by Kruger, Mary
“Diana,” Cecily interrupted, leaning up on her elbow, “have you ever been kissed?”
“What?” Diana stared at her. “Of course not, silly, I’m not fast! Oh, of course there was Jack Waverly, but that hardly counts, I was only ten at the time. Why?” Diana’s eyes became disconcertingly shrewd. “Who’s been kissing you? Oh, no, don’t tell me! Edgewater! Oh, Cece, it’s so romantic! What was it like? Tell me everything!”
“It wasn’t much, Diana.” Cecily laid her hand over her eyes again. Diana, for all her surface silliness, could be shrewd when she wished to be, and could usually detect Cecily’s falsehoods. “I don’t know why the novel writers make so much of it.” But she did, she thought, turning her head into the pillow. She did, and that was the problem.
“Cecily, are you feeling quite the thing?” Diana’s voice was filled with real concern. “You’ve gone all pale.”
“No, my headache is worse.”
“Poor Cece. You should take a sleeping draught. I’ll just go tell Annie to prepare one for you, shall I?”
“Yes, thank you,” Cecily mumbled, glad to be left alone again. Sleep would be welcome, to release her, if only for a time, from the memory of the last hour. She had been an utter fool. How could she live with herself now?
She covered her eyes again, as if to shut out the memories, but they were there, tantalizing, seductive, painful. She had been kissed, and had quite willingly kissed back, a man known to be a rake, a man to whom the kiss had meant nothing. What was worse, she had actually liked it, until the moment when she had opened her eyes and had faced hard reality. The kiss had meant nothing to St. Clair. He had, for some reason of his own, quite callously used her, and she had allowed it. Had allowed him liberties, in fact, that had revolted her with her fiancé. Good Lord, how could she ever face Edgewater again, when she preferred the kiss of another man to his?
Confused, she rolled into a tight ball, her pillow over her head. It had been foolish of her to ask advice of Diana, but then, who could she ask? Certainly not her mother. How could she explain that she had somehow turned from a proper young lady into a wanton woman, and with the wrong man? She didn’t understand it herself. Apparently there were depths in her, unknown places she’d never realized existed. How she was going to deal with that knowledge, she didn’t know.
One thing was certain, she thought, sitting up. Devastating though this was, she wasn’t going to hide from the world. Not unless St. Clair chose to disclose her behavior. Though her feelings towards him at the moment were decidedly hostile, even she doubted he’d do such a thing. No, she would keep her shame to herself, consider it a lesson hard-learned, and go on from there. The adventurous Cecily would be put aside; the very proper Lady Cecily would take her place. She would live her life as she had planned. And never, never, would she forgive St. Clair.
It was hell being sober.
Alex stropped his razor in front of his shaving mirror. His eyes were clear; his skin firm, with healthy color. The face that looked back at him, however, held the same contempt it had when he had been at his most dissolute. In the past few weeks he had given up his former pastimes with nary a trace of regret. He had bid his mistress farewell, neither lost nor won at cards, and remained remarkably abstemious. What he had done instead, though, made those activities pale in comparison. He was sick to death of it, sick to his soul, and with all his heart he wished for a better life. What he lacked was the knowledge to achieve it.
“God’s teeth, but I look like hell,” he muttered, lathering his face.
“You been through hell, sir, if I may say so,” Parsons said, laying out the biscuit-colored pantaloons and the coat of green superfine that Alex would wear that day.
“No, you may not say so.” Alex’s voice was absent, as he scraped the lather off his cheeks.
“No, sir. But you have been, all the same.”
Alex wiped the razor on a towel, and looked at Parsons in the mirror, his eyes keen. “So how do you suggest I get out of it, Parsons?”
“You could try praying, sir. Or,” he said, over Alex’s snort of derision, “you could try believing in something. Not everyone is treacherous, or a liar.”
“Prove it.”
“Lady Cecily isn’t.”
“Ha. She’s a woman, isn’t she? Women and treachery are inextricably linked, Parsons.”
“No, sir, not this one.” Parsons stood his ground, as Alex raised the towel to wipe the remaining lather from his face. “This isn’t France. You care for Lady Cecily—”
“The devil I do!”
“—and it was an orphanage she went to. Matron there speaks highly of her.”
Alex laid down the towel and turned to glare at him. “Just what are you trying to say, Parsons?”
“I think you’re wrong about her, sir. Just because she wants to help the poor doesn’t mean she wants revolution, neither. I don’t think Lady Cecily’s involved in anything.”
“Nor do I,” Alex said, and, as he did so, a great weight lifted from his heart. He didn’t believe her guilty. I am going soft, he thought, without censure. He had learned to trust his instincts. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, they were telling him that he could trust Cecily. And that he had wronged her badly.
Alex frowned as he pulled his shirt over his head and began the complicated business of tying his neckcloth. He had indeed wronged her, and how he would ever make amends, he didn’t know. He wanted to try, though, and the first step would be to inform the Home Office of her innocence. Then he would see.
Alex’s heart was light as he stepped out for Bainbridge House. For the first time in many a year, he could see hope for the future. His mood didn’t darken, even when he was shown into Bainbridge’s study and Bainbridge, his face sober, rose to greet him. “I’m glad you’ve come,” Bainbridge said, as they settled into comfortable leather armchairs in front of the fire. “There have been some new developments.”
“Have there?” Alex crossed his legs, quite at ease. No matter what he learned today, he was determined not to allow it to affect him. His days of spying were done. It was time to seek another life, with, perhaps, a girl with honey-hued curls and golden eyes, who was an intriguing mixture of innocence and sensuality. It was time to move on. “Before you tell me, however, I’d like to tell you the results of my investigation.”
“So soon?” Bainbridge raised an eyebrow.
“We rakes work fast,” Alex said, with his charming, self-deprecating smile. “I am convinced Lady Cecily is innocent.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.” Alex went on, ignoring Bainbridge’s frown. “I’ve had her followed, and she does nothing out of the ordinary. Little out of the ordinary, I should say. She does visit an orphanage, to teach the children to read. I’d appreciate it, by the by, if you’d keep that to yourself.”
“Are you certain that is where she goes?”
“Positive. I’ve had Parsons following her. He confirmed it. Why?” he asked, belatedly struck by the serious look in Bainbridge’s eyes. “Do you know aught else of her?”
“I told you there have been new developments.” Bainbridge rose and crossed to the mantle, his fist to his mouth. “Damn, this is hard. You’ve fallen for the girl, haven’t you?”
“Devil a bit,” Alex said, cheerfully. “But I will admit I’m no longer objective where she’s concerned. If you wish to continue your investigation, you’ll have to find someone else. Not that it will do you any good. She’s innocent.”
“We have a good idea what the aim of the conspiracy is,” Bainbridge said, abruptly.
“Oh?”
“We’ve heard from other sources that someone is searching for a sharpshooter, and is offering a good sum of money.”
Alex went very still. “God’s teeth. Assassination.”
“It looks that way.”
“How do you know it’s the same conspiracy?”
“Because of the name of the person asking.” Bainbridge sat again, his eyes grave. �
��It’s a man. We have a description of him. He’s said to be about forty, short, balding on top. His nose apparently was broken at one time. Otherwise, there’s little remarkable about him. Except his name.” Bainbridge paused. “He goes by the name of Randall.”
Chapter Eight
Alex jerked back as if he had been shot. “Coincidence.”
“Perhaps. We don’t think so.” Bainbridge’s voice was crisp. “Obviously Barnes knew something about Lady Cecily. Why else would he have said her name?”
“Damn it, I don’t believe it!” Alex rose and began to pace the room. “She’s innocent. I’d stake my life on it.”
“You may already have,” Bainbridge said, and went on as Alex turned. “What was she doing in Whitechapel yesterday?”
“I told you. She teaches children at the orphanage.”
“All the time? I’m sorry, St. Clair. It looks like Lady Cecily is in this up to her pretty little neck.”
“Hell!” Alex pounded the mantle with his fist. “Hell.” It couldn’t be. Someone so innocent, so sweet, simply couldn’t be involved in such a nasty business, no matter the evidence. He knew it, deep in his bones. But—appearances sometimes lied. No, correct that, usually lied. He had been deceived before, and he had quickly learned his lesson. Trust no one. It was the only way to survive. How had a slip of a girl with huge golden eyes and disheveled curls managed to make him forget that hard-won lesson?
“Did the man find his sharpshooter?” Alex said, his voice hard.
“We don’t know.” Bainbridge sounded chagrined. “A man followed him, but evidently Randall was aware of him and managed to get away.”
“Hell.”
Bainbridge regarded him sympathetically. “I am sorry, St. Clair.”
“For what?” Alex’s voice was clipped.
“To be the one to tell you. As you can see, we have to go on with the investigation. But I agree that you’re no longer the man to do so—”
“Oh, no. I have a score to settle with that young lady.”
“It’s not wise—”
“And who do you have to replace me? Three weeks ago, you told me I was the only man who could do the job. ‘Who better than a rake?’” he quoted, bitterly.
“We’d find someone. Come, St. Clair, you admit yourself you’re not objective about this.”
“I will be. If there is anything to find out about her, you may be certain I will find it.”
Bainbridge studied Alex’s grim face and then nodded. He still had serious misgivings, but St. Clair had a point. Who else was there who could do this job as well? “Very well. I needn’t tell you how serious this is. With all the riots lately, the country’s ready to go up, and the assassination of the right figure could set it off.”
Alex nodded; he knew, of course, of the recent riots over low wages and high prices in Suffolk and Cambridgeshire. “No idea who the target might be?”
“None. Unfortunately, we still know little about the members of the conspiracy, but our man who learned about Randall overheard something else. There’s to be another meeting of the conspirators, Thursday next.”
“Daytime? At night?”
“At night, I would think. It’s to be somewhere in Richmond.”
“Richmond, Thursday next.” Alex frowned. “Now why does that sound familiar?”
“Lady Radcliffe is having a rout at her home there. We’ve been invited.”
“So have I. And, I imagine, so has Lady Cecily.”
The two men regarded each other for a long moment. “Well, then,” Bainbridge said, at last. “It looks like you’ll be going to Richmond.”
“Yes.” Alex’s voice was grim. “I’ll go.” And he would learn, once and for all, what the beautiful, devious Lady Cecily was up to.
“Cece!” Diana burst into Cecily’s room. “He’s downstairs!”
Cecily lifted her head from the book in which she had immersed herself, forgetting, at least for a time, the events of the past few days. “Who’s downstairs, Diana?”
“Edgewater! And he doesn’t show it, he’s too much the gentleman, but he’s angry.”
“Angry?” Cecily frowned, and then clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no! I promised to go driving with him this afternoon, and I forgot!”
“Forgot!” Diana stared at her sister as she hurried to her wardrobe. “However could you forget?”
“Ring for Annie, please?” Cecily twisted around to unhook her dress. “I thought you liked Mr. Carstairs.”
“He’s a child. Here, Cece, stand still, I’ll do that for you.” Diana’s fingers went to work on the long row of hooks at the back of Cecily’s frock, while Cecily fidgeted. “Honestly, Cece, the way you act about Edgewater—if you weren’t engaged to him I think I’d toss my cap at him.”
“You’re welcome to,” Cecily said, her voice muffled as she pulled the frock over her head.
“Cecily!”
“I’m funning! Hand me the apricot muslin, please, Di? Oh, this hair!” She stared at herself in the mirror. “Why can’t it be all sleek and smooth like yours?”
“If you only knew what I’d give for curly hair. That color’s good on you.”
“Thank you. Help me with my hair, Di, I don’t want to keep him waiting much longer.”
“But he expects it.” Diana stood behind Cecily as she sat at her dressing table. “Men know they always have to wait for us. And they usually think it’s worth it, too.”
“Well, I think it’s unfair,” Cecily said. “I do like what you do with hair.”
“Yes, perhaps I should become a lady’s maid.” Diana tied the ribbon, binding Cecily’s hair into an attractive cascade of curls. “You don’t understand men, Cece,” she went on, more seriously. “They expect us to act a certain way.”
“Shatterbrained and silly? No thank you.” Cecily pulled on the spencer of deeper peach that went with the frock, and set her bonnet on her head. “There, complete to a shade! And you, Di, have more common sense than you like to let on.”
“Yes, of course I do. That’s how I know how to handle men.”
“You’re hopeless!” Cecily tugged on her gloves. “I must fly. Thank you.” She kissed her sister quickly on the cheek and then ran out of the room. By the time she reached the drawing room, to see her mother and her betrothed, she was flushed and breathless. Another man might have commented on the glow on her cheeks or the brightness in her eyes. Edgewater merely raised his quizzing glass and inspected her slowly from head to foot, in that hateful way that always made her want to squirm.
The quizzing glass dropped. “I do like a lady who is well-turned out,” he commented, and Cecily glanced down. Her ensemble was perfectly unexceptionable, the frock demure and well-cut, the spencer trimmed with velvet, the ribbons of her bonnet dyed to match. What, then? Oh, no, her shoes! She had been in such a hurry that she had left on her old half-boots. Their scuffed toes now peeked out from under the vandyked hem of her frock.
“Oh, well,” she murmured, raising eyes merry with amusement to Edgewater. He was regarding her blankly. Her heart fell. However was she to manage with a man who had no sense of humor? “If you will just wait, sir, I’ll change into something more suitable.”
“It is of no moment,” he said, turning and replacing the quizzing glass in his pocket with a snap that told her it was of very great moment indeed. Cecily’s heart sank lower, before her spirit rebelled against such foolishness. Lord St. Clair would have laughed, or at least smiled, she thought, conjuring up the image defiantly, and suppressing the urge to stick her tongue out at her betrothed’s back.
The incident dimmed any pleasure she might have taken in the outing, as Edgewater tooled his high-perch phaeton at a sedate pace towards the park. “Your team is well-matched, sir,” she commented, though privately she thought the pair of blacks had more flash than go, as her brother might have said. Never would she have said so, however. One did not criticize a gentleman’s judgment of horseflesh.
“Yes, they are quite
acceptable,” he said in his bored drawl. “Blacks always are.”
Cecily glanced up at him slantwise, an unconsciously flirtatious gesture. Did nothing ever excite him? Did he never laugh, or smile, or even lose his temper? “Have you put them through their paces yet?”
“Such a thing would not be seemly here in town, my dear.”
“Oh, fustian!” Cecily exclaimed, as he turned into the park. “People go at a gallop all the time.”
“But not I. It is vulgar. And I do hope, my dear, that you will moderate your language once we are wed.”
“Excuse me?”
“For you to use such a word as ‘fustian’ simply isn’t proper. But do not fear, such deficiencies can be corrected and do not make you in any way ineligible.”
“Th-thank you, my lord,” Cecily stammered, so astonished that she was speechless. Deficiency! If he thought her language were improper, what else would he wish changed? Cecily felt, suddenly, as if she were suffocating under the weight of his expectations. If he wished her to behave just so, when would she ever find the chance to be just Cecily?
Not wishing to incur more criticism, Cecily spoke little on the remainder of the drive, except to greet friends and acquaintances. She smiled and nodded to the Duke of York, when he condescended to smile at her; at Lady Cowper and Lady Sefton, a formidable combination, driving in an open landau; and even the Prince Regent, who was riding with his friend Sir Benjamin Bloomfield. If she kept looking for one man, a dark-haired man with eyes as blue and as deep as the sea, she kept that to herself. He was not the answer to her problem. She would have to find a way to accommodate herself to her future husband’s wishes, or—end the engagement.
Cecily pushed that thought quite out of her mind, as they set off towards her home. A most ineligible idea. To break the engagement would mean she would be labeled a jilt. No, she would behave as expected. She would marry the handsome marquess, and be happy, she decided, and kept to the resolution until the end of the drive.