His sister grinned. ‘That’s what Lady Murray says.’
‘Alex’s mother is in town? I thought she never left that great big barn of a castle of theirs. Won’t she be afeart that the haggis will go to ground and the bagpipes will stop breeding without her,’ Elliot asked in an appalling attempt to mimic Lady Murray’s soft Scottish burr.
‘Very amusing,’ Lizzie said drily.
‘So what momentous event has driven her to visit Sassenach territory, then?’ To his astonishment, his sister blushed. ‘Lizzie?’
‘I’m pregnant,’ she said with her usual disregard for polite euphemisms. ‘The news that’s driven her south is the forthcoming arrival of a potential grandson and heir, if you must know.’
‘Elizabeth!’ Elliot hauled his sister from her chair and enveloped her in a bear hug. ‘That’s wonderful news.’
‘You’re squashing me, Elliot.’
He let her go immediately. ‘Did I hurt you? God, I’m sorry, I—’
‘Please! Please, please, please don’t start telling me to rest, and put my feet up, and wrapping me in shawls and feeding me hot milk,’ Lizzie said with a shudder.
‘Alex?’
‘Poor love, he’s over the moon, but when I first told him he started treating me as if I was made of porcelain. Lord, I thought he was going to have me swaddled and coddled to death,’ Lizzie said frankly. ‘You can have no idea what it took for me to persuade him we could still—’ She broke off, colouring a fiery red. ‘Well. Anyway. Alex is fine now, but his mother is a different kettle of fish. Or should I say cauldron of porridge? She wants me to go to Scotland. She says that the fey wife in the village has always delivered the Murray heirs.’
‘You surely don’t intend to go?’
Lizzie’s shrug was exactly like her brother’s. ‘Alex would never say so, but I know it’s what he’d prefer. I’m already beginning to show, too. I have no wish to parade about the town with a swollen belly and I’ve certainly no desire at all to have myself laced into corsets to cover it up, so maybe it’s for the best. It’s not really a ruin, Alex’s castle. Besides, you can’t blame him, wanting the bairn to be born in his homeland.’
‘Bairn!’
Lizzie laughed. ‘Give me a few months up there and I’ll be speaking like a native.’ She picked up her gloves and began to draw them on. ‘I must go, I promised Alex I wouldn’t leave him with his mother for too long.’ She stood on tiptoe to kiss Elliot’s cheek. ‘You do look tired. What have you been up to, I wonder? I know you’ve not been gallivanting, for I’ve lost count of the number of young ladies who’ve enquired after my handsome, charming, eligible and most elusive brother. And don’t tell me it’s because you lack invitations, because I know that’s nonsense. What you need is…’
‘Lizzie, for the last time, I don’t want a wife.’
‘I was about to say that what you need is gainful employment,’ his sister said, in an offended tone. ‘The Marchmont estates aren’t enough to keep you occupied, they never were. You need an outlet for all
that energy of yours now that you don’t have your battalions to order around; you need something to stop you from brooding on incompetence and injustice. I’m not underestimating what you’ve been through, but it’s past, Elliot, and you can’t undo it. It’s time to move on, put your experience to some use rather than use it to beat yourself up. There, that is frank talking indeed, but if I am to go to Scotland with a clear conscience, I don’t have time to tread lightly.’
‘Not that you ever do.’
Lizzie chuckled. ‘Any more than you do. You don’t lack opinions and certainly don’t lack a cause. Why don’t you go into politics yourself?’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know why you look so surprised,’ Lizzie said drily. ‘What is the point in you berating the likes of Wellington and all the rest.’
‘I hadn’t thought.’
‘Then think. And when you’ve concluded that I’m right, think about taking a wife, too.’ She tapped his cheek lightly. ‘A woman with a bit of gumption, who can force her way past that barricade of charm you arm yourself with. You see how well I know you, brother dear? You don’t let people in very easily, do you? I expect the army is responsible for that stiff upper lip and all that—it makes sense in war, but we’re at peace now, thank the Lord.’ Lizzie nodded decisively. ‘Yes. What you need is a woman of character, someone who can stand up to you, not some malleable little thing who would bore you to death before the wedding trip was over, no matter how pretty she was. I shall have to redouble my efforts before I go north, but I am quite set on it, so don’t despair,’ she said with a bright smile.
‘I shall try my very best not to,’ Elliot replied, as he opened the door for her.
‘I wish you would be serious. I know I’ve spoken out of turn, but you’re clearly not happy. I will fret about you down here all alone when I am up in Scotland.’
‘You’ve got more than enough to worry about. I’m not unhappy, just not quite sure what to do with myself now that I don’t have the army. I feel as if I’ve lost my purpose.’
‘Politics will give you that. Will you at least think about what I said?’
‘We’ll see. Did you come in your carriage?’
Lizzie nodded, deciding against pushing him any further. She was on the step outside when she remembered the package. ‘My book!’ she declared.
Elliot retrieved the brown-paper parcel from the marble table which sat under the hall mirror. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. It’s just a novel. Give me it.’
Intrigued by her cagey look, Elliot held on to the parcel. ‘What kind of a novel?’
‘I’m not…it’s just that—well, Alex doesn’t approve.’
‘Good Lord, Lizzie, don’t tell me you’ve been browsing in one of those bookseller’s back rooms in Covent Garden.’
He meant it as a joke, but, to Elliot’s astonishment, Lizzie’s face crimsoned. ‘And what if I did? Oh, don’t look so shocked, it’s not that kind of book. It’s a novel. The latest Bella Donna novel, if you must know.’ Seeing her brother’s blank look, she sighed. ‘The whole ton is agog at her exploits, I can’t believe you’ve not heard of her. Bella Donna is the most shocking literary creation, she’s a sort of voluptuous sorceress. The stories are quite Gothic, extremely racy and wholly entertaining. I personally see no reason why they should be kept under the counter, nor why I, a married woman, should not read them,’ she said darkly. ‘If Bella Donna were a man—well, it would be a different story, if you’ll forgive the pun. It is the fact that she is a woman who treats—intimacy—exactly like a man that is so shocking. She is quite ruthless, you know, incredibly powerful. I think it would amuse you, I shall send it round once I am done with it if you like.’
‘Why not,’ Elliot said, surrendering the package, ‘it sounds amusing.’
Lizzie chuckled. ‘Yes, and now I can tell Alex that you lent it to me if he discovers it. I really must go. You’ll come to dinner then, tomorrow? Oh, did I forget to ask you? Never mind, I won’t take no for an answer,’ she said, turning her back and tripping lightly down the steps to her waiting carriage. ‘I promised Alex I’d persuade you to join us. Lord Armstrong will be there—the diplomat. You can talk politics with him.’
Wriggling her fingers at him over her shoulder, Lizzie climbed into her barouche without looking back or giving Elliot a chance to refuse her invitation.
He returned to the parlour, deep in thought. Incorrigible as she was, his sister was all too often right. He could not continue in this mode for much longer. Housebreaking, even if it was for a cause, was hardly a lifelong occupation. And he did need an occupation, though he had always known, as Lizzie herself said, that he was not cut out to play the country gentleman. Perhaps politics was the answer? It was certainly worth considering. Lizzie’s ideas usually were. She did not know him as well as she thought, but she knew him better than anyone else.
And a wife—was she right about that, too?
Picking up the Morning Post, which his man had left, carefully ironed, on his desk, Elliot pondered this question half-heartedly. He hadn’t ever seriously considered a wife. As a soldier with an increasingly dangerous sideline in espionage, it would have been irresponsible to marry. Not that that was the reason he hadn’t. Such a precarious and transient life hardly lent itself to fidelity, but Lizzie was right, curse her, that was just an excuse. The fact was, he didn’t let people in, he was wary of allowing anyone to see past whatever form of veneer he showed them. War made you like that. War taught you how fragile life was. It taught you how easy it was to be crushed by that fragility, too—he’d seen it too many times, written too many letters to grieving widows, listened to the last heartbreaking words of too many of their husbands. Pain like that, he could do without. It could not possibly be worth it.
He sighed. Blast Lizzie for putting such thoughts in his head. If she only knew that he’d been living like a monk since returning to England. What’s more, until he’d met Deborah Napier, he had been relatively content to do so. Last night had been so—so bloody amazing! Just thinking about it—oh God, just thinking about it. If only he had not dropped the painting. If only he had not allowed Deborah to go in search of a candle, she would not have found her inhibitions.
‘Dammit, what is wrong with me,’ Elliot exclaimed, ‘England must be full of attractive, available, experienced women looking for nothing more than a little light flirtation and a few indulgent hours in bed.’ Except that wasn’t what he wanted, not any more. He wanted Deborah. He didn’t just want to bed her either, he wanted to understand her. He wanted to know what went on in her head and what had gone on in her past. He wanted to know why it took breaking and entering to release her passion. And he wanted her to release it again.
What was it Lizzie said he needed? A woman with a bit of gumption, who can force her way past that barricade of charm you arm yourself with. A woman of character. Deborah was certainly that. Lizzie would definitely approve. Not that he was in any way seeking her approval. Politics, perhaps he would consider. Marriage—no. But the train of his thoughts disturbed him. Elliot shook out the newspaper, seeking distraction. He found it in the middle pages.
Last night, the Notorious Housebreaker commonly known as the Peacock struck again, this time at the abode of a most Distinguished Member of Parliament who resides in Grosvenor Square. The Villainous Thief has stolen a most valuable painting, the subject of which being a Very Important Personage. Said painting, executed by a Spanish Master, was torn asunder from its frame in the Most Honourable Gentleman’s Study. Once again, the Peacock had the effrontery to leave his Calling Card behind, along with the Rope by which he made his escape. Any Member of the Public who saw anything or anyone suspicious is urged to contact the Magistrates at Bow Street.
The portrait of the Very Important Person was currently wrapped in oilskin and safely tucked under the floorboards in Elliot’s bedchamber. A certain Spanish official, when approached by way of the intricate web of contacts which Elliot had been careful to maintain from his days in the covert service of the British Government, would most certainly pay a substantial sum for it. Tomorrow, he would set about making the first of those contacts. Today though, he had another alluring, beguiling and altogether intriguing contact to see.
Folding the newspaper into a neat square which would fit into his coat pocket, Elliot loped up the stairs three at a time, calling for his man to fetch his hat and gloves and his groom to have his curricle brought round.
* * *
Looking over from her writing desk at the clock, Deborah was astonished to discover that it was well past two. The stack of paper before her bore testament to her labours, the neat lines gradually deteriorating to an unruly scrawl as her pen struggled to keep up with her fevered imagination. She had forgotten what it was like, to be so inspired. It made her realise how much of a chore her books had become. The wisps of this story clung to her like plucking fingers, willing her to pick up her pen once more lest she lose the thread, but she knew that she had reached her limit for today.
Her wrist ached. Her head felt as if it were stuffed with cork. Wiping her ink-stained hands on the equally ink-stained linen smock she wore to protect her gown, Deborah thrust the manuscript into the desk and closed the lid.
* * *
Returning from the kitchen, where she had made herself a much-needed pot of tea, she froze on the threshold of the parlour.
Elliot was immaculately turned out, not a crease in his olive-green coat of superfine nor his biscuit-
coloured pantaloons. The gloss on his tasselled Hessians showed not a speck of dirt. In contrast, Deborah was horribly conscious of her hair pinned up anyhow under its cap, her work smock, her grubby fingers. Why did he always have to see her looking at her worst? And why did he always have to be so much more attractive, every time she saw him? Taller. More muscular—those pantaloons fitted like a second skin. More everything! And why did he have to smile like that? And why, when she was quite resolved to forget all about him, was she so absurdly pleased to see him?
She clutched the tea tray to her chest. ‘How on earth did you get in?’ The shock of seeing him, as if he had just walked out of Bella’s story, combined with the traitorous shiver of simple pleasure which had been her first reaction, made her sound aggressive, but better that, than let him see the effect he had on her.
‘It would be a poor Peacock indeed who could not break into a house with such flimsy defences,’ Elliot said with a grin, relieving her of the tea tray and giving her no option but to follow him into her own parlour.
‘I did not think to see you again.’ Deborah sat down on the edge of a chair by the fire. She longed to pour her tea, but was afraid her hands would shake.
Elliot raised a brow. ‘Surely you must have known I would call?’
‘We said goodbye last night.’
‘You said goodbye.’
Deborah gazed at him helplessly. He waited for her to say something, but she began measuring leaves from the little wooden caddy. Water splashed as she poured it from the kettle into the pewter teapot. ‘I brought only one cup.’
‘I hate tea,’ Elliot said, sitting himself opposite her.
She poured her drink, took a sip and then a deep breath. ‘Why are you here?’
Her antagonism didn’t fool him. She was as nervous as a cat, but she hadn’t been able wholly to disguise the fact that she was pleased to see him. Elliot handed her the newspaper. ‘I thought you might like to see this.’
Deborah scanned the report, her face lightening to a shadow of a smile as she read. ‘I woke this morning persuaded that I had imagined the whole episode. I can’t quite believe it happened even now, despite seeing it reported in print.’
‘Fortunately, there is no indication that anyone knows I had an accomplice, but all the same, you must have a care not to let slip, even inadvertently, anything which might betray you.’
‘I won’t,’ Deborah said, thinking guiltily of the account she had written just this morning of the episode, reassuring herself at the same time that she had changed sufficient details for it not to matter. ‘There is nothing to fear, I am sure. You did not strike me as a worrier, Elliot.’
‘I am not worried for myself, but for you. I care little for my own safety, but I would rather not have yours on my conscience.’
‘You don’t. It was I who persuaded you, if you recall.’
‘I would never have allowed myself to be persuaded if I had not wanted you with me,’ Elliot said with a wry smile. ‘How does it feel, to be so vicariously notorious?’
‘Vicarious,’ Deborah replied pithily. ‘I feel as if it was someone else who clambered down that rope. Though I must confess, my conscience has been bothering me rather belatedly. That painting was very valuable.’
‘And you’re worried about what I’m going to do with the ill-gotten gains,’ Elliot said. ‘No, don’t look like that, I can’t blame you. I’m surprised you haven’t asked before.�
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‘I am ashamed to admit that I most likely did not because I didn’t want a reason not to go,’ Deborah confessed. She put down her half-drunk cup of tea. ‘Why do you do it, Elliot? I mean, I can understand, that it’s partly what I wanted—the sheer thrill of it. I can understand, too, that you find civilian life rather boring compared to what you’re used to, but—to say that you care little for your own life as you just did—I can’t believe that you are hoping to be caught.’
‘Of course not. I am bored though, that is a part of it. My sister thinks I need gainful employment and she’s probably right,’ Elliot said, grimacing.
‘Gainful doesn’t sound very like you. I didn’t know you had a sister. Is she in town?’
‘For the moment. Lizzie is married to a dour Scot, who has plans to whisk her away to the Highlands for the birth of their first child.’ Elliot grinned, happy to be sidetracked. ‘I foresee some epic battles between her and her mother-in-law and I know who I’d put my money on. Lizzie is short of neither opinions nor the will to enforce them.’
‘I’d have liked to have a sister,’ Deborah said with a wistful smile. ‘I don’t have any family. My parents died when I was very young and my uncle, who became my guardian, was a bachelor, very set in his ways. When I came back to live with him after finishing school, he didn’t know what to do with me. He didn’t like Jeremy, he told me that he was only marrying me for my inheritance, but he didn’t make much of an attempt to stop me either. “You must make your own bed, and don’t come running to me if you don’t like lying in it,” he said. Not that I would have,’ she concluded, with a twisted little smile.
Did she know how much she had given away with that last little sentence? Elliot wondered, touched by her pride, angry on her behalf at the need for it. ‘Is he still alive?’
Deborah shook her head. ‘He died five years ago. I rarely saw him once I was married. I often wish I had made more of an effort.’ It was surprising how guilty she felt even now, and no amount of telling herself that Uncle Peter had made no effort to keep in touch either made any difference. She had been afraid to let him see her and had kept him at a distance as she kept everyone else. ‘I don’t know how we came on to this subject,’ she said brusquely, ‘you cannot possibly be interested in my rather pathetic life.’
Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah Page 8