by Kruger, Mary
Inside the cottage the noise had abated, and the men were now discussing their plans as if this were any ordinary meeting at business. “I have, as I promised you, found a man to do the job. No, I did not bring him here tonight,” Edgewater went on, as if forestalling any protest, “for your own protection. This way, gentlemen, none of you will have knowledge that is dangerous to you, should our man, by any chance, fail.” A murmur went around the table at that. “You may be certain that our leader approves of him.”
“When do we get to meet this leader?” one man demanded.
“Not until our plot is complete, gentlemen. I may tell you, though, that he is very pleased with all of you, and your plans for your areas. Be assured that you will be rewarded when our plot succeeds.” He paused. “Amply rewarded.”
“We had better be.”
“Now, gentlemen, you know what you are to do. In two weeks, our plot will be set into motion. Let us toast to our success!”
“Hear, hear!” came from around the table as tankards were raised, and Parsons pulled back, stunned. The assassination, if such were to occur, would take place a fortnight hence and would be followed by revolution, unless they could learn more about this plot. Who is the target? he thought, willing Edgewater to speak. Say who the target is!
Edgewater said nothing, but only sat, watching the others, a little smile on his face as he toyed with his own tankard, a smile of satisfaction, and something else. Derision. Aye, Parsons thought sourly, the marquess did consider himself above most men. Not the kind of man to defer to anyone, not even the mysterious leader of the conspiracy.
Now that was an interesting idea. Parsons pulled back as the men rose from the table, lest anyone glance towards the window and see him. If the Marquess of Edgewater was taking orders from anyone, Parsons thought, he’d eat his hat!
The night was growing old, but still Alex sat by his fire, the glass of brandy beside him untouched. Until Parsons returned with news of his night’s work, Alex would not go to bed. It was not, however, thoughts of the conspiracy which kept him awake, but instead the memory of a slender, softly-rounded form pressed trustingly against him. A most interesting evening, he thought, stretching, and turned his head as the door opened.
“Got him, sir.” Parsons looked tired but satisfied as he fell into a chair facing Alex.
“Edgewater, as we thought?” Alex said, but his voice sounded abstracted.
“Aye, sir. I followed him, like you said, and he went to as pretty a den of villains as I’ve seen this age.” Quickly he went on to outline what had happened and the conclusions he had reached, and Alex listened, with that same abstracted air.
“So you think Edgewater is the leader, do you?” he said, when Parsons had finished.
“Aye, sir, I’d say he has to be.”
“I agree. But we need proof, Parsons.” He fell silent. “‘Ask Cecily Randall.’”
“Sir?”
“Nothing. Any idea who the other members might be?”
“None yet, sir. I set some men to checking the local inns, and I followed the Cit home. We’ll know soon enough.”
“I hope so, Parsons. Two weeks.” He stroked his upper lip. “Should give us enough time, if we can only get proof.”
“We will, sir.” Parsons frowned, troubled by Alex’s lack of interest in the affair. “Sir? Is aught wrong?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing, Parsons, nothing.” He smiled. “Except that I may become engaged.”
“Sir?”
“To Lady Cecily,” he added.
“And high time, too!”
Chapter Eleven
“Cecily! Oh, my dear child!” The duchess bustled into Cecily’s room, and Cecily glanced up from the window seat, a book opened, but unread, upon her lap.
“Whatever is it, Mama?”
“It is Marlow, my love. I’ve just been told he wants to see you.” The duchess grasped Cecily’s hands. “It must be about last night, child. Oh, why I ever let St. Clair accompany us home—”
“He was a perfect gentleman, Mama, and he was very kind to us.” Cecily freed her hands and went over to her mirror. For once, she looked perfectly acceptable, with her hair neat and her morning gown, of white muslin with a blue satin sash, uncrumpled. She had chosen the gown because of its high neckline and long sleeves, to cover her bruises, which she had discovered with horror. She had been lucky to escape from Edgewater without any greater harm.
“But he is sure to be upset, child.” The duchess, clad in her dressing gown, sank down upon the edge of Cecily’s bed, a sure sign of her agitation. Few were allowed to see her en dishabille. “I do hope he does not punish you too severely.”
Cecily bent to kiss her cheek. “Papa and I understand each other, Mama.”
“How do you handle it?” The duchess’s eyes were as blue and as candid as a child’s, and Cecily bit back a smile. The duke was ordinarily even-tempered, but even she had to admit that his rare rages could be spectacular. It was no wonder Mama and Diana sometimes went in fear of him. “He positively makes me quake when he is angry!”
“Don’t worry, Mama. I shall survive, I am certain.”
“I always said you should have been a boy, Cecily, the way you deal with these things.”
“I know. Shocking, isn’t it, Mama, that I am so lacking in sensibility?” She placed another quick kiss on her cheek. “Don’t fret. I’d best not keep Papa waiting any longer,” she said, and went out, feeling oddly that she was the adult, and not the child.
In the hallway downstairs Cecily hesitated, and then knocked on the door of the duke’s study. If her father truly were angry, then an uncomfortable interview lay ahead of her. The duke, however, seated at his desk going over estate papers, looked up and smiled at her when she came in. When she rose from her brief curtsy he was there, lightly holding her arms. Cecily stood still under his scrutiny, until he nodded, a short, sharp nod of satisfaction. “You’ll do,” he said, gesturing towards a chair and perching on the edge of his desk. “You’re quite recovered from last night?”
“Yes, sir, my headache is gone,” Cecily said.
“Headache? Oh, yes, the excuse you used to leave the Radcliffes’. And what of the bruises?” Cecily’s hand flew to her shoulder. “I noticed them last evening, Cecily.”
“Oh.”
The duke eyed her keenly. “Edgewater?”
“How do you know?”
“St. Clair told me.”
Cecily peeped up at him through her lashes. “You’re not angry, sir?”
“Not with you. No, not with St. Clair, either. I am, however, angry at myself for letting you become engaged to Edgewater without finding out more about the man.”
“I didn’t know him as well as I thought, either.” She looked down at her hands. “He scares me, Papa.”
“I can well imagine.” The duke’s tone was dry. “Do you wish to end the engagement?”
“Oh, yes!” Cecily’s head came up, and then dropped again. “But, sir, the scandal—”
“Hang the scandal! I’ll not have one of my children hurt. If you wish to break the engagement, then it is broken.”
Cecily’s eyes closed with relief. “Oh, thank you, Papa. I was beginning quite to dread marrying him.”
“Why didn’t you come to me sooner, then?” He paused. “Afraid I’d be angry?”
“No, not that. I’m not afraid of you, Papa.” She smiled at him. “But, I was so confused. Everyone seemed to think the marquess was such a good catch, that I was certain he must be, too, and that I was wrong about him. Then when I met someone else…”
Her voice trailed off and she looked away, her face pink. Marlow let the silence lengthen before speaking again. “Well, I won’t ask what you were doing in the garden with him. It’s just lucky for you that St. Clair was there.”
“Yes,” she whispered, looking at her hands again, so that she didn’t see the smile that fleeted across the duke’s face.
“Your reputation won’t suffer from this. St.
Clair is an honorable man. He won’t speak of last night.”
Cecily looked up. “But sir, I thought that he was—”
“What?” he prompted.
“A rake.”
“So what if he is?”
“But—”
“At least he has never ruined a young girl’s reputation.” He leaned forward. “What do you expect of him, Cecily? He is a man. But a good man, for all that. If I had to have someone on my side in a fight, I could do worse than him.”
Cecily frowned. “Are you saying, Papa, that you wouldn’t object if I saw him? At social events, and such, of course.”
“I’d rather see you with him than with Edgewater. At least I know I can trust St. Clair with you.”
Cecily dropped her eyes to her hands again. No, that wasn’t strictly true—but he had had a chance to take advantage of her, and had foregone it. “I’m confused, Papa. I thought I knew my own mind, and—”
“You have time, Cecily. Am I pressing you to marry now?”
“No, but you’ve said that you won’t allow Diana to marry until I do.”
“For Diana’s own good,” he said, smiling. “Can you imagine whom she would choose, were she to marry now? I’d like her to gain some maturity before she makes that choice.”
“Oh. I never thought of that. But, Papa.”
“What?”
“How am I to tell—him?”
“I’ll deal with Edgewater,” the duke said, smiling grimly. “In fact, it will give me a great deal of pleasure to do so.”
“St. Clair said much the same thing.”
“He and I agree on many things. Now.” He rose. “We won’t bother your mother with this. All she needs to know is that you have decided that you and Edgewater won’t suit.”
“I’ll likely be thought a jilt.”
“I doubt it will hurt your reputation.” He stopped by the door, holding her by the arms again. “I want to see you settled, Cecily, but there is no hurry. Take your time, enjoy the season. When you are ready, you’ll know.” He bent and placed a brief kiss on her forehead. “You know I want only what is best for you.”
“Yes, Papa,” she said, and impulsively threw her arms about his neck. He hesitated, as if in surprise, and then hugged her, making her feel safe, as he had when she was a child. But she was no longer a little girl, and it was not only in his arms, now, that she found safety. She had been right in thinking that one of the two men in her life was wrong for her; her mistake had been in thinking that Edgewater was the right one. “Thank you, Papa.” She kissed his cheek and, after dropping another brief curtsy, left for her room. She had a deal of thinking to do. How, for example, was she to get a certain rake to pay attention to her?
Edgewater stomped down the stairs of Marlow House, his eyes almost black with rage as he approached his phaeton. “I shall walk,” he said in clipped tones to his groom, and strode away, his walking stick swinging angrily from side to side. Never in his life had he met with such insult. To be told that he—he!—the Marquess of Edgewater, was not good enough to marry the daughter of the Duke of Marlow was an insult so grave that he felt he might never recover from it. What was worse was that it had been delivered in such a casual, offhand way, as if the duke considered himself to be superior to Edgewater.
The marquess’s hand gripped the knob of his walking stick so hard that his knuckles turned white. Damn, he was inferior to no one, not even a duke! Was he not wealthy, handsome, popular? And had he not worked hard to make certain of all these things? He was Edgewater, for God’s sake, one of the prize catches on the marriage mart! Who was Marlow, to say him nay? And why? All because the Marlow chit had turned missish.
Until now, everything had been going smoothly. Too smoothly, perhaps? While all his plans were in train and looked to have a fair chance of meeting with success, they now faced a new threat. By his marriage, Edgewater had hoped to consolidate his position, and to silence a potentially deadly witness against him. For, though she did not know it, Cecily was in possession of some dangerous information about him. In the unlikely event that things went wrong, a wife could not testify against her husband.
He had reached Park Lane and now walked along it, heading towards Piccadilly, though he was aware of neither his surroundings nor his direction. He would not fail. He hadn’t got where he was by letting one setback stop him. There were other ways. And there was no reason to delay his plans. He would carry the day, with or without an aristocratic bride. And though it was his very superiority that would see him through, though he was confident of his success, he knew quite well that small details could pose a threat. Cecily was now one of those small details. Somehow, he would have to deal with her.
Edgewater smiled again, a cold smile, a deadly smile. Oh, yes. He would, indeed, deal with Lady Cecily Randall.
Very early the next morning, Alex sat mounted upon Azrael, at the head of Upper Grosvenor Street, looking down towards Grosvenor Square. He doubted that Cecily had ridden yesterday, but today, she likely would. What mattered was that she not ride alone. After the events of the other evening, she could very well be in danger.
Frowning, he bent forward to pat Azrael, who was restive. How much did Cecily know about what was going on? He was almost convinced that she was innocent, almost convinced that Edgewater was the leader of the conspiracy, but—there was always that “but.” Something about her had awakened Alf Barnes’s suspicions. Until he knew what that was, he could not be easy in his mind about her.
He glanced up, and saw a slender figure on a large grey horse riding down the street. His patience had been rewarded. Alex waited, fighting the urge to canter towards her. He studied her face as she neared, looking for signs that the events of the other evening still affected her, but instead saw only a sweet serenity. Relief flooded him. She was all right. It was up to him to make sure she stayed that way.
Dancer nickered, and Cecily, lost in her thoughts, looked up to see a rider standing motionless at the top of the street, at Park Lane. For a moment fear flooded through her, but even as it did she recognized him. St. Clair. The fear was replaced by joy unexpected. “Good morning, sir,” she called as she neared, and he at last walked Azrael over to her. “What do you here this morning?”
“Waiting for you.” Alex waited until she was abreast of him, and then turned Azrael, so that he could walk with her.
She tossed her head. “How very flattering, I’m sure.”
Alex grinned. “Trying to imitate your sister? It’s not working.”
“I know.” She flashed him a quick, rueful smile. “I don’t know how she does it. She can look at a man, bat her eyelashes once or twice, and instantly he’s her slave! When I try it, someone invariably asks if I have something in my eye. Of course,” she added, “it doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful.”
“If you like the type.”
“Tall, raven-haired, blue-eyed?”
“You sound like my cousin when he was infatuated with her,” Alex said, sounding amused.
“But not you, sir?”
“No. Not me.” Alex caught her eyes, and held them. “I find lately that my tastes are changing.”
His eyes held such a peculiar expression that Cecily had to look away, her cheeks reddening. “Oh,” she said, knowing how inadequate it sounded, but unable to think of anything else. He had looked at her almost as if he cared about her. “Why are you here?” she asked, making her voice brisk and setting Dancer to a faster gait, through the Grosvenor Gate into the park.
“To make sure you’d suffered no harm from the other evening.” Alex’s voice was equally brisk as he caught up with her. “And to make sure you stay that way.”
Cecily sent him an inquiring glance. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because I don’t trust Edgewater.”
“But I am not engaged to him anymore. Come on, Dancer, let’s have a gallop,” she said, and was off before Alex could protest.
“Hell,” he muttered, and dug his heels in, catching u
p with her easily. By God, but she could ride, he thought, admiring her trim figure sitting erect in the saddle. He wondered how she managed on a side saddle, and decided that he much preferred seeing her this way, in the breeches that set off her slender curves so well.
“Pax,” he called across to her. “Do you think we might slow down?”
“Why?” she called back, not looking at him.
“So we could talk.”
“Talk, sir?” The quick glance she sent him was so full of mischief that he found himself checking Azrael involuntarily.
“Minx,” he muttered, bringing Azrael to a stop. “Very well, boy, we’ll let her run her fidgets out. And then we’ll see.” He sat calmly, patting Azrael’s neck, and in a few moments his confidence in Cecily’s curiosity was rewarded. The big grey gelding turned and headed back towards him.
Cecily’s golden eyes were questioning as she reached him again. Sometime during her gallop she had lost her cap, and her curls tumbled about her face in riotous disarray. With her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, she looked as if someone had been making love to her. As if he had been making love to her. He pushed the thought away. “Decided to settle down now, have you?” he said, mildly.
“You needn’t talk to me as if I were a child,” she said, riding past him.
“You needn’t act like one.” Alex turned to walk with her, and after a moment she glanced over at him.
“I am sorry, sir. I was confined to the house yesterday—my mother’s idea—and I thought I would go mad! It feels wonderful to be out again. To be free,” she added, softly.
“You’re glad the engagement is broken, then?”
Cecily glanced at him, surprised that he had guessed her meaning. “Yes. I daresay it’s heartless of me,” she tossed her head again, “but I quite enjoy being a jilt.” She gave him the same flirtatious smile she had seen Diana use, and was not at all chagrined to see him grinning at her. “In fact, I think I might set up as a jilt, and leave a trail of broken hearts behind me.”