Kensworth stalked a few feet and gripped the wet balustrade. “You’re right,” he mumbled, but John heard him. He turned back. “You’re right, damn you. I thought I truly loved her, but if I did I would fight for her.” He shook his head and tiny drops of water flew from the blond strands. “I wish I had it in me, but I don’t. Not for this woman. Perhaps not for any woman.”
“If you act as if your life is a Cheltenham tragedy it will surely turn into one,” John said, betting the best way to bolster Kensworth’s spirit was to not pander to his sentimental tone. “Claire claims everyone has a True Love. You must simply search anew for yours.”
“You can afford to be a pragmatist,” the viscount replied in disgust. “You have found your woman.”
“Found her again, you mean. Do not pretend our path has been clear.” John paused. “I am not even certain how we will reach the end.”
Kensworth tilted his head. “Of course you will propose. Won’t you?”
“Eventually.” John threw back the rest of his champagne and then set the glass on the thigh-high stone wall surrounding the terrace. “I don’t want to bring a scandal down on you.” He might not, however, be able to prevent one regarding the assassination attempt.
Kensworth rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, the way she talks about you—or won’t talk about you. Marry her and be happy. I will survive, and I will try not to begrudge the disgustingly sweet air the two of you will surely inhabit.”
How like Kensworth to want him to act impulsively and ignore the consequences.
“Shouldn’t you be demanding to know the name of my second, not encouraging me to offer for your former betrothed?”
Kensworth shrugged. “You were right; I must carry on. I’ve tried to dislike you from the moment I met you, but I have failed horribly. Duels are for enemies, and I do not number you among mine.”
John would like to think not, but a matter of treason still stood tentatively between them.
To Kensworth he said, “I would like nothing better than to be friends,” knowing he meant the words literally though such might not be possible. “Thank you.”
He thrust his hand toward Kensworth, and the man shook it without hesitation. Then the viscount said good-night and slipped past John into the house.
John stood in the misty darkness a moment longer, contemplating how much gossip a second dance with Claire would cause, when farther along the terrace a large figure suddenly exited the house and crept quietly down to the garden. As John watched, the burly blond pushed against the gate in the back wall and disappeared.
Now, where was David Cahill sneaking off to? John forced aside tantalizing thoughts of Claire and another waltz. To free himself to pursue her, first he must catch an assassin.
Stealthily, he followed David out the garden gate.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Claire was searching for Kensworth. A dance between them would sink half the gossip floating around; unfortunately he was nowhere to be found. Neither was John, but she told herself that was neither here nor there.
Well, she had other work to do. Leaving her sister with a friend, she drew a bracing breath and sought out the Strettons.
“Good evening, sir, my lady.” Fortunately she had more than a passing acquaintance with the portly baron and his handsome wife, thanks to Stephen’s political ambitions.
“Lady Claire, how good to see you.” Lady Stretton squeezed her hand warmly, and Claire knew that this woman, unlike many others in the room, meant the greeting.
Lord Stretton sketched Claire an ungainly bow. He wagged his finger at her and said teasingly, “You could have gone far with Kensworth, my dear.”
“Stretton! Do mind your tongue,” Lady Stretton admonished, her blue eyes flashing. She seemed unaware of her husband’s playful tone, and Claire noticed how rigidly Lady Stretton held herself away from her husband. At previous Allerton dinner parties, one would have been hard pressed to slide a piece of paper between the two of them.
“It’s quite all right,” she said, knowing the truth of Stretton’s sentiment. She could have risen on Stephen’s star and become a great political wife. However, she, like John, didn’t need the glaring light of the public eye upon her. She could help her country in much quieter ways.
“I know I’ve given up a worthy gentleman, but I’m certain he will be the better for it.” She smiled and turned the subject to meet her ends. “I hear you’ve recently visited Scotland?”
Lady Stretton glossed over the beauty of the Highlands in order to extol the virtues of her first grandchild. Even Stretton interjected a grand statement or two about the child’s abilities.
Claire let them have their say, nodding and agreeing whenever appropriate. Finally Lady Stretton seemed to have exhausted herself on the subject and Claire asked a more pertinent question.
“Were you returned in time to witness Lady Doncaster’s behavior at the Malmford soiree?” Said event had taken place on the night Stretton was in Wanstead.
“Yes,” said Lady Stretton.
“No,” said her husband.
Claire pretended not to notice their contradictory answers.
“Stretton was home with the ague. Lady Don should clearly be kept at home; I do wonder at her husband’s judgment,” Lady Stretton said with a brittle smile, as if she felt the same about her spouse.
Claire nodded. “I feel sorry for her. She was always such a social creature. It must be terribly difficult for her to be shut away from everyone simply because she forgets herself now and then.” But after that, at the first opportunity Claire slipped away. She had what she needed. If she were a betting woman, she’d say that Stretton was conducting an illicit liaison, and his wife knew it.
Now to find out who Stretton’s paramour was.
Searching the room, Claire spied out an old schoolmate. “Eliza! Don’t you look especially lovely tonight.”
Eliza Cranstoun’s eyes lit up as if she’d been handed the crown jewels, but her words were sympathetic to the point of nauseating. “Oh, you poor darling! The distress you’ve been through. How can you abide the strain? What can you have been thinking to give up Kensworth?” Her dark eyes narrowed and her voice lowered to a whisper. “Did he treat you so abominably, then?”
Knowing Eliza to be an incomparable disseminator of gossip, Claire fed her only what she wanted circulated. “Oh, no. Kensworth is a fine, honorable gentleman. We simply didn’t suit.”
“Pish!” Eliza hooked her arm through Claire’s and leaned her pale face close. “He must be a terrible brute, as big and brawny as he is.” She shuddered, but Claire didn’t think it was in fear. “Tell me, did he hurt you? Was he more than you could bear?”
Remembering Lord Landry, Claire wanted to retch. She’d always known her schoolmate was fast, but today the woman seemed an absolute horror. “Kensworth is as gentle as a kitten, and he’s done absolutely nothing wrong. In truth, he deserves someone much better than me.” She continued quickly, unwilling to give Eliza more time to contemplate Stephen. “But listen, I wanted to ask you about something else. I, well, I’m not certain I should mention any names…”
Eliza steered her to a corner of the room. “If you cannot ask me, you cannot ask anyone. What do you want to know?”
Chewing her lip, Claire hesitated before saying, “I fear the Strettons’ marriage is in trouble. They don’t seem as close as they used to be.”
“Hmm, I wonder how much longer before everyone else figures out that all is not well there,” Eliza mused with some pleasure.
Claire put her hand over her chest as if she were distressed, when in fact she merely wanted to calm her thumping heart. She was about to find her answer. John’s answer. “Dear me, who can have captured Lord Stretton’s eye?”
Eliza shook her head. She flipped open her fan and waved it, smiling smugly. “It’s not who, it’s what.”
“I don’t understand,” Claire said, not having to pretend at confusion.
“Don’t you?”
“What are you saying?”
Eliza continued to nonchalantly fan herself, and her perfectly coiffed black curls bounced as she shook her head. “Ah, ah, ah. I don’t give away information for free. It’s my only source of pleasure.”
Claire dropped all pretense. “What do you want?”
“An introduction to Kensworth. It seems the two of you are still on good terms.”
Claire bit back a groan. Again she would have to choose between Stephen and John. But it was a quick decision. Kensworth, with fair warning, could take care of himself. Though, Eliza would probably do better with an introduction to that brute Lord Landry.
“But of course,” she said. “What do you know?”
“Stretton has been taking instruction in the Catholic faith at a church near Wanstead. His wife nearly suffered an apoplexy when she found out.”
Claire maintained a blank expression with difficulty. She was glad the Strettons’ marriage wasn’t in trouble, but if the baron converted to Catholicism he would lose his seat in Parliament and jeopardize the reform movement.
Apparently unsatisfied with Claire’s reaction, or lack thereof, Eliza said, “I have no idea why you’d care.”
“No.” Claire shrugged. “You wouldn’t.” Then she practically skipped off.
She’d done it! She had obtained information that John had been after for weeks.
She circuited the room in search of him, but he was nowhere to be found, so when she spied her former fiancé’s broad shoulders she veered in his direction. He must be alerted about Eliza, and with any luck an amiable dance with Claire would put a cap on a successful night of preserving his reputation.
As for her information, at the end of the day she knew where to find John.
***
John returned to Allerton House hours later, and the butler admitted him with a dignified greeting.
“Hadlow, are the others still out?”
“No, my lord. I believe everyone is returned and they have retired early.”
“Good-night, then.” John turned and headed up the stairs, weary.
He’d followed David to a tavern where the younger man met with Hal Stickney. John was surprised to see Stickney in London. True, the young lad had expressed his desire to come to Town, but his rendezvous with David was more than a little suspicious. Aside from the Hampton Club, the two men didn’t have much in common. That one mutual interest, however, sparked concern.
In the end, though, nothing came of it. While tossing back three glasses of ale each, the two carried on like any other pair of young men, laughing and flirting with the serving girl. John couldn’t get close enough to hear their conversation, but when they left the tavern, each headed a different direction. John chose to follow David, who simply went home.
He reached the second floor and turned toward his bedchamber, trying not to think of Claire tucked into her bed just down the corridor, especially not upon remembering how the sight of said lady in her wrapper and nightdress had undone him once before. His groin tightened at the searing memory of her breast filling his hand, and in frustration he loosened his cravat and yanked it off. By the time he reached his door, he had his coat off as well and tossed both items on the bed. A small fire flared in the fireplace, warming the room comfortably, so his waistcoat went next.
If he remained in England he would have to hire a valet. His brother’s man was doing twice the work and yet refused to take additional wages. After this mission was complete…
After. Everything was “after.” He had put his life on hold until his work was done. He’d done that willingly in Europe for five years, but having to do so now chafed.
He tugged off his shirt, pushed his spectacles back up his nose and searched atop his chest of drawers for his comb.
Whish.
John stiffened at the sound of fabric whispering across leather, whipped around and focused on the shadowy corner chair.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Claire.
John’s heartbeat faltered. She sat tucked there, her wrapper snugly tied, her dark, silky hair falling in waves past her shoulders. He fumbled with the shirt that was still in his hands and somehow managed to pull it back over his head without skewing his spectacles.
She, however, appeared calm.
He had to say something or she would continue to stare at him with those soft brown eyes, looking utterly kissable. Touchable. Tumble-able.
“What are you doing here?” His question didn’t bring her out of her trance so he said, “Claire?”
“Oh!” She jumped up and began to pace back and forth, her long hair bouncing against her back each time she turned. The firelight gleamed off those sleek tresses. “I discovered the truth about Stretton. I tried to find you at the ball”—she stopped and shot him a steady gaze—“but you disappeared.”
Despite the urge to wrap her in his arms and soothe her in a most unsuitable manner, John stood his ground. He must escort her out of the room. She had no business being here. He hadn’t even begun to court her. Not seriously.
“Your work, I suppose.” She tilted her head.
He nodded. “Traipsing around Holborn all night.”
“Holborn?” She stepped closer and raised her hand. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”
Damnation, it was hard to stand there with Claire before him, thinly though modestly dressed, and a bed beside him. He must say something before she sent those fingers searching for injuries.
“I’m well.” He took a step back and her hand fell away. He would like nothing better than to tell her about David and Stickney, but that would prolong her stay. It was time to get rid of her. He didn’t have the wherewithal to be in the same room with her any longer. He was a gentleman; she was an unmarried lady. He meant to do everything properly this time, to court her as she’d always wanted. As she deserved. “You should—”
“Don’t you want to know about Stretton?” she asked at the same time.
He needed this information; he could get through this. “Very well. Why don’t you sit down?” That way she would stay out of reach.
She searched his eyes. “You are the one who looks like he needs to relax. You are tense.”
“Tell me what you’ve learned.” And for God’s sake, tell me without flipping your hair so provocatively. Tell me without flashing those big, brown eyes my way.
She dropped back into the chair, somehow loosening her wrapper just enough to fire John’s imagination. He shifted his gaze to the floor and noticed her bare feet for the first time.
“I haven’t even told you the bad news yet,” Claire said, apparently puzzled by the inarticulate sound he made.
John retreated to the end of the bed and leaned against the footboard, his feet stretched out in front of him. From there he could at least stare into the fire and pretend to relax. “Not good news, then?”
“No, but not for the reason you think.” She paused long enough to draw his attention back to her. “Stretton is considering converting to Catholicism.”
He stared at her, at a complete loss as to what to say. Such an absurdity had never entered his mind.
“I know. Shocking.” Once again she was out of the chair, pacing in front of the fireplace. In front of him. “I thought for certain he was having an affaire d’coeur, but my source is reliable. His wife is unhappy with him, which is understandable if he is contemplating such a change. They stand to lose much.”
“His expulsion from the House of Lords would devastate the Whig party,” John said with a sigh. Claire’s information fit all that had gone on with Stretton: the lie about his return date, the secrecy of his visit to Wanstead.
She nodded and walked the length of the rug. “Kensworth would be hurt too. He was not only counting on Stretton’s vote for parliamentary reform but his influence with others as well. Reform could be set back years.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced over at John. “Why are you smiling? This is distressing news.”
“I know, but…”
She wouldn’t understand what he was feeling. It was as if he had a partner. Not just someone to work with—he had Watson after all, though it always felt as if Watson were working against him—but someone with whom he could discuss discoveries. Someone who understood the implications of what was learned. He could explain to Claire right now that he was searching for an assassin and she would immediately understand the repercussions in regards to Kensworth, Stretton, the government.
He couldn’t tell her, though, and it was killing him.
“What you’ve discovered is not worse than what I feared, but still, it’s simply astonishing. I don’t think anyone suspects. Will you tell Kensworth?”
His question halted her pacing, and John regretted that her perfect little feet no longer paraded before him.
She eyed him questioningly. “Should I? It’s such a personal matter. What right do I have to reveal Stretton’s secret?”
“I’ll talk to Stretton, then Kensworth if he allows it—and if you would like me to.”
“I would. Thank you.”
It would have been the perfect time to end their conversation. Instead he found himself saying, “I wonder that your source hasn’t spread this rumor about. Not many could keep such a secret.”
She smiled mischievously. “The gossip would have been worthless if incautiously spread.”
John leaned forward, stretching his back. “Ah, one of those types. I hope the price wasn’t too high.” Not that he would mind being in Claire’s debt. He could think of several ways to honor such an obligation.
After his work was done, of course.
She wandered over to the chest of drawers, saying over her shoulder, “Kensworth will pay the brunt of it, although we may have to extricate him from her clutches at some point.”
Her use of the word “we” sent a spear of warmth through John’s chest. That is what he liked about this situation; they were working together, forming a partnership, becoming a “we.” He wasn’t alone any longer.
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