by Kruger, Mary
“Unhand me, sir.”
“Why, Cecily, so unkind? We’ve some things to discuss. Carstairs,” he drawled, “you will entertain Lady Diana, will you not, while Lady Cecily and I take a turn about the room.”
“I’d be delighted to,” Mr. Carstairs said.
“I shouldn’t leave my sister alone, sir,” Cecily said, making one last attempt to save herself.
“But I’m quite all right, Cece. Do go.” Diana’s eyes sparkled. “And perhaps you’ll have news for us?”
“Perhaps she will,” Edgewater said. “Come, ma’am. Let us walk.”
Cecily cast one more despairing glance around the room, and then gave in. His grip on her arm was too strong for her to break free without a struggle. He wouldn’t hurt her, though. How could he, with so many people around?
Leisurely Edgewater pulled her through the crowd, smiling and greeting the people who glanced at them. Later Cecily thought she must have smiled, too, for no one seemed to notice anything amiss. Forevermore, this scene would live in her nightmares: so many people, and none coming to her aid.
“Smile, Cecily,” he said, ice under his urbanity as they reached a window embrasure, affording them the illusion of privacy. “You look frightened.”
“Not at all, sir.” Cecily put up her chin, and he chuckled, an ugly sound.
“Ah, that’s it, Cecily. Fight me. I like that. Because we’ll soon see, won’t we, who is the better of us?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His urbane mask slipped, revealing a face contorted and ugly with anger. “Don’t pretend you don’t know! Think you’re too good for me, don’t you? Well, you’ll learn, my pretty—my not-so-pretty.” He chuckled again. “You don’t like that, do you? But you’re no beauty, Cecily—”
“I know that.”
“—and you really should be grateful to me. Yes, you should,” he went on, at her look of astonishment, “because I took you up when no one else would. You owe me, Cecily.”
“Owe you! You must be mad!”
“Oh, must I? Perhaps. I don’t take such insults lightly, my dear. Breaking our engagement because you believe you’re too good for me—”
“But that’s not why—”
“Don’t talk nonsense. I know what it is. You’re the daughter of the Duke of Marlow and you think you’re too good for me. Everyone thinks they’re too good for me! Well, they’ll soon find out,” he gloated. “Oh, yes. Soon.”
Cecily smiled, for the benefit of those watching. “I am going to return to my sister, sir, and you will let me,” she said, as much steel in her voice as in his. She wouldn’t allow this man to dictate to her. “And we will not cause a scene.”
“Good evening again, Lady Cecily. And Edgewater.” Edgewater’s head jerked up, and his eyes met Alex’s. “Lady Cecily, I believe your mother is looking for you.”
Edgewater loosened his grip on Cecily’s arm, but he didn’t release her. “St. Clair,” he drawled. “You are interrupting us, you know.”
“Really, Edgewater.” Alex sounded equally bored, but his eyes were equally alert. “This is getting to be quite tiresome. Must you continue to bother Lady Cecily?”
“I fail to see that it’s any of your concern.”
“I’m making it my concern,” Alex said, his voice cutting sharply across the other man’s.
“I’ll not have your interference in my affairs, damn you!”
“You have no choice. I won’t allow you.”
Edgewater’s eyelid twitched. “You dare threaten me?”
“I dare do more, if you accost Lady Cecily again.”
“Really, dear boy.” Edgewater crossed his arms on his chest, and grinned at the people who were covertly watching. “She’s not worth it, you know. Fickle, that’s what she is. Wants to have both of us.”
“That’s not true!” Cecily said.
“Of course it’s not,” Alex agreed, but his eyes flickered. Seeing it, Edgewater chuckled.
“You sound as if you don’t quite believe her, dear boy. But then, one never knows whom to trust, haven’t you found?”
“I am warning you, sir.” Alex’s voice was quiet and deadly, and if he’d taken a hit, he didn’t show it. “Leave Lady Cecily in peace, or you will have me to deal with.”
Edgewater’s eyes were hard. “Very well, go. But this isn’t the end of it, St. Clair.”
“On that we both agree,” Alex said. “Come, ma’am. Your mother is this way.”
Cecily grasped his arm and took a deep breath. Now that she was safe, she was almost giddy with relief. “Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t know how I was going to get away from him. It seems you always need to rescue me.”
“I wouldn’t if you wouldn’t persist in going with him.”
Cecily stopped short. “Surely you don’t think that was my choice!”
Alex turned. “Oh, of course. In a room crowded with people, you let him drag you about. What else am I to think, but that you wished to be with him?”
“Ooh!” Absurd, angry tears filled her eyes, and she dashed them away, not caring who saw. “You are as hateful as he—”
“Cecily.” His hand caught her arm, his touch infinitely more gentle than Edgewater’s had been. “Forgive me. Of course it wasn’t your choice.”
“No, it certainly wasn’t,” she said, tartly. “I couldn’t break free, and Mama said,” her mouth quirked, “not to cause a scene. Which I imagine I’ve done.”
Alex glanced around, and several people quickly averted their eyes. “I’m afraid so. But let’s not make matters worse. Come.” He took her arm. “What did he want?”
“You were right, he was very angry about the engagement being broken. I should have realized.” She frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought he had such a tendre for me.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Excuse me? How do you know?”
“Hm? Oh, sorry.” He gave her his thoroughly charming, disarming smile. I don’t think he cares for anyone but himself.”
“No. ‘Self-love is the greatest of all flatterers.’” Cecily looked down, absurdly aware that her curls were mussed, as Edgewater had said, and that, somehow, she’d gotten a spot near the hem of her gown. Why could she not ever look bandbox perfect, as her sister did? “But, sir,” she frowned, “what does he want with me?”
Alex’s smile was abstracted. “‘Ask Cecily Randall,’” he murmured.
“Excuse me? Ask me what?”
Now that was the question, wasn’t it? “Why, to have supper with me, of course. Now that I am a reformed rake.”
“Thoroughly reformed?”
“Alas, I fear so,” he said, giving her that charming smile again, so that she shook her head.
“I doubt that, sir. Very well.” She tucked her arm through his. “Let us go.” And let the gossips think what they might, she thought, with just a touch of defiance.
“What think you of reformed rakes, Cecily?” Alex said, and she turned to face him. In contrast to his light tone of a moment before, his face was serious.
“I think he deserves some kind of reward, sir.”
“Do you.”
“Of course, virtue is said to be its own reward.”
“Vice has its rewards, as well.”
“Now, sir, you no longer sound quite so reformed.”
“No, I don’t, do I?” His gaze softened as he looked down at her. “Do I get to choose my reward, then?”
Cecily’s heart speeded up. “If you like.”
“Indeed. Then I choose—”
“Why, here you are.” Melissa took Cecily’s other arm, smiling brightly, and they looked at her, startled. “Absurd to think anyone could be missed in such a crush, but your mother is looking for you, Cecily.”
“Oh! Then I’d best go to her,” Cecily said.
“And I shall be taking my leave.” Alex bent over Melissa’s hand. “A most interesting evening, Countess. You’ll make my farewells to Chatleigh for me, of co
urse.”
“Of course.” Melissa smiled at him as he sketched a bow, and then turned away. “A charming man,” she said, lightly, taking Cecily’s arm, “and a lonely one, I think.”
“Lonely? But he’s had his choice of women—”
“I know.” Melissa smiled at her guests, who were eyeing them interestedly, scenting something out of the ordinary. “Smile, my dear, they know something’s been happening. Yes, lonely. He had rather a difficult time during the wars.”
Cecily stopped. “But I thought he wasn’t in the war.”
“He didn’t tell you? Oh, dear.” Melissa frowned. “Well, I must leave that to him. You see, he needs someone special. Someone who will care for him, someone he can trust.”
“Why tell me?” Cecily asked, and Melissa gave her such a speaking look that she felt herself color.
“Very well, have it your own way,” Melissa said, smiling. “But I hope to dance at your wedding someday soon. Do come along now, there’s your mother.”
“Of course,” Cecily murmured, her mind far away, barely listening to Melissa’s chatter. What, she wondered, would St. Clair have chosen as his reward?
Edgewater lounged down St. James’s, thoughtfully swinging his walking stick from side to side. Last night’s events at the Chatleighs’ had angered him, but now he had himself under control. His sudden attacks of rage, which lately came more recently, bothered him, but not very much. After all, he had every right to be angry at Cecily, even more right to be angry at St. Clair, for daring to interfere. He would have to keep watch on that anger, however, until his task was accomplished. Not much time left, now, and every second was important. Too important for him to jeopardize with an ill-timed burst of rage, and for reasons that were mostly personal. Cecily, he had decided, was not so much of a threat as he had thought, and though he had wanted the cachet of marrying her, there were other ways of achieving it. No, Cecily he could dismiss from his thoughts. St. Clair, however, was another matter.
Still swinging his walking stick, he walked sedately up the stairs of Brooks’s. Handing his stick and hat to the porter, he lounged his way into the reading room, stopping for a moment to glance around through his quizzing glass. Not for him Whites’s, that bastion of Toryism and conservatism; he preferred more spirited company. And, though many of the members here were in opposition to the current government, he expected to find someone who could tell him what he needed to know. Where, for example, St. Clair had spent the years of the war.
Some hours later, after engaging in a hand or two of piquet, and after taking part in several spirited discussions about the offenses of the government, the marquess strolled out again. With his curly-brimmed beaver on his head, his white thorn stick in hand, he was the very picture of the man of leisure. His brow was serene and untroubled, but his brain was working feverishly. St. Clair? several of the people he had spoken to had said. He’d been abroad during the war, everyone knew that. Doing what? Well, that, no one knew, and who cared about the activities of such an obvious loose screw? It wasn’t until near the end of his visit that Edgewater received a nugget of information. St. Clair? said Lord Hartford, dealing a hand of piquet. Hadn’t Wellington mentioned him once? The mention of Wellington’s name brought a turn in the conversation; there were still those in this highly Whig establishment who didn’t support the hero of Waterloo. It also made Edgewater go very, very still. “Why,” he asked carefully, when the hubbub had died down, “would Wellington have mentioned St. Clair?”
Hartford shrugged. “Heard he said something about him in one of his dispatches,” he said, discarding a card. “Something about the war couldn’t have been won without the work of men like him. Now, shall we play?”
“Of course,” Edgewater said after a moment, looking at his cards without seeing them. A spy. St. Clair had been a spy. That was the only explanation for Wellington’s message. What was he now, if he’d been a spy then?
Edgewater played the hand badly, and lost badly. He was cheerful as he settled up, tossing some notes on the table and rising to take his leave, but his smile faded as he left the room. St. Clair was a spy. That could very well mean that his plot, his very future, were in danger.
Now, walking again down St. James’s, he considered what to do. He knew how to deal with spies; had he not dealt with the Cockney who had infiltrated the conspiracy? St. Clair was different, however. He was a peer of the realm. Moreover, he seemed somehow to be connected to Marlow—
Edgewater stopped. Of course. That was it. Cecily had told. The little jade had told what she knew, damn her, and if she didn’t realize its significance, St. Clair probably did.
The rage rose within him, and he fought to master it. Now was no time to lose his head. “Damn,” he muttered, and walked on again. St. Clair was more of a danger than he’d realized. Once a spy, always a spy, and now his target was Edgewater.
But he wouldn’t win, Edgewater thought, with a chilling smile. Oh, no. St. Clair had met his match. He’d deal with him, Edgewater vowed, and soon, and then he would have all the power and position he craved, that he deserved. And St. Clair, he thought with growing satisfaction, would be dead.
Chapter Thirteen
Parsons stifled another yawn and pulled out the big turnip watch, gazing muzzily at it. Only two hours he’d been here, watching Marlow House, and he wasn’t certain this was necessary anymore. For some reason, Lord St. Clair still hadn’t absolved Lady Cecily of any role in the conspiracy, and yet Parsons himself would stake his life on her innocence. If, that is, he was still a betting man. Gambling was no longer for him, he thought piously, suppressing a wistful pang. A man set his sights on higher things, found something he could trust. If only Lord St. Clair could learn to trust something, anything, again, he’d be a happier man.
Parsons would be happy when they had all the conspirators rounded up and in gaol. Time was getting short, and they knew neither the target of the assassination nor the location. If Parsons had his way, he’d have arrested that there Edgewater long since, but Lord St. Clair had his own methods. Parsons only hoped they wouldn’t come to grief this time.
He yawned again, so widely that he nearly missed the first sign of movement from across the street. Then his gaze sharpened. Jem had slipped out from the mews and was hurrying to the corner, in what Parsons could only consider a havey-cavey manner. Something was up.
In a moment, Jem came back, and reemerged from the mews with Lady Cecily at his side, dressed in a dark gown. Parsons set off after them at a run, catching up with them just as they reached the hackney stopped around the corner. “Lady Cecily,” he called, and Cecily, about to climb into the hackney, turned, her face startled.
“Parsons,” she said, stepping down. “What do you here?”
“You going to the orphanage, my lady?”
Cecily glanced around, but there was no one to see her. “Yes, as it happens, I managed to get away today even though it’s not my usual day. I must go, Parsons.”
“Lord St. Clair should know, my lady,” he said, urgently.
“Should he, indeed?” Cecily gazed at him. Was St. Clair, by some chance, having her watched? Ridiculous thought. “I don’t really see why, Parsons.” Though she wouldn’t mind seeing him again, the thought of his ordering her life rankled.
“He’d want to know.” Parsons’ face softened. “He worries about you, my lady. If he finds out I let you go without telling him, he’ll have my head.”
“Gracious!” Cecily smiled; the only thing Parsons had said that had any meaning was that St. Clair worried about her. That had to mean he cared, didn’t it? “Very well, Parsons. Climb in and we’ll go tell him what we’re doing.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Parsons returned her smile, feeling in perfect charity with her. A man needed to trust something. Just might be that Lady Cecily was the one to teach Lord St. Clair that.
A little while later, in front of his lodgings, Alex climbed into the hackney, gazing quizzically at Cecily. “Off on another
adventure, Lady Cecily?”
“I hope not. At least, not as adventurous as last time,” Cecily answered.
“Let us hope not. I don’t think I could take it.” He clamped his heart dramatically to his chest, his eyes glinting. “My heart, you know.”
“I wasn’t aware rakes had hearts.”
Alex’s eyes gleamed brighter. “It’s a well-kept secret. However, there are exceptions.”
Beside him, Parsons coughed. Both Alex and Cecily looked at him in some surprise; for a moment they had forgotten they weren’t alone. Then, as if by common consent, each turned away, to gaze out the window, for the remainder of the ride.
“My lady, since you have Lord St. Clair with you, I’ll stay with the hackney this time,” Jem said, when they stopped in front of the orphanage.
“A very good idea,” Alex approved, stepping out and then holding out his hand to Cecily to assist her. “Always make certain you have an escape route.”
Cecily glanced at him; though he’d spoken absently, the words weren’t merely idle speech. Once again, she wondered just what his life had been like, to make him so cynical. “You needn’t come in with me, sir. I’m certain I’ll be safe enough.”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not with characters like that around.”
“Characters like—oh!” Cecily glanced at the roughly-dressed man who was coming down the stairs towards them. “It’s Mr. Driver.”
“Lady Cecily.” Joe Driver stopped on the stair just above them, effectively blocking their way. Alex’s hand involuntarily went to his pocket, where his pistol was. “Glad to see you suffered no harm.”
“Thanks, mostly, I understand, to you.” Alex eased his hand away from his pistol as Driver’s eyes, hard and suspicious, swung towards him. “I believe I owe you an apology,” he went on, holding out his hand, and Driver’s eyes flickered in surprise. “I misunderstood the situation last time. I’m sure you can understand I was concerned for Lady Cecily.”