"That does relieve my mind," Melanie answered, her lips quirking in a smile. "As with Sir, I was beginning to wonder if I would ever know your real name."
"No one knows Sir's real name," Drew said unexpectedly, his expression somber. "And I would be most grateful if you would forget having ever met him. He is perhaps the best-kept secret in England."
Melanie, well aware of the need for such men in time of war, was more than happy to give Drew her word. She was only grateful that Sir was more or less on her and Papa's side. She would hate to have such a man as her enemy.
Melanie passed a restless night, awaking from a nightmare-filled sleep to find Mrs. Musgrove sitting at her bedside. When she sleepily asked what she was doing there, the old woman gave a soft chuckle.
"Why, because Mr. Davies told me to, my lady," she said, pressing a glass of water on Melanie. "He told me what had happened to you, and said that you might have bad dreams because of it. And he was right, wasn't he? But you mustn't worry, Lady Melanie, he'll not be letting any harm befall you."
She fell back asleep with that comforting thought uppermost on her mind, and when she next opened her eyes, it was to find her bedroom filled with sunlight. After a quick bath she donned a morning gown of lilac silk and hastened down to join the others at the breakfast table.
Despite the late hour, Mr. Barrymore and the earl were still at home, and after greeting her father with the customary kiss, she sat down beside Mr. Barrymore.
"How did you enjoy last evening, Mr. Barrymore?" she asked, shooting the assistant her brightest smile. "You must tell me everyone who was there and whether or not I was missed."
"Your absence was indeed remarked upon, Lady Melanie," he responded promptly. "Especially by all the young bucks who were hoping for a waltz with you. But all in all I would say that you didn't miss very much. Would you not agree, my lord?" He glanced toward Lord Terrington.
"Quite. The ball was a dashed bore," the earl agreed, digging into his eggs and kippers with obvious gusto. "No one of import there at all. You were quite right to sit it out, my love. I only wish we might have done the same."
"I wouldn't say the night was a total loss," Lady Charlotte objected with an angry scowl. "There was that handsome young man from the Portuguese Embassy who caused quite a stir among the ladies with his flashing dark eyes and his mustachios. What was his name, Mr. Barrymore? You must know, for I saw you chatting with him over by the punch bowl."
"A Senhor Martinez, my lady," Mr. Barrymore replied politely. "He has been in England less than a fortnight, and if my Portuguese serves me, he is having a rather difficult time adjusting to our way of doing things."
"Poor young man, we must invite him for dinner," Miss Evingale exclaimed, her gray eyes taking on a speculative gleam. "Is he like Count Rodrigo, do you think, Lady Abbington? Or more like Count Alvarez?"
"Alvarez," the marchioness replied, bobbing her turbaned head decisively. "He's quite as handsome as Rodrigo, but he lacks the dash and fire of our dear Philippe."
"Rodrigo?" Mr. Barrymore's dark blond eyebrows met in a confused frown. "I must confess the name is not familiar to me. Is he attached to the Spanish Embassy, perhaps?"
"Er . . . he's something of a family friend," Melanie invented, not wishing to explain her grandmother's and companion's idiosyncrasies in front of Davies, although heaven knew he was probably already aware of the fact. She cast a quick glance his way, and thought she detected an amused glimmer in his hazel eyes.
"Did you dance the waltz, Mr. Barrymore?" She turned her attention back to the assistant. "I know there was waltzing; Amelia Hampton was bragging of it at Lady Hertweiler's."
"There was some waltzing," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "But as a mere assistant to your father, I did not think it seemly that I should dance it. Besides"—he gave her a warm look—"without my favorite partner there, I did not feel the need to take my turn on the floor."
Drew's lips tightened at such blatant flirting. What the devil did Melanie think she was doing anyway, he brooded, leaning forward to pour the earl another cup of coffee. He had only given her the task of learning about Barrymore as a means of keeping her out of his and Sir's way. But he'd never have done so if he'd known this was how she meant to go about it! He should have known she would pull something like this. The first chance he got he vowed to burn each and every one of those silly romantic novels.
"Personally I cannot say I approve of the waltz," Lady Charlotte volunteered, slipping a breakfast bun into her pocket. "It is most unseemly for a man to hold a woman in a shameless embrace—unless they are engaged, of course."
The rest of the meal was devoted to small talk, and Melanie was disgruntled that she had learned so little of value. The only good thing that came of it was that Barrymore did seem to be fonder of her than was proper. Certainly his remark about his "favorite partner" could be counted upon as flirting, and she was eager to press her advantage at the earliest opportunity. With that thought in mind, she set her napkin down and rose to her feet.
"If you will all excuse me, I believe I shall go and change into my riding habit. I feel the need to blow some of the cobwebs from my mind. Would you like to accompany me, Edwina?" she asked, knowing full well that the other woman was terrified of horses.
"R-riding?" Miss Evingale stammered, her hand creeping up to her throat. "Do you mean on a h-horse?"
"Well, I can hardly ride a sheep!" Melanie retorted with a gay laugh. "I haven't had a good ride since coming to London, and I am longing for an invigorating gallop."
"Nonsense, Melanie, stop behaving like a hoyden," her grandmother snapped in her most dampening manner. "Edwina on a horse would be a disaster waiting to happen, and since you cannot possibly ride out alone, I think that is the end of it. Besides, the hairdresser will be here after luncheon to arrange your hair for the ceremony."
"But that won't be for hours yet!" Melanie protested, thrusting her bottom lip forward in a girlish pout. "And I want to ride now. You'll ride with me, won't you, Papa?" She turned toward her father, knowing he could never resist her wheedling tone. She didn't often engage in such missish behavior, but she felt the situation justified the means.
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear, but I fear I must be hurrying along," her father said with a heavy sigh. "I have a meeting with the M.P. for Leicester, and I dare not be late. I know"—he brightened suddenly—"Mr. Barrymore can take you, providing he has no objections."
"I would be delighted," Mr. Barrymore assured the earl with a broad smile. "But are you quite certain this will not inconvenience you? I know how important this meeting with Lord Belmont is for you."
"I am sure I can manage his lordship," the earl replied laconically. "The important thing is that Melanie is properly escorted on her ride, else I fear she would strike out on her own. That is what you were planning, wasn't it?" He bent a knowing look on his daughter.
"Papa! As if I should ever be so scheming!" Melanie exclaimed with a guilty blush. She hated the shameless way she was manipulating him, but there was no other choice.
"Ah, it is just as I thought," her father said with a knowing sigh. "Well, at least with Mr. Barrymore to accompany you, I won't need to fear that you will do anything too outrageous. He has a good head on his shoulders."
Melanie excused herself a short time later and went up to her room, where the maid was waiting. After changing into her new habit of sapphire velvet, she clapped her cork hat on her dark curls and went down to wait for Mr. Barrymore. The servants were moving about unobtrusively, and she could see Davies standing beside the front door. Studying his tall, soldierly form, she wondered how she had ever taken him for a mere servant. Miss Evingale was right, she decided with an impish grin; Davies was definitely the stuff of which heroes were made.
As if sensing her gaze, Drew suddenly looked up, his hazel eyes meeting hers. He moved his head imperceptively toward the library, and Melanie nodded in silent understanding. When she was certain no one was wa
tching, she slipped into the room. She hadn't long to wait as the door opened and closed behind a grim-faced Davies.
"Davies, it's going well, don't you think?" she asked, turning to him with an eager smile. "Once we're away from Papa, I am certain I—"
"What the devil do you think you're doing?" Drew demanded with an angry growl, his eyes narrowing with fury as he advanced on her. "I thought you agreed to do nothing that would alarm Barrymore!"
"But—but I haven't," she protested, confused and more than a little annoyed by his apparent animosity.
"And what would you call the way you've been casting sheep eyes at him all morning?" he snapped, his hands dropping to his lean hips. "The man would have to be a dolt not to notice the obvious way you've been flirting with him!"
"I have not been flirting with him . . . exactly," she denied with a slight stammer. The warm gratitude she had been feeling toward him dissolved under a wave of feminine pique, and she met his angry glare with growing defiance. She hadn't been expecting accolades for a job well done, she reminded herself indignantly, but neither had she been expecting such biting criticism.
"Then what were you doing . . . exactly?" he mimicked her slight hesitation perfectly. "It's certainly not what I instructed you to do."
Her small chin came up in defiance. "You told me to question him, to try to learn something of his past," she reminded him, her tone dripping with honey. "How else am I to do that unless I can speak with him privately? He's hardly likely to blurt out a confession in front of the entire household, you know."
"And he's even less likely to do so to you!" Drew snapped, his mouth tightening in anger. "My God, Melanie, the man is a suspected traitor!"
"Don't you think I know that?" she cried, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. There was a moment of charged silence, but when she spoke her soft voice was devoid of all emotion. "I realize you regard me as a silly female who will only get in the way, and I'm sorry. But I won't let that stop me. I love my father, and there is nothing I wouldn't do to prove his innocence."
Drew turned away from her with an angry oath. The hell of it was that he understood what Melanie was feeling, but that didn't make his job any easier. The evidence was stacked strongly against Lord Terrington, and unless they found more to implicate Barrymore, he would have no choice but to arrest the earl. She was his best hope of trapping the wily spy.
"Very well, Lady Melanie," he said quietly, staring at the rows of books lining the shelves, "question Barrymore, by all means. Should you learn anything, however insignificant, I want you to tell me at once."
Considering that is what she had already planned to do, Melanie inclined her head in cool agreement. "As you say, Davies," she replied, resisting the urge to salute. "Will there be anything else?"
Drew heard the sweet sarcasm in her voice and hid a smile. "No, that is all, my lady," he answered politely, his hazel eyes dancing with secret laughter. "Enjoy your ride."
Melanie gave him a victorious smile. "Oh, I will, Davies," she promised him in her most dulcet tones. "I will." She was halfway to the door when he called out.
"Lady Melanie?"
"Yes?" She cast him an inquiring glance over her shoulder.
"Be careful."
Hyde Park was all but deserted as she and Mr. Barrymore made their way down Rotten Row, the groom trailing at a discreet distance. But if she thought the absence of others would loosen his tongue, she was soon disappointed, as he proved to be as maddeningly evasive as ever. Not even her most practiced charms succeeded in worming the smallest bit of information from him, and by the end of the ride she was more convinced than ever of his guilt.
Surely such prevarication was as good a proof as anything, she thought, hiding her displeasure as he skillfully sidestepped her question about his schooling. Certainly an innocent man would never go to such lengths to avoid answering a simple question. She was casting about in her mind for some new line of inquiry when she saw two horsemen approaching them at a gallop.
The first man was astride a handsome bay, and she recognized him as Major Richard Dalmire, an elegant young dandy she had met at Almacks. The second man, riding a high-stepping gray, was not known to her, although she thought there was something vaguely familiar about his blond hair and aristocratic countenance. But before she could dwell on the mystery, the two men had joined them.
"Good day to you, Lady Melanie, how pleasant to see you," Major Dalmire said, sweeping his hat from his head and bowing from the waist. "I had no idea you were an equestrienne, else I might have asked you to go riding with me. You looked very much like a young Diana, galloping across our verdant fields."
"You are much too kind, Major," Melanie replied, amused by his effusive praise. "Although I am sure much of the credit must go to my horse; my riding skills are rusty at best." She leaned forward to pat the chestnut-colored mare's arched neck. Her eyes slid to Dalmire's companion, and he was quick to make introductions.
"Lady Melanie, allow me to make you known to my very good friend, Lord Harold Parkinson. Parkinson, I should like to introduce you to Lady Melanie Crawford, the most delightful debutante in London."
"The oldest debutante in London, you mean," Melanie said with a light laugh, extending her gloved hand to Lord Parkinson. His name was still strange to her, but gazing in his deep blue eyes she was struck with the oddest sensation that she knew him. To be sure, she had met many people in her travels with Papa, but she never, ever forgot a face or a name.
"Lady Melanie." Lord Parkinson bowed over her hand, his manner stiffly distant. "A pleasure."
"Thank you." She inclined her head, wondering at his curt manners. Ah, well, she thought, dismissing the matter from her mind, she mustn't become so toplofty that she expected every man she met to fall at her feet. She turned toward Mr. Barrymore, who had been sitting quietly through the exchange. "Major, I believe you have already met my father's assistant. My lord, I should like to present Mr. Cecil Barrymore, he—"
"Introductions are unnecessary, Lady Melanie," Lord Parkinson interrupted, his voice fairly dripping with dislike. "This . . . gentleman and I have already met."
"Oh." For a moment Melanie was nonplused, but in the next the skills she had perfected as her father's hostess came to her rescue, and she was able to give all three men her most charming smile.
"Have you been in London very long, my lord?" she asked, flicking her eyes in the man's direction. "I must say that I find it a most delightful change from Washington, where Papa and I have been living this past year."
"I have been in London for several months, my lady," came the stiff reply as Lord Parkinson continued glaring at them. "As you say, it is a delightful city." He dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and when the horse danced in protest, he tightened his grips on the reins.
"I am sure you will excuse me, Lady Melanie, but I fear I must be off. My horse is restive, and I would not wish him to become unruly. Good day to you. Come, Dalmire," he called to the major, and then took off at a gallop.
Major Dalmire shot Melanie an apologetic look, then took off after his friend, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake. She and Mr. Barrymore turned their horses in the opposite direction of the two men, and after several minutes had passed Mr. Barrymore spoke.
"I suppose I had ought to explain, my lady," he said in a soft voice. "Lord Parkinson is Lord Marlehope's son, and I fear he has little liking for me."
"Indeed," Melanie answered, her heart beginning to pound with excitement. This was the first time Mr. Barrymore had ever mentioned his highborn relation, and she was eager to learn more. "That must make things rather awkward for you," she added encouragingly.
"Not really." He shrugged his shoulders. "We are distantly related at best, and I have never thought to presume upon his lordship's generosity. But unfortunately Lord Parkinson feels differently. He views me as an encroaching mushroom, and never misses the opportunity to put me in what he regards as my place."
"Oh, Mr. Barrymore, how awful for yo
u!" she cried, forgetting her mission as her sympathetic nature took over. "I am so very sorry."
He shrugged again, a sad smile touching his lips. "It doesn't help matters that his father has taken a small interest in my career. Lord Marlehope has been in politics for years, you know, and it was always his fondest wish that his son would one day follow in his steps. Unfortunately the lad has proven to be quite unsuited for the task, and I am told his lordship has had to buy his son's way out of more than one misadventure."
"Ladybirds?"
"And gaming. Lord Parkinson is rumored to be addicted to the faro tables. His debts are said to be astronomical, but I suppose I really shouldn't be gossiping like this." He shot her an embarrassed look. "Family business, you know."
"Of course, Mr. Barrymore, you may count upon me not to tell a soul," she soothed, wondering how much of this she should share with Davies. He did say he wanted to know everything. They continued on their way for another few minutes before she added, "Still, I cannot help but feel sorry for poor Lord Marlehope. How very disappointing it must be for one's only son to turn out to be such a rake and a rattle."
"His only legitimate son, you mean," Barrymore sneered, then a horrified look flashed across his face. "I beg your pardon, Lady Melanie," he said quickly, his agitation obvious. "I should never have said anything so patently untrue; I have no idea what may have come over me. Pray forget the entire matter."
"Consider it forgotten," she said, her mind whirling at the possibilities. The mystery of Lord Parkinson's familiar appearance was solved, she realized, lowering her eyes to hide their excited gleam. Except for some small differences in their height and weight, the two men were close enough in appearance that they could easily be mistaken for brothers.
Chapter Nine
"Are you certain?" Drew gazed down into Melanie's eyes, his hands lightly clasping her shoulders. "Barrymore is Marlehope's illegitimate son?"
"I am positive," Melanie replied eagerly, meeting Drew's intense gaze. "The two of them are as alike as two peas in a pod, and anyone could see that Parkinson detested Mr. Barrymore. Poor Major Dalmire was quite beside himself with embarrassment at his lordship's rudeness."
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