead. We can do nothing for him. But unless I find those letters, you will soon be drawn into a very messy affair.”
He lighted the candle on one end of the desk and began opening drawers, searching through papers. At least Pickard was tidy. Papers were piled into neat stacks both on top of the desk and in the drawers. Most appeared to be correspondence from creditors of one sort or another. “What is the name of the other man, my lady? The man your husband was writing?”
“Hiram Ak…Akerman. Professor Akerman.” Christopher heard the hitch in her voice as she stumbled over the name, obviously uncomfortable voicing it aloud.
He began to search in earnest. At the bottom of the desk on the right side was a secured drawer. Using the sharp letter opener he found, he forced the lock. Inside was a treasure trove of correspondence, some clearly quite old, the pages browned, the envelopes wrinkled. Hurriedly he scanned the names.
Some, to his shock, he recognized. Finally, toward the bottom was a pile displaying the name of Lord Leisterfield, and a few others Mr. Akerman.
“I have them,” he said. Then he counted the letters and sighed. “He must have held one back or kept it somewhere else. I count only eleven. Look again at the desk, should I have missed it, while I check his pockets. Then we must leave this place.”
“We’ll just take them?”
“Exactly.”
Christopher crossed the hall to the parlour and bent to search Pickard’s pockets. There were no letters, no papers of any kind. One letter involving Leisterfield was thus unaccounted for.
Returning to the study, he found Lady Leisterfield standing by the desk, her knuckle pressed to her teeth.
“You didn’t find it?”
“No.”
Christopher made a quick trip upstairs to the bedchamber, which appeared to be unused, and found no additional correspondence.
“We can wait no longer,” he said to Lady Leisterfield, who was standing in the study when he returned. “Hurry. Let’s be gone. On the ride back you can check the eleven letters to see if the one you saw is among them.”
He escorted her out of the house and to his phaeton, then took an indirect way back to her house, thinking all the while of the next step. On the way they had talked about the missing letter. Lady Leisterfield verified the one missing was the one she had first seen, and its absence hung over their heads like the sword of Damocles.
“All will be destroyed if the letter is found in the search of Pickard’s houses,” she reminded him. “David’s future will be ruined.”
“Do not worry needlessly, my lady. I have in mind a course of action that will see you far from the fray and will hopefully avoid controversy for your stepson.”
Once they arrived, he instructed her to pack clothes for a few days. Only one path seemed clear. He must get her away from London.
“Just do it, my lady. I can assure you my purpose is to spare you what may follow.”
Her small valise in hand, he took her not to his own home but Ormond’s. At his knock, the front door opened. He knew the marquess’s butler well, having been a guest on more than one occasion.
“Jenkins, I need to see Lord Ormond on a matter of some urgency. May Lady Leisterfield wait in the parlour?”
“Yes, my lord, of course. This way, my lady.” The butler bade Lady Leisterfield follow him, and the pair disappeared down the corridor while Eustace waited. A few moments later, Ormond appeared.
“What has happened, Eustace? Lady Leisterfield is visibly shaken. Mary is trying to calm her with a glass of sherry, but the baroness keeps saying, ‘He’s dead.’ Who’s dead? And why are the two of you here?”
“Can we speak somewhere more private than your entrance hall?”
“My study.” And with no more words between them, the marquess strode to the door on the other side of the stairs.
Once inside, Ormond turned to face Christopher, crossing his arms over his chest and wearing a scowl; an impatient pose.
“We went to see Pickard,” Christopher said. “I thought with what I had on the man, thanks in no small part to your assistance, I could talk him out of blackmailing Lord Leisterfield’s widow. But we never had a chance to speak with him; he was dead when we arrived. Shot. Obviously someone else got there first, and with a more malevolent intent than my own.”
“Damn.” The marquess ran his hand through his dark hair. “And you came to me. How can I help?”
“You will recall he was blackmailing her with several items of correspondence. Pickard told her he had a dozen letters. I searched his desk and found only eleven. By the bye, there were others letters in his desk, some addressed to names you would recognize. According to Lady Leisterfield, the letter that is missing is the one she has seen and quite damning. I need to get her out of Town for a time. I don’t want her to be questioned or dragged into the Lords’ inquiry if that letter is found.”
“No.” Ormond’s brows drew together as if in concentration as he leaned a hip on his desk. “That would not be good.”
“Do you have an idea of where I could take her?” Christopher inquired. “My town house or hers are not good choices, and my lands lie too far to the north.”
Ormond looked down at the carpet. “To hide her here would not be wise either. Too many in the ton come and go with Mary’s activities.” He thought for a moment. “A few hours away by carriage, longer if the roads are bad, there is a hunting lodge on the far edge of my family’s estate near Ruislip. It’s rather isolated and will be private. We can take her there. I’ll send a messenger with a letter for my groundsman. As it turns out, my father is away at our estate in Scotland and Mother has gone to visit her sister. My aunt in Dorset always keeps her a good week. The servants will ask no questions, and I will assure she has food.”
“You do not think to send the lady alone, do you?” Christopher was horrified at the thought of Lady Leisterfield alone with her worries.
“No, I suppose not. Perhaps a maid and a footman. I have both at my family’s estate.”
“If the lady would agree, I would go with her. I can protect her where a maid cannot and have more motivation to do so than a footman. Besides, I know the circumstances.”
“You?” Ormond raised a brow. “I hardly think that would be advisable. I’d not make your conquest as easy as that.”
“I did say ‘if the lady was willing.’ Of course, she might not be if she knows of the wager. Does she?”
“Oh, yes. Mary saw to that quite early in the game. I thought you knew.”
“I suspected.” Christopher fought back mild annoyance. “That she was forewarned explains her reluctance to be alone with me and some of the things she has said.”
Ormond laughed then looked grim. “Well, the game has changed now, hasn’t it?”
“Indeed it has. I find myself in the role of her protector.” Christopher sighed.
“If I truly thought you were such, perhaps I might change my view on your accompanying her. Would you agree to refrain from pursuing the wager while you are there?”
“I would.”
Ormond’s dark eyes bored into Christopher’s. “And the lady must agree that—”
“She might be persuaded to let me come with her if you spoke to her, encouraged her to see that this is best for her sake.”
Ormond stared at him again for several moments. Finally he nodded. “I will see what
I can do. Pour yourself a brandy and wait here.”
* * *
Hugh pulled his wife from the parlour where she and Lady Leisterfield were sipping sherry by the fire. Alone in their bedchamber, he took a deep breath, prepared to do battle.
“Sweetheart, Eustace has a proposition.”
A puzzled expression crossed his wife’s face. “A what?”
“Eustace would see Lady Leisterfield safely away from London until the furor over Pickard’s death subsides. I have offered my family’s hunting lodge in Ruislip. The timing is not bad; my parents are away.”
“Grace alone with the rake? In a hunting lodge? Surely you jest.”
“In this I believe Eustace is being honorable. He has agreed to leave aside the wager while they are there. He claims to be acting the protector for once in his life and not the predator. You must see if your friend would desire such.”
“I don’t know, Hugh.” Mary paced in front of their poster bed.
“Trust me in this, sweetheart. I have reason to believe I will win this bet.”
“You and your wagers!” Mary frowned, clearly unmoved. She could be a fierce defender of her friends, but Hugh knew his wife well. She had trusted him many times before, all to the good. Finally, with a sigh she relented.
“If I must.”
* * *
“Are you willing to go with Lord Eustace, Grace?” asked Mary.
“I don’t want to stay in London while inquiries are made, but I don’t want to drag you and Ormond or any of my other friends into this, either. At least with Eustace, a man of whom no one would suspect me of having an alliance, I could truly disappear. But will he be honorable? There is the wager…”
“Ormond says he will set the wager aside whilst the two of you are at the lodge, but only you can say if he’s truly to be trusted. His reputation is not that of a man who upholds women’s virtue for the sake of it.”
“No.”
“But I can see that you are nonetheless considering his offer,” said Mary, surprised.