Unmasking the Hero, page 15
The weasel was about to say Grace’s name again. Rollo didn’t hesitate, just picked up the nearest glass and hurled the contents in Boothe’s red face.
Silence fell on the room, save for Boothe’s spluttering, swiftly followed by a roar. “Damn it, Darblay, you shall meet me for that! Harlaw will act for me.”
“And Meade will act for me.” Rollo swung back to the Pawnbroker. “Well? How much?”
Chapter Fourteen
Grace’s head was still spinning the following morning. The shock of Sir Ernest’s revelation that a letter she had apparently written to a lover had driven her husband away from her gradually gave way to a weird sort of dazed happiness.
He hadn’t been lying to her about love. He hadn’t found her wanting in matters of the bedchamber… Or at least, he might have, but that wasn’t what had caused him to bolt from her arms on their wedding night. Her foolish mind had a tendency to dwell on this rather than on what she needed to do to find out more about the letter and make things right.
The simplest method would, of course, be to ask Oliver. Not his friends, not even his alter ego, Rudolf. But dare she risk bringing up the subject quite so soon? Last night they had at least grown a little comfortable with each other, but they circled still like prize fighters looking for a weakness, an opening. Not that she had ever been near a prize fight, naturally, but she had heard her brother discussing them at length when he had forgotten her presence.
Henley had finished dressing her hair for the morning, but instead of bustling off to collect Hope for an outing to various flower shops and silk warehouses, she remained at her dressing table, gazing sightlessly into the mirror.
“My lady,” Henley interrupted. “Sir Ernest Leyton has called.”
Grace blinked. “For me? Or his lordship?”
“He asked for you.”
Grace stood. “Where is he?”
She owed Sir Ernest for much, not least for finally revealing something of Oliver’s reason for abandoning her. But she didn’t actually expect him to say what he did.
“Good morning.” He bowed as perfectly as always but continued to speak almost at once. “If you still wish it, I will take you to call on Mrs. Caldwell now.”
Grace didn’t hesitate. She sent a footman to her parents’ house with a message for Hope that she would be later than planned, then fetched her shawl and bonnet, and sallied forth with Sir Ernest.
“What changed your mind?” she asked when they were in the carriage. “I had just acknowledged to myself that I would have to work around you to do anything at all.”
Sir Ernest cast her a crooked smile. “The knowledge that you would undoubtedly do so changed my mind. At least partially. For the rest… Mrs. Caldwell is lonely and needs a friend.”
“Why is she lonely? Does she not have friends in the theatre?”
“Of course. And I can join her among them. But she cannot join me with my friends. She is too proud to wish to be only acknowledged as my mistress.”
Grace merely nodded, although her heart sank a little as she steeled herself to meet a manipulative woman. Not that she blamed her. A woman’s place in her society was always difficult. A woman moving between different societies found herself in an impossible situation, and surely everyone had a right to try for happiness.
She expected to be taken to a discreet house, probably in Kensington and quite clearly paid for by Sir Ernest. But instead, the carriage was traveling in the opposite direction, and stopped, eventually, in King Street.
“She has rooms here, with a private entrance,” Sir Ernest murmured as he handed her down. And when Grace looked about her somewhat doubtfully, a smile flickered across his face. “I told you she was proud.”
“Does she know I am coming?”
“I sent word ahead that you might accompany me.”
Mrs. Caldwell opened the door herself. Modestly dressed, she curtseyed gracefully, cast a baffled look at Sir Ernest, and conducted them up a staircase to her parlor, where Sir Ernest made the introductions.
“Grace, allow me to present Mrs. Frances Caldwell. Fran, Lady Wenning.”
Mrs. Caldwell curtseyed again, but she seemed more bewildered than awed by a countess’s presence in her parlor. In fact, it was hard to recognize in this quiet woman the actress Grace had seen so often on stage. The strong bone structure of her face was the same, but beyond that, there was little similarity. Mrs. Caldwell had a powerful stage presence, but in real life, she seemed a much less certain figure.
“I’ll bring tea,” she said calmly and departed.
Grace sat on one of the three chairs and gazed about her. The room was adequately, even comfortably furnished, but beyond a couple of cushions, there was nothing that was not necessary, apart from a porcelain vase of flowers on the table before the window.
“The vase is one of the only two gifts she has accepted from me,” Sir Ernest said quietly. “I do not pay for these rooms. She will not let me. Nor will she allow me to arrange something better.”
Mrs. Caldwell returned a moment later, implying everything had been prepared in advance, and Sir Ernest rose at once to take the tray from her. She sat in the other chair to pour the tea. Sir Ernest passed a cup to Grace.
“Lady Wenning,” Sir Ernest told the actress, “was moved by our predicament.”
“And came, I think, to see the Jezebel for herself?” Mrs. Caldwell said calmly. She might have been quiet, but she was certainly prepared to stand up for herself.
“Of course I did,” Grace replied in similar tones and sipped her tea. “What friend would not? You do not seem very much like a Jezebel.”
A flicker of humor showed in the actress’s profound and rather beautiful grey eyes. “Indeed, I am very boring. Middle-aged before my time, according to the young people of my company.”
“How old—” Grace began impulsively, then broke off with an apologetic smile.
“I am one and thirty,” Mrs. Caldwell said calmly. “Three years older than Ernest.”
“I have seen you on the stage,” Grace said. “You have a tendency to outshine other actresses.”
“And yet leading roles are rare. I will never reach the top of my profession.”
“Is that a grief to you?”
“No. I earn enough to keep myself and save a little for when I am no longer offered any roles at all.”
“Have you always had a love of the stage?” Grace asked.
“Yes. And so that’s where I looked for work when I left home.”
“Were your parents happy with that?” Grace asked doubtfully. For Mrs. Caldwell’s accent did not sound mimicked. She had at least been educated as a lady.
“They were happy that I left,” Mrs. Caldwell replied honestly. “In fact, they insisted upon it. I was, you see, a fallen woman.”
“At the age of seventeen,” Sir Ernest said grimly. “Some scoundrel took advantage of her innocence.”
“I had to make a life for myself, and so I did. I make no apologies for the one I chose.”
“And why should you?” Grace agreed. “Do you enjoy it?”
“Yes, most of the time.”
“Sir Ernest tells me he wants to marry you.”
“He cannot marry an actress.”
“Forgive me,” Grace said, “but you were not always an actress. The world is censorious, especially for females, but I suspect your birth is not so different from his,”
Mrs. Caldwell smiled faintly. “Sadly, that no longer matters.”
“So,” Grace said thoughtfully. “Am I right in thinking you both want to marry but both refuse to do so because of the shame or distress it would cause the other? You would be scorned by his friends, and he would be demeaned by marrying an actress.”
“As would our children.”
Grace sighed. “The world is not always as we would wish it.” She thought for a while, drinking her tea. “You cannot change the world, sadly, or, at least, not at once. So, you have to change what you can. Would you give up the theatre to marry him?”
“Of course, but—”
“Then do so. I gather Sir Ernest has been extraordinarily discreet about your relationship. Go abroad, use your own name, not Frances Caldwell, which I suppose is a stage name. Meet and marry in another country, far from society’s prying eyes, and become the Lady Leyton you wish to be. And when you come home, live in the country for a while. You are so clearly a lady that no one will question it. Sir Ernest is well-liked, and you will be, too. Wenning and I will both call on you and vouch for you in face of any gossip. And voila, you are respectable again.”
They both gaped at her.
“You make it sound so simple,” Sir Ernest said at last.
Grace shrugged. “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. Especially if there is nothing to connect Frances Caldwell with whomever she once was. I doubt anyone will care by now about the scandal of your youth. You might even try reconciliation with your parents after you are married.” She set down her cup and stood. “Forgive me, I have promised to collect my sister for a shopping expedition.”
Looking dazed, Mrs. Caldwell rose and took her outstretched hand.
“Thank you for the tea,” Grace said.
“Thank you for the advice,” Mrs. Caldwell returned, “which I shall consider carefully—though I have to say it sounds astonishingly clear-headed and sensible.”
Grace gave a deprecating smile. “Ah, well, it is easy to be clear-headed and sensible about other people’s problems. If you need anything—including more advice, sensible or otherwise—just send me a note.”
“Do you always make decisions about people so quickly?” Mrs. Caldwell asked, smiling back.
“Yes.”
“And are you always correct?”
Grace felt her smile fade and immediately pinned it back on her lips. “No. But I usually am. Goodbye!”
Leaving the rather stunned lovers alone, she took the hackney to her parents’ house, collected Hope, and spent several hours choosing flowers and silks to decorate the ballroom in colors that matched Lord Tamar’s mural, and finally returned to Mount Street for tea.
“I wish I could come to your ball,” Hope said wistfully as they alighted from the carriage. “It sounds such fun.”
Grace glanced at her thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could, just for an hour. You would be in costume, after all. Let me think about it!”
They swept into the house and across the hall toward the staircase. Some movement in one of the reception rooms caught her eye, and a familiar figure all but leapt out of sight. Amused, Grace turned aside and walked into the room.
“Mr. Meade,” she said cordially. “How do you do? Are you acquainted with my sister? Hope, this is Mr. Meade, one of Rollo’s friends. Sir, my sister, Miss Darblay.”
Mr. Meade bowed, looking unaccountably nervous. “Delighted. Absolutely delighted.”
“Does your presence mean Rollo is scouring the house in search of me?” Grace asked lightly.
“Alas, no, my lady. I’m here on my own account.”
Grace blinked. “How fascinating. Have a seat, sir, and tell me what I may do for you. Rollo is not in trouble, is he?”
“Rollo? Goodness, no, of course not. He’s absolutely fine and dandy.” Mr. Meade tugged at his neckcloth. “Truth is, I’m hoping to see Lord Wenning.”
“Ah. I did not know you were friends.”
“We’re not,” Mr. Meade assured her. “Hoping to remedy that!”
Wenning sauntered into the room at that point. “Grace, Hope, what a pleasure.” He turned his amiable gaze on Mr. Meade, who now resembled a startled rabbit.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Meade,” Grace said obligingly. “He is a friend of Rollo’s. Sir, my husband, the Earl of Wenning.”
“Ring for tea, my dear,” Wenning said, “and join us if you will.”
“My lord, I was hoping for a private word,” Mr. Meade blurted in an agony of embarrassment.
Grace took pity on him. “Then we shall leave you to your important matters and have our tea and cakes upstairs.”
“What was that all about?” Hope murmured as they climbed the stairs.
“I have no idea.” For some reason, that worried Grace. She doubted Meade would have come to the earl on some errand of his own, so she suspected his business concerned Rollo. In which case, it would make more sense for him to speak to Grace, would it not?
*
“And that,” Meade said gloomily, “is the matter in a nutshell.”
“I see. So…do I have this right? Darblay forced a quarrel on Boothe to stop him talking about my wife?”
“More or less. And the truth is, Boothe did seem ready to blab her name again. Spur of the moment decision, and he made it impossible for Boothe to ignore him. But the quarrel is over Boothe calling Darblay a thief and a liar.”
“Because Darblay was in possession of the pin my wife won in a wager from Boothe?”
“She did,” Meade said earnestly. “I was there when he handed it over, and she gave it immediately to Rolls—I mean Darblay. All perfectly innocent. Even Harlaw recognizing the pin wouldn’t have mattered a hang if Boothe hadn’t blabbed he’d given it to Lady Wenning.”
“Mr. Phineas Harlaw?” Wenning asked, just to be sure.
“Yes. He’s Boothe’s second. He didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, and I have to say he’s as keen as I am to stop the fight. But the thing is, neither Boothe nor Rollo will apologize.”
“And coming to me,” Wenning said slowly, “was your idea?”
“Well, my original idea was that Mr. Harlaw come to you, but he declined, being as he is in a somewhat invidious position, as both your cousin and Boothe’s second.”
“Then, they are good friends, my cousin and Sir Nash Boothe?”
“Don’t really move in their circles, to be frank,” Meade said apologetically. “So I couldn’t say. But they were certainly together at the Orange Tree.”
“Hmm… And would you say anyone else overheard the quarrel that led to the challenge?”
“You mean was your wife’s name bandied about the Orange Tree?” Meade said bluntly. “No, I don’t think so. But it will be all over London if they fight. And yet, if Rollo backs down now, it will look as if Boothe is right. Either way, it seems to me, Lady Wenning loses, which is why I’ve come to you, sir.”
“Thank you,” Wenning said, gazing past him out of the window. “That does you credit. You may safely leave the matter in my hands.”
“Thing is, I’m fond of Darblay,” Meade said apologetically. “Wouldn’t like him to get killed either. Or have to leave the country for murder.”
“It is a fate likely to befall someone before this is done,” Wenning said with a hint of grimness. He held out his hand to Meade. “Good day! I appreciate your bringing this to me.”
When Meade was gone, Wenning spent a long time gazing at the window, forming and discarding schemes in his head. It was annoying, for he had other, more enjoyable plans for the evening, and he wasn’t sure he could fit everything in.
His relationship with his wife was too complicated. During one encounter in the library, he had found it so damnably difficult to keep his hands off her, that he had left her there drinking brandy alone. Just so that he did not ruin everything by lunging at her when he was hardly at his best or most sensitive. So much for brandy taking the edge off lust.
Rudolf, he thought, sighing, was complicating things. It had been a useful, though hardly honorable, way to get close to Grace, to understand her when she would not spend five minutes in her husband’s company if she could help it. But perhaps it was time for Rudolf to bow out. He had become just one more thing she would have to forgive Oliver.
But as he walked out of the room and across the hall, excitement surged through him, just because he would see his wife tonight, learn some of her thoughts, perhaps, just be with her.
However, before that, he had better see what could be done about Rollo’s quarrel with Boothe. Wenning picked up his hat and left the house in search of his adventurous friend, Campbell.
Chapter Fifteen
Although the Season’s social whirl had lost much of its luster even before her husband’s return, it was lowering how flat parties now seemed when he was not present. Phineas escorted her to Lady Barton’s rout one evening, and the following evening, she accompanied her parents to the theatre. And on both occasions, she found herself looking in vain for her husband. She had barely glimpsed him over the last two days.
Nor had she seen any sign of his alter ego, so her bright optimism following the firework evening at Maida Gardens had faded somewhat.
Staring at the stage—she had long ago lost track of the plot—she came to the conclusion that she was going to have to make things happen. Request her husband’s escort, visit him in his library again, which she had been avoiding since he had left her there the other evening. She could even seduce him…
Her whole body flushed, and she fanned herself vigorously. She was not ready for such intimacy. Was she? Not until they understood each other a little better.
On the other hand, two years ago, he had introduced her to true arousal and bodily delight. Ever since, desire had hummed beneath her skin, sometimes unbearably, and the idea of assuaging her lust with the only man she had ever wanted melted her bones.
“Where’s that fellow who’s always hanging around you?” her father said unexpectedly as the final curtain came down.
“Which fellow, Papa?” she asked distractedly. Not Oliver, that was sure.
“Weaselly fellow who thinks so much of himself. Boothe?”
“I have no idea. To be frank, I am happier without his presence.”
“Good,” Papa said, dropping a shawl around his wife’s shoulders. “Are we taking you home first?”
“No, thank you, Papa. I have ordered my own carriage to pick me up here. I’m going on to Lady Hilsborough’s.”
“Will Wenning be there?” her mother asked.
“I really have no idea,” Grace replied carelessly. Though she hoped so, she doubted it.
