by Amanda Quick
“Before I explain, I must ask you a question, sir.”
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
Edison looked at him. “I had an encounter with a practitioner of the art of Vanza last night. He was quite good. And, I think, quite young.”
Ignatius’s brows rose suddenly. “Are you saying you were attacked? By a student of Vanza?”
“Yes.”
“Right here in London?” Ignatius looked flabbergasted. “But that is astonishing. Absolutely astonishing. And, I would have said, quite impossible. I am the only Grand Master in London at the moment. As you well know, I ceased taking on new students some years ago.”
“Can I assume from your reaction that he was not in your employ?”
Ignatius snorted. “He most certainly was not. What the devil led you to believe that he was?”
Edison smiled slightly. “The fact that, as you just pointed out, you are the only Grand Master of Vanza in London. I was merely trying to eliminate all obvious possibilities. It did occur to me that you might have set someone to watch Lady Ames’s house, and that he might not have realized that I was also involved in the matter on your behalf.”
“Had I done so, I would have informed you.”
Then,” Edison said quietly, “we must assume that this young student of Vanza is working for someone else who is seeking either the recipe or the Book of Secrets. Or both.”
“You did not question him?”
“Our association was brief, to say the least.”
“What do you mean?”
“He quit the contest shortly after he learned that I, also, had studied the arts.”
“Hmm.” Ignatius blinked as he considered. “You do realize what you are implying?”
“That someone else is searching for the book? Yes. I know what that means.”
Ignatius stirred, as though uncomfortable in his chair. He gave Edison an uneasy glance. “We must assume that whoever he is, he is not after the recipe or the book for altruistic reasons. If he had sent a student or come to Town himself for an honest purpose, he would have contacted me immediately. He would have informed me that he wished to participate in the search for the volume.”
“Yes.”
The fact that he has not done so can mean only one thing,” Ignatius said softly. “Whoever he is, he is one who no longer honors the true traditions of Vanza. If he exists and if he wishes to conceal his identity, he will not be easy to locate.”
Edison smiled wryly. “I agree that it will not be simple to find a rogue practitioner of the art who wishes to remain hidden. His young student, however, is a different matter.”
“What do you mean?”
Edison set down his empty coffee cup and pushed himself up out of the chair. “There cannot be many eager, young Vanza fighters flitting about London. It won’t be difficult to find him. When I have him, it should be possible to discover the identity of whoever sent him after the book.”
“Bah. Do not waste your time, Edison. We cannot afford to get distracted from our main purpose. The important thing now is to locate the volume before this rogue does.” Ignatius tapped his fingertips together. “If we fail, then I will have failed in my last act of true Vanza.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Tell me, Miss Greyson, have you met the Exbridge Dragon yet?”
Basil Ware smiled as he took the dainty blue velvet cushioned chair next to Emma. He had to lean close to make himself heard above the rumble of laughter and conversation. The theater box was crowded at the moment. Letty was holding court. Several aging admirers had appeared during intermission to pay their respects. Each had arrived with a glass of champagne for Letty. They were crowded around her ample bosom, which tonight was framed in scarlet satin.
Emma’s own, more discreet bosom was set off by yet another low-cut green gown. This one was trimmed with a great quantity of gold ribbons, several of which were strategically placed to hide her nipples. When she had inquired about the possibility of filling in the neck with a bit of lace, she had been assured by both Letty and the modiste that the style was all the crack. Emma had put her doubts aside. After all, what did she know about such matters? she thought. She was a former paid companion, not a lady of fashion.
Basil Ware’s appearance in the theater box a moment ago had surprised her. When he had arrived she had been occupied watching the scene unfolding in Miranda’s box, which was located directly across the theater.
“Dragon? What dragon?”
Emma peered through her opera glass and frowned at the sight of Edison bending a bit too gallantly over Miranda’s gloved hand. The notion had seemed quite clever when they had discussed it earlier. Between acts, Edison would visit with Miranda in her box and engage her in conversation in an attempt to draw her out on the subject of her past.
It was all going according to plan, but Emma discovered that she did not care for the way Edison was hovering over Miranda. There was no need for him to sit so close that Lady Ames was able to brush her fingers lightly across his thigh. It was a seemingly careless gesture, but Emma sensed that there had been nothing accidental about that little caress. Miranda was trying to spin one of her webs.
“I was referring to Victoria, Lady Exbridge.” Basil sounded amused. “Your fiancé’s grandmother. She is here tonight. Presumably you are the reason.”
Startled, Emma lowered her glass and turned to stare at Basil. “What do you mean? Where is she?”
“She is sitting in the third tier of boxes across the way.” Basil angled his head slightly to indicate the direction. “Fourth one from the left. You cannot miss her. She is the lady in pale lavender who has her opera glass trained on you.”
“Half the theater seems to have their glasses aimed at me,” Emma muttered.
And the other half were looking at Edison and Miranda, she thought. Nevertheless, she looked at the third tier of boxes and counted four from the left. She saw the small but extremely formidable-looking woman in the expensive lavender gown and matching gloves. Lady Exbridge did, indeed, have her opera glass focused in Emma’s direction.
“The on dit,” Basil murmured, “is that she and Stokes despise each other. Unfortunately, after her son died, Lady Exbridge was left with no one except her bastard grandson for a relative.”
“And he has no one but her,” Emma murmured to herself.
“They have been engaged in a state of war ever since your fiancé stepped in to save the family estates from bankruptcy.”
“I am aware that there is some strain in the family relationship,” she said cautiously.
“That is putting it mildly.” Basil quirked a brow. “Stokes’s father was not much interested in financial matters or his estates. In fact, Wesley Stokes succeeding in gambling away his entire inheritance. And then he went and broke his neck in a riding accident.”
“Yes, of course, I know the history.” Emma said crisply. “I think it was very noble of my, uh, fiancé to rescue the family fortunes after his father’s death.”
Basil chuckled. “It was hardly an act of virtuous generosity or family feeling. The general consensus of opinion is that he did it to humiliate Lady Exbridge.”
“Humiliate her? How on earth could such a gesture accomplish that?”
“I am told that he hoped to force her to acknowledge him in Polite Circles. It was the very last thing she wished to do, of course. After all, he is an embarrassment to her. She chose to withdraw from the social world rather than to be put into the position of having to pretend that she was pleased with the family connection between them.”
“How terrible.”
“They say that Stokes is the living image of his parent. Every time Victoria sees him, she no doubt sees Wesley and what her son could have been had he been possessed of a different nature. It surely galls her no end.”
“How very sad for both of them.”
Basil laughed. “Come now, my dear Miss Greyson. You are much too softhearted. You do not understand how these things work in S
ociety. I assure you that neither Stokes nor Lady Exbridge wastes any time feeling sad. They are too busy enjoying the combat.”
Emma watched Lady Exbridge lower her glass and turn to speak to a stout matron seated beside her. She could not make out Lady Exbridge’s expression, but there was something in the stiff, brittle way in which she moved that told her that Basil was wrong. Lady Exbridge took no pleasure from the war with her grandson. It did not require any great degree of intuition to know that she was a most unhappy and probably a very lonely person.
“I wonder if—” Basil sounded suddenly very thoughtful.
“Yes?” Emma glanced at him. “What is it?”
“Nothing, really. Forget it.”
“I can hardly do that when you are acting so mysteriously, sir. Just what did you mean to say?”
“It’s none of my affair, of course, but, well ...” Basil sighed. “Perhaps it is only fair to warn you.”
“Warn me of what?”
He lowered his voice and leaned forward with an earnest air. “Please do not take this as anything more than the natural concern of a friend. But it suddenly struck me that you may have become a pawn in the Stokes-Exbridge war.”
“What in heaven’s name do you mean by that?”
Basil’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You may have heard that Stokes’s mother was a governess who ruined herself in the affair with Wesley.”
“Yes, I know. What has that to do with anything?”
“Whether she likes it or not, Edison Stokes is Lady Exbridge’s only blood relative. The offspring of her only child. He is her only hope for carrying on the family name. Stokes has managed to buy his way into respectability. His own children, her future great-grandchildren, will be accepted into Society. She knows that better than anyone.”
“What is your point, sir?”
“It just occurred to me that there is very likely nothing on the face of the earth that would annoy Lady Exbridge more than to see Stokes select a wife she considers entirely unsuitable. A woman who, in fact, once held a station in life not unlike that of his mother’s. After all, this woman will be the mother of her great-grandchildren.”
The shock of his insinuations took Emma’s breath. She rallied swiftly, however. After all, she thought, she knew the real reason Edison had announced his engagement to her. It had nothing to do with annoying his grandmother.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Ware.”
“Very likely,” he agreed graciously. “Please forgive me. I only wished to prevent you from being used in some devious purpose.”
“I am not being used, sir.” At least, Emma added silently, not in the way you imagine.
“Of course not.” Basil looked across the theater and smoothly changed the subject. “I see Miranda is up to her tricks again. She really is a most determined little witch, is she not? With her looks, she is probably not accustomed to failure.”
Emma turned her attention back to Miranda’s box just in time to see Edison glance in her direction. She thought he frowned when he saw Basil sitting next to her, but it was difficult to be certain from this distance. As she watched he turned back to respond to something Miranda must have said. Pursuing his inquiries into her past, Emma reminded herself. It occurred to her that two could practice the fine art of eliciting information.
“You’re quite right, Mr. Ware. Lady Ames is very lovely.” Emma hoped she sounded casual. “Have you known her long?”
“Not really.” Basil raised one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “We were introduced at the Connerville levee shortly after the start of the Season. I found her to be rather amusing, so I invited her to my country house party.”
“Were you acquainted with her husband?”
“Never met the man.” Basil grinned knowingly. “But I can hazard a guess as to the cause of his demise.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lady Ames can be a trifle exhausting, even for a man in his prime. I understand her lord was quite elderly. He probably never stood a chance. I venture to say he expired from overexertion.”
Emma felt the heat rush into her cheeks. “I see.”
So much for her talents as a sleuth. She cleared her throat and turned back to gaze fixedly across the theater. She saw at once that Edison had vanished from Miranda’s box. Another man had taken his place.
“Well, I had best be off.” Basil rose abruptly to his feet and bowed deeply over Emma’s hand. “Your fiancé appears to be hurrying back to this box. Perhaps he took offense at the sight of me chatting with you.”
She knew from the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that Basil was leaving because he had accomplished his goal. He had amused himself at her expense. It was all nothing more to him than a round of the popular pastime of flirting with another man’s lady. The game had no doubt had an extra fillip of interest tonight because of the presence of Lady Exbridge.
“Do stay, Mr. Ware.” Emma gave him a steely smile. “I’m certain that Edison will wish to speak with you.”
“I have no desire to find myself making a dawn appointment.” The laughter vanished from his eyes. It was replaced with something that could have been genuine concern. “I trust you will not forget what I told you at Ware Castle, Miss Greyson. If you should ever find yourself in, shall we say, unfortunate circumstances, you must get in touch with me immediately.”
“Really, Mr. Ware, I cannot imagine such a circumstance.”
“You have my promise that I will see to it that you are not left destitute and friendless when Stokes has finished his games.”
Before Emma could respond, he was gone.
A few minutes later the heavy velvet curtain at the back of the box shifted again. Edison walked in, nodded brusquely at the gentlemen gathered around Letty, and sat down beside Emma. He did not look pleased.
“What the devil was Ware doing here?” he asked without preamble.
Emma tried for an expression of polite surprise. “He merely came by to pay his respects.”
“The devil he did. He is determined to seduce you. He won’t be satisfied until he’s accomplished his goal.”
“How very odd,” Emma murmured. “Mr. Ware was just giving me a similar warning concerning you and Miranda. He is convinced that Lady Ames has set her snares for you and will not rest until she has made the conquest. I believe he leaped to the conclusion that she lured you into her box tonight.”
Edison slanted her a sidelong glance. “You know bloody well what I was doing in Miranda’s box.”
“Indeed I do, sir.” She smiled brightly. “And were you successful?”
“No.” Disgust simmered in his tone. “I can well believe that the woman really is an actress. She has a way of dancing around pointed questions without—”
“Emma dear,” Letty sang out from the other side of the box. “A word, if you don’t mind.”
Emma looked past Edison to where Letty sat amid her cluster of graying admirers. “Yes, madam?”
“Bickle here—” Letty paused to give the portly Bickle a fond glance “—has just invited me to join him in his carriage after the performance. He is going to take me on to the Turley soirée. Would you mind very much if I abandoned you to the care of your charming fiancé for the rest of the evening?” She gave Edison a broad wink. “I’m certain he will take excellent care of you.”
Emma tensed. A shiver, half dread, half anticipation, ruffled her nerves. She and Edison had not been alone in each other’s company since the night before last, when he had walked out of the library and shut the door in her face. She was not at all certain that she wished to be alone with him. A part of her was afraid that he would want to bring up what she had taught herself to refer to as the Incident in the carriage. Another part of her was terrified that he would not want to discuss it.
She was trapped. “Of course I do not mind. Enjoy yourself, Letty.”
“Oh, I’m sure I shall.” Letty beamed at Bickle, who turned an unhealthy shade of red. “His lordship is a most entertaining co
mpanion.”
His lordship, Emma could not help but notice, was also semi-aroused. His old-fashioned breeches left little to the imagination. She looked away quickly, but not quickly enough. Edison caught her eye and gave her a blandly amused look. She studiously ignored him until the curtain rose on the last act of Othello.
At the end of the performance, Emma waited in the crowded theater lobby while Edison went to summon his carriage. When he returned to fetch her, she allowed herself to be conducted outside and handed up into the cab. She was aware of the tension in him. It radiated through his hand when he gripped her arm. Heaven help her, he was going to talk about the Incident.
Edison vaulted lightly in behind her and sat down on the opposite seat. “I must speak with you.”
Emma braced herself. She was prepared, she thought. Her career as a paid companion had turned her into a woman of the world. She could handle this sort of thing. She determined to carry on as though nothing of any great significance had happened. It seemed the wisest course of action; indeed, the only sensible course.
“I am rather tired, sir,” she announced smoothly. “If you don’t mind, I would like to go home.”
“That is an excellent notion.” He sat back, obviously relieved. “I was just about to suggest it, but I feared you would argue.”
Sudden anger shot through her when she glimpsed the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “If you think that I am issuing a ... a carnal invitation of some sort, you can bloody well think again, sir. I have absolutely no intention of repeating the incident that took place in this carriage the other night.”
Oh, nicely done, Emma. Now you have raised the issue of the Incident.
Edison gave her a humorless smile. “Even if I were so fortunate as to receive such a delightful invitation from you, my dear, I would be obliged to refuse it tonight.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Something very interesting has just occurred.”
She realized at once that he was talking about a matter entirely unrelated to the Incident. “What do you mean?”
“A few minutes ago when I went outside to summon the carriage, a street urchin was waiting for me. He had a message.”