by Archer, Kate
There were steps to the plan! God and the book had given him all the steps. Everything must go in its proper order, that much he knew. He must marry Miss Dell, and then reveal that he was Veritas, the inheritor of John Hill’s revenge. The inheritor of all the wrongs done to all the men like himself.
Miss Dell must come first. The revenge would be paltry if not for that. Once that was done, he’d have her dowry, take his proper place in the world, and thumb his nose at her father, George Penderton’s son. The weak would rise up and the mighty would fall.
It might be a long and difficult climb to convince her to go against her father’s opinion. He was not certain—how much did daughters really listen to their fathers these days?
But might there not be a way to skip over the long and difficult climb? It would be risky and take some planning. On the other hand, it appeared he was in a risky position already.
As the laudanum coated every nerve ending and muted its activity, he began to think everything was as it was meant to be. God wished to challenge him. He was God’s knight—veritas and lux, the truth and the light—and he must only prove himself.
Chapter Fifteen
Kitty had been near terrified when she went above stairs upon Sir John’s arrival to the house. She had seen his long, dark shadow lingering in the foyer and it had seemed to her something menacing. It had not been a quarter hour before she’d heard her father shout that Sir John was to get out of the house, and then Hidgson confirming that idea all the way to the front door.
Why would a gentleman comport himself in such a manner?
Perhaps she was naïve and did not understand the ways of the world. She had only witnessed her own parents’ marriage and had based all her ideas on their happiness. Of course, she understood that a man was meant to be…the decider? In charge? Superior? To be obeyed?
She was not particularly clear on that point, but it had to do with the gentleman being given the courtesy of having the last word should there be a disagreement. She hadn’t thought of it as actually true. She’d taken it as an idea society throws around, suggesting it was the way things should be, not as they really were. Frederick was always talking about a gentleman’s purview, but he collapsed in a heap of ash in the face of Miss Crimpleton’s opinions. Her father and mother did not have any sort of hierarchy, as her father had so recently confirmed.
As for money, she was well aware that the man theoretically controlled it. Her dowry would one day cease to be her own. Yet, it was her mother who ran the household and consulted with the steward on occasion. Her father steered well clear of anything to do with the accounts. Kitty suspected Miss Crimpleton would do just the same with Frederick.
The outside world, though. That might be different.
Sir John was different. He was as her father had painted him—forceful. Frighteningly forceful.
She did not like it at all and she never wished to encounter Sir John again. While she did like Mrs. Herschel and would very much wish to attend her Tuesday gatherings, she began to think she would not. At least not right now. She would not put herself in a position where he might attempt to run over her wishes again.
But then, she did so want to attend. She wanted to hear of any discoveries relating to Veritas. She especially wanted to hear for herself if anybody else suspected Lord Grayson. And, after all, she would be with her mother. There was not anything Sir John could actually do to her and she doubted the gentleman would dare an unpleasantness in Lady Penderton’s presence. In fact, she was likely to encounter Sir John somewhere at some time in future—perhaps it was best to get it over with and have her mother by her side while she did so.
There was a gentle knock on the door and Kitty knew it to be her mother’s own hand. The baroness entered and said, “Ah, here you are. I am certain your father will wish to speak to you at some point, but not just now. He is so rarely in a temper that I think it has exhausted him. I have sent him in a tea tray to bring down his temperature.”
“Sir John,” Kitty said flatly. “I heard him being thrown from the house.”
“Indeed,” Lady Penderton said. “And I do not believe anybody was sorry to see him go. Hidgson was doing his very best not to smile and I was positively delighted.”
Kitty took her mother’s hand. “You did not like him from the beginning,” she said. “Were you able to see something that I could not? For that matter, that Penny could not see either? She did think he would be so suited to me, and I did think maybe, at least, if I tried…”
“You should not try to like anybody. As for Sir John, I found him a tiresome person,” Lady Penderton said. “Though, I cannot claim that I could have predicted precisely how arrogant and insistent he would turn out to be.”
“I am relieved to hear that, at least,” Kitty said. “I was beginning to think that perhaps his true nature was there for everyone to see, and then I did not see it until we had come to this.”
“I will not say I comprehend anybody’s true nature outside of my own family,” the baroness said. “However, I will say that Sir John seems a tedious person who cares little for anything other than his own feelings and opinions. His wife, whoever that poor soul may someday be, will lose her sense of self. Her own opinions will dry up as she is forced to take on his own.”
“Yes!” Kitty said. “That is what is so frightening about him. When I told him an opinion he did not wish to hear, he did not hear it. It was as if I’d said nothing at all.”
The baroness played with the wisps of hair that framed her daughter’s face. “And let us not discount his dullness. He is so dreary with that grim visage of his and taking everything in the world so seriously. Who would wish to live with that day after day?”
Kitty realized she had never really considered that aspect. “I initially thought, that is, I wondered if it would not be pleasant to be always having intellectual conversations.”
The baroness looked kindly at her daughter. “Perhaps consider that it might be pleasant to marry somebody who is actually pleasant. There is no sin against fun, my dear.”
Kitty nodded. She suspected her mother might be right. Her mind had been so consumed with the idea that she must find a gentleman who was interested in her thoughts and opinions on the discoveries of the day that she had not considered anything else.
“What about Lord Grayson?” Lady Penderton asked. “He is handsome, he is fun, and his prospects are excellent. I think, when you’d buried yourself too deeply in your books, he would reach in the pile and pull you out into the sunshine.”
Before Kitty could answer, the baroness shook her head as if she remembered something amusing. “Oh, I know, they all say he is an unrepentant flirt and he will never be caught. It’s all noise of course, every gentleman is caught eventually and I do not think him the type to carry on with that nonsense after he marries. And, I do think he takes more than a passing interest in you.”
Kitty had no idea how to explain to her mother all that she thought of Lord Grayson. He was handsome, he was fun. She was drawn to him as she had been to no other. But she feared he would never have any real feelings for anybody. Beyond that, he might well be Veritas and playing them all for fools. At least, all signs pointed in that direction.
“Never mind,” the baroness said. “Do not answer me. It is only your first season and you need not decide on anybody.”
*
Despite Crackwilder thinking it a horrible idea to take him to Mrs. Herschel’s salon, Giles had insisted upon it. He would see for himself what Sir John said of the missing diary. What a man did not say was often as illuminating as what he did say.
Though he had nearly convinced himself that observing Sir John was his sole reason for going, his more honest self knew there was another cause. He would likely see Miss Dell there too.
He had made a commitment to himself and he would keep it, he would cease his chasing of Miss Dell. Though, might he not look upon her? Or even have a civil conversation with her?
It would
have been ideal if he’d been able to deliver the diary to Miss Dell ahead of time, and then she could have revealed she had received it anonymously. Everybody might question why Sir John had not immediately let the company know that he’d had it and that it had been stolen from him.
However, LaRue was taking ages to copy it out. Never was a valet so complaining! To hear LaRue tell it, his arm was nearly broken, his fingers gripped with the rheumatism, and ink stains were appearing in his dreams.
No matter, the scoundrel ought to be done with the job by the morrow. In the meantime, he would see what he could discover in the lady astronomer’s drawing room.
As they entered Mrs. Herschel’s drawing room, Giles could not help but note the looks of surprise on the other faces in the crowded room. Not the least of which was the look of surprise on Miss Dell’s features. He supposed he could not fault her for her astonishment, it was the last place he might be expected to turn up.
She was lovely as ever, startled though she might be. She reminded him, just now, of a lovely sprite in the forest who had been amazed to be seen.
Giles had not initially spotted Sir John, though he had done a quick scan of the room. Now, he suddenly saw the fellow peer around a column and look straight at him. Though curiosity was on most of the attendees’ faces, Sir John’s expression was far different. It seemed some combination of fear and wrath.
The only person not in wonderment or otherwise put out by his arrival was Mrs. Herschel. Crackwilder had spoken to her prior of his wish to attend. Giles was not certain, but he believed his lieutenant had told some story of his having an interest in mysteries in general and had offered to lend his assistance. Whether or not Mrs. Herschel believed that story, or was interested in whatever help he might offer, he knew not. At least the lady appeared friendly enough.
“Lord Grayson,” she said, “Mr. Crackwilder has told me of your fascination for the details of our current mystery. We are always happy to welcome more minds to the case.”
Giles bowed and said, “You are too kind to invite me into your circle, Mrs. Herschel. I must confess that I do not attempt to understand all that you have contributed to our understanding of the heavens, and so you must allow me to be only a member of the admiring public on that score. In this matter, however, I am at your service.”
“Charming,” Mrs. Herschel said. “Very charming.”
Giles thought he had indeed been sufficiently charming, though he could almost feel Crackwilder’s eyes rolling to those just mentioned heavens.
“I believe you know some who are here,” Mrs. Herschel said. “The baroness and Miss Dell, I think?”
As Giles bowed, Lady Penderton smiled at him and said, “How interesting to see you here, Lord Grayson.”
Miss Dell, on the other hand, said nothing at all and only nodded to acknowledge the acquaintance.
“And Sir John, I believe?” Mrs. Herschel said, looking round the room.
Sir John stepped forward reluctantly. “We have met,” he said dully.
Following that less than gracious greeting, Mrs. Herschel took Giles round to meet her other guests. Most were fellows he would not have been likely to meet anywhere. They were gentlemen, but not the sort who hung around a club gambling and socializing. He had of course heard of Lady Stanhope and her remarkable travels. The lady was as sunburnt as one would imagine she would be, but just as lively too. Mr. Lackington was introduced to him, and Giles made sure to mention that he had recently bought a book in the fellow’s shop. He would have expected Lackington to seem more grateful over the purchase, but it seemed that shopkeepers of books viewed themselves in a higher realm from shopkeepers of everything else.
The niceties having been accomplished, Mrs. Herschel gained everyone’s attention.
“I will leap straight to the heart of it, ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Herschel said, her small person taking control of the party. “We are gathered here to share any discoveries anybody has made regarding the identity of Veritas. I am hoping there is some small string or breadcrumb mentioned today that we might follow, as I am at my wit’s end. We do not understand what this villain’s next move might be and I am very afraid we are running out of time. I do not think he will stay silent forevermore, some plan is likely in the works. Now, has anybody found out anything?”
The drawing room had fallen so silent that one might have heard the sound of a needle pulling thread through fabric.
While Giles noted Miss Dell staring at him out of the corner of his eye, he kept his focus intently on Sir John. The man’s face remained neutral and he could not divine what the fellow was thinking. What he was not doing, though, was talking about a diary that had been recently stolen from his house.
Quite suddenly, Sir John stepped forward. Giles held his breath. Would he say it? Would he claim he’d had the diary?
If he did, Giles felt all of his ideas might go up in smoke. It was only by his silence that Giles could assure himself of Sir John’s guilt. Saying nothing about it confirmed he was in some way connected to Veritas and did not want it discovered. That he most likely was Veritas. If he were to tell of it, that would portend an openness that would muddy the waters quite a bit.
“Sir John?” Mrs. Herschel asked.
“I do not claim to have come to a verified conclusion, Mrs. Herschel,” Sir John intoned. “But as we are intending to share any bits of information or clues we may have stumbled across, I will note that it has been mentioned in my vicinity that Lord Grayson attended Lady Blakeley’s ball wearing a large letter V on his forehead.”
Giles took in a breath. What was the man saying? Where was he going with this?
“I only mention it as nobody seemed to know what it meant,” Sir John went on. “There was much speculation about it among a group of gentlemen in Hyde Park. As they mentioned the composition of the mask within my hearing, I did not move off, but rather listened to their chattering. None of it was particularly noteworthy, other than the very large V on the lord’s mask and one fellow claiming there was some secret attached to it. And now, here he is, most unexpectedly among us.”
The party turned and looked warily at Giles. “That is ridiculous!” he cried. “What do you even hint at?”
Sir John clasped his hands behind his back. “I hint that the V stood for Veritas. I hint that Lady Blakeley is in on your secret. I suspect it is some elaborate joke played upon a society that would never have you. I understand men of your ilk are fond of such things.”
“My ilk? This is sheer nonsense,” Giles said. He would very much like to say all he knew. That it was Sir John who was in receipt of a diary about John Hill. That it was Sir John who failed to mention that fact.
He could not, though. If he did, he’d be admitting he stole it from the house.
He glanced at Miss Dell, and she looked away from him. Surely, she would not believe Sir John’s scurrilous claim.
“Lord Grayson,” Lady Penderton said, “perhaps you might clear up the mystery and put Sir John’s mind at rest. What did the V actually stand for?”
“Vanity,” Giles said. “It was Lady Blakeley’s joke on how much care I take with my clothes.” He glanced derisively at Sir John. “More care than some others.”
Sir John smoothed his coat reflexively and said, “Lord Grayson told all and sundry that story, at least that was part of it. The mask was also comprised of hair styled in white curls. I believe we have all seen the copies made of the portrait of John Hill and note he was styled just the same. Lord Grayson was heard to claim that he was painted as Louis XIV as some explanation of the hairpiece, though with only a V noted. It was a thin story, not believed by anybody.”
“Sir John,” Mrs. Herschel said, “you make a terrible accusation. Lord Grayson, how do you answer it?”
Giles knew not what to say. Of course, he’d known the story he’d told about his mask had been a flimsy one. But how was he to know the V would be taken as Veritas? It was absurd.
“Sir John hints that I must be Ve
ritas. It is irrational. Veritas is not likely to wear a confession on his forehead.” Giles stared at Sir John and said, “No, that villain will blend in and attempt not to be noticed. He will move in your circles and you will take him as one of your own.”
Giles could see Miss Dell looking back and forth between himself and Sir John. She could not be in any doubt. How could she be? Surely, she esteemed him more than that? She might think him an unreliable fellow, but certainly not a villain.
“I can confirm your notion is ridiculous, Sir John,” Crackwilder said. “Grayson is not Veritas.”
“Then what was the V really for?” Sir John asked. “Why would its meaning be such a secret?”
Giles could see his story about the V was not going to hold up. However, he certainly could not reveal the truth, that the V was for Vicomte de Valmont. Not in Miss Dell’s presence. He must only attempt to turn the tide in another direction.
“Perhaps,” he said, “the gentleman doth protest too much. Perhaps one who really has something to hide attempts to throw suspicion elsewhere.”
“Do you accuse me of something, Lord Grayson?” Sir John said, his voice dripping with outrage.
“I only think it unusual that it was you who received this mysterious letter. Why you? Why not Banks? If one wished to threaten the Royal Society, one would go direct to its president. Why does Veritas go to one so recently arrived? To one nobody seems to know much about? It seems convenient, were one wishing to commit a fraud of some sort.”
“I would not think a gentleman such as yourself,” Sir John said coldly, “should presume to know more than the educated minds in this room. Your deductive reasoning, if that is what it can be called, is laughable. Leave the thinking to minds that think.”
“To minds that think?” Giles said, feeling very close to losing his temper. “What is it, in your thinking, that you congratulate yourself upon? What does the society find itself so smug about? If you were interested in providing any useful information to mankind, you would ponder the nature of love, or why an innocent child is taken while a wily old man is left, or why men go to war, or what spurs us to have thoughts, or where do the heavens end and what lays beyond. Instead, you spend your time wondering how a housefly sits on a wall. You have mired yourselves in the minutia. You are absurd.”