Unmasking the Hero, page 20
“Both?” Rollo repeated with undisguised horror.
“Concentrate on the game,” Phineas said impatiently. “Play, Darblay.”
*
As Kitty returned to the second kitchen, located halfway between the rose garden and the ice garden, she found her uncle at the door, frowning toward the table where her special guests had settled down to play cards and listen to the concert.
“That is your party?” Uncle Renwick said.
“Yes, hosted by the gentleman who stayed with us. I knew you would like me to help him. Oh, and it turns out he’s an earl!”
Renwick, who, she suspected, had known the identity of his unusual guest for some time, regarded her, brooding. “And all you have to do is plant a card on one of the party? Which one?”
“The one in the lavender waistcoat.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” her uncle growled.
She paused on her way to the fire for more boiling water, turning back to him. “Afraid? Why?”
“Because I just pointed the gentleman in the lavender waistcoat to a cutthroat for hire. No close families among the nobs, are there?” He transferred his scowling gaze to Kitty. “You be careful, girl. Do what you have to, and otherwise stay away from them.”
Kitty stared at him. “You’ll let him kill our gentleman?”
Her uncle lips twisted into a smile. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s our gentleman we need to worry about.”
“I hope you’re right,” Kitty said worriedly and set about making more tea.
*
While the card games were underway and the singer performed, Bridget cast occasional inquiring looks at Grace. There had been no time to explain what was going on. On stage, the soprano gave way to a tenor. Around the table, the players agreed to move from vingt-et-un to a form of whist.
The sun came out from behind its clouds, and Grace decided the young tenor’s voice was better than the soprano’s. She almost considered hiring him before she remembered the true reason they were here. At the card table, the stakes had gone up. Rollo had developed a serious frown of concentration—and a decent pile of coins at his elbow. Oliver, too, seemed to be winning. Phineas was scrawling promissory notes on scraps of paper.
A few curious patrons wandered over from elsewhere in the garden to watch the play. One fellow, in yellow pantaloons that did not flatter his stocky, muscular frame, lounged against the hedge behind the table, watching the play with unusual closeness.
“What is he looking for?” Grace murmured to Bridget.
“Cheating? Or perhaps he has a side bet.”
Neither of those possibilities appealed to Grace. She didn’t want anyone paying too close attention.
The soprano returned, joining the tenor in a duet of such perfect harmony that Grace almost forgot the game. Then, feeling someone’s gaze upon her, she glanced around to find Oliver watching her. Her stomach performed a pleasant little dive, and her lips began to curve in response.
He seemed to be sitting out this hand, for he sat back, one hand in his pocket, smiling at her. Abruptly, Mrs. Fitzwalter got in the way of her view. She had flitted from the other end of the table and murmured something to Oliver, who rose at once, civilly, inclining his head to hear her. Then he bowed and offered her his arm.
Grace’s stomach clenched. Wildly, she wondered if it was jealousy or simple fear because he was walking away from the safety of friends. At least Phineas remained seated, apparently unaware of his cousin’s departure.
But the stocky man in the yellow pantaloons was moving, too, strolling along the back of the table and out of the same gate.
Alarm bells screamed in Grace’s head. Of course, Phineas would not act himself in such company. He had tried that at the firework evening, and it hadn’t worked. Now, in daylight, had he sent an assassin, the man in yellow pantaloons, to kill Oliver?
*
“I find it just a bit overwhelming,” Maria Fitzwalter said, all but hugging Oliver’s arm. “Such a powerful scent of roses among that of the unwashed—for the place is undeniably vulgar!—the loudness of the music with chatter over the top, and then the intensity of play…”
“I’m sorry you are not enjoying the event,” Oliver said politely. “I thought it would be amusing.”
“Oh, it is,” she assured him at once, managing a happy smile while turning up the narrower path among thicker bushes. “I shall enjoy it all again directly. I just needed a few moments to ensure I do not faint. And you being such an old friend…”
“And my cousin, your escort, so engrossed in the game,” Oliver offered.
“Precisely. And you were sitting out the hand, so I’m afraid I picked on you. Your wife will not mind, will she?”
“My wife knows there is no need to,” he said. “Since we are such old friends.”
It won him a sharp glance which the lady immediately turned into another smile. “You must find it strange to be back to the constraints of your home life after the freedom of being abroad.”
“I find the freedoms and constraints rather the other way around. How is Mr. Fitzwalter enjoying his new position?”
“Well enough. At any rate, he does not prose on about it. I often think of our time together onboard ship. Don’t you?”
“I think how boring I must have been. And how kind you were to a morose and grumpy fellow passenger.”
He kept his tone light and civil, for he was not blind to her maneuvers. She should have picked up on his distance and left it there, but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t.
“You were always far more than that. At one time, I almost regarded myself as engaged to you.”
He raised both eyebrows in astonishment. “Now you are teasing me! I assure you, I never made an offer for anyone except the wife I cherish.”
Her hand tightened on his arm. “Enough, Oliver. Don’t play any more games. If you had cherished her, you would not have left her on your wedding night to bolt to China.”
“That was not well done of me,” he admitted. “It is, in fact, the shame of my life that I will never scrub clean.”
This seemed to surprise her, for she stopped dead, and Oliver, who had kept his eyes sensibly peeled throughout their stroll, took the opportunity for a closer look around him. They had come to one of the many artful little spaces between paths and bushes, groves and streams. Here there was a wrought iron bench and some stones built up like a shrine at the edge of a stream. There seemed to be no path but the one they had come along. Otherwise, the clearing was surrounded by the stream and a lot of thick bushes.
A fine place for an ambush.
“The heart does not acknowledge shame,” Mrs. Fitzwalter declared.
Oliver smiled, patted her hand, and turned back toward the path. “This one does. I hope your head is cleared, ma’am, for I must be dutiful and return to my gues—” Before the last word was out, something—someone—flew out of the bushes, rushing straight at them.
Mrs. Fitzwalter let out a gasp that was almost a scream. He shoved her unceremoniously toward the path, snarling, “Go!” before spinning to face his attacker head-on.
Of course, it was not Phineas. And there was no gun this time, since the sound of a shot would hardly be covered by the slightly muffled music and song from the nearby rose garden. Instead, his attacker wielded a wicked-looking knife, and he was quick enough to dodge Oliver’s initial lunge. Oliver had to leap back out of the sweeping path of the knife, although, immediately taking advantage of the attacker’s momentary imbalance, he threw out his arm, trying to knock the knife aside.
Stumbling slightly, the attacker still managed to keep hold of the weapon, but Oliver managed to seize his wrist. With their free hands, the two aimed and parried punches, while Oliver inexorably squeezed and squeezed at his opponent’s thick wrist.
He had a moment to realize that he did not know this man—some hired thug in a coat so small for him that it had probably never belonged to him. Through the distant sound of the music, he could hear Mrs. Fitzwalter whimpering. Why the devil hadn’t she run for help? For by her sheer surprise, he doubted she was in on this attack, though Phineas may well have used her to lure him here.
His attacker drew back his head to butt, and Oliver threw up his elbow to fend him off. They both stumbled but held their balance, and then, suddenly, in a flash of yellow pantaloons, a third man seized the attacker around the throat, hauling him off. Oliver finally seized the knife, dropping it into his pocket.
But the would-be-assassin had not given up. He fought like a wild animal, and it took both Oliver and the man in yellow pantaloons to subdue him. Finally, they rolled him onto his stomach and fastened his hands behind his back with nifty handcuffs drawn from the pocket of Oliver’s ally, who promptly sat on their victim’s back.
“Lord Wenning, I presume,” he said, panting. “The name’s Smellie.”
Oliver held out his hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Smellie. I trust you’ll have no further trouble getting this individual to Bow Street?”
“None. Got a vehicle waiting, and a partner to help. This cove is only hired muscle, though, my lord. He’s known to us, you might say. And even if we get him to give up who paid, I doubt he’ll know any names.”
“Give it your best shot, Mr. Smellie.” Oliver brushed down his coat and pantaloons with brisk fingers. “I should have other means of dealing with the rest of the problem. My thanks for your assistance.”
“What in God’s name is going on?” Mrs. Fitzwalter demanded, joining them at a safe distance from the still growling attacker beneath Mr. Smellie.
Oliver turned to her politely. “Ah, allow me to make known to you, Mr. Smellie, one of the justly famous Bow Street Runners.”
Smellie, who was engaged in hauling his captive to his feet, accorded the lady a nod, which she was too dazed or too superior to return.
“Did that man try to rob you?” she demanded, her eyes darting around the clearing in some horror.
“Something like that.” Oliver brushed off his sleeve and offered the arm to Mrs. Fitzwalter. “I believe it’s time we returned. And I would not be a friend,” he added as they walked along the path together, “if I did not warn you about your escort.”
She stared at him, tried to smile. “But you could not have known this man would leap out of nowhere to attack you!”
“I wasn’t referring to myself, but to my cousin, who brought you here. He really is bad ton, you know, but I believe for your own sake and your husband’s, you should keep this story to yourself.”
Chapter Nineteen
Instinctively, Grace rose to her feet just as the singers reached their crescendo, and the audience rose to applaud them. Bridget clutched her arm to drag her back into her chair, and suddenly the Duke of Dearham was on her other side.
“Don’t,” he murmured, clapping. “Wenning can take care of himself, and you can’t have anyone noticing you in pursuit of him and the fair Mrs. F.”
“You don’t understand. Someone might—”
“Trust me, he’s protected. Your place is here, with him.” Dearham gave the faintest jerk of his head toward Phineas’s position.
Grace spared a quick glance at the table and the players and saw Kitty approaching with a tray of wine and fresh glasses. In an agony of indecision, she hissed at His Grace, “A man followed him. Rough fellow in yellow pantaloons.”
Dearham winked. “Bow Street.”
Grace’s jaw dropped. Could no one have told her a Runner was here? But no, that was not fair. Oliver had told her ages ago that he had got the aid of Bow Street to protect her. Or at least to catch whoever had shot at them.
She closed her mouth and stared sightlessly at the stage. Giving in to the sparse but definite demand, the two singers began another duet, and Dearham sauntered back to his own place, smiling at Kitty to receive a refill.
Kitty flushed a fiery red—perhaps she knew his reputation or the fact that he was a duke—and poured his wine before turning to Arpington, and then Phineas, who was scowling hard over his cards, one forearm spread flat on the table.
Kitty flicked a cloth over a clean glass at Phineas’s elbow. Grace blinked. For Kitty, with extraordinary quickness, used the moment to slide a card from her own sleeve, straight up Phineas’s cuff. She then moved smoothly to pour his wine and stepped behind him to reach Rollo, who, this time, accepted a glass.
If Grace had not been looking so closely, she would never have seen the card planted. She still wasn’t sure she had. Her heart thundering, she turned back to the stage. If only Oliver is well …
It was the longest ten minutes of her life, but Oliver did eventually stroll back through the gate with a dazed-looking Mrs. Fitzwalter on his arm. While Grace tried to keep her anxious gaze away from them, Oliver escorted the lady politely to her place beside Phineas, and sat down next to Grace, but facing across the table as before instead of at the stage. His thigh brushed against hers, comfortingly warm and strong.
“Lovely voices,” he observed, and only then did the relief seem to flood her. He was alive. He was whole. And he was still playing.
“Indeed,” she managed. “I am so glad we came. Are you winning?”
“I was. Thought I’d give the other fellows a chance, but I’m back in for this hand.”
“Make it the last before luncheon,” Grace suggested. “For I believe this will be the final song of the performance.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” he murmured and leaned forward to claim his cards.
The singers departed to a scattering of applause, for half the audience were already escaping in search of luncheon or fresh entertainment. Still, a harp was brought onto the platform, and the orchestra remained to accompany the young female harpist.
Oliver’s return had sent Grace’s spirits soaring. Now that he was safe and by her side, they would succeed. And even if they didn’t today, they would tomorrow or the day after. The sheer enormity of his presence at her side, of his love, almost overwhelmed her.
“I’ll tell you what, Grace,” Bridget murmured. “I think the harpist is the best of the lot.”
Grace blinked and realized the music had become part of the emotion surging within her. She listened in silence for a few moments. “I believe you are right…”
Phineas shifted irritably on his chair. By the pile of coins and vowels at his side, he was now doing better, but clearly, his current hand annoyed him. He reached for his glass, and quite suddenly, the Duke of Dearham jerked forward and seized him by the wrist.
Phineas’s jaw dropped, his eyes widened as he stared at the other man. “Your Grace?”
Dearham raised Phineas’s elbow and shook it. An ace of hearts dropped half out of his cuff and then, with another shake, fell onto the table.
Utter silence surrounded him. Phineas stared with horror at the ace from his sleeve. So did everyone else before their eyes lifted to his face.
“What is this, sir?” Grace had never heard the amiable Dearham speak with such icy contempt.
Phineas swallowed, his gaze darting desperately around the table. “I wish I knew! I have no idea how the card came to be resting there!”
“Resting?” Rollo exclaimed in disgust. “No wonder I could never get my hands on the dashed ace of hearts!” He threw down his hand. So did everyone else.
Dearham rose to his feet and bowed stiffly to Grace and to Oliver. “Forgive me. No one blames you for this, Wenning, but I cannot sit at the same table as a cheat. We’ll wait for you by the Eros fountain.” And he stalked off, swiftly followed by Effers, Rollo, and the Arpingtons. At the last moment, Bridget swept up the bewildered Mrs. Fitzwalter, and they all left the garden to the plaintive strains of the harp.
Grace and Oliver were left alone with the stunned Phineas, who could clearly not quite grasp his sudden, irrevocable ruin. A man who cheated at cards had no honor, was beyond the pale, intolerable.
At last Phineas focused his gaze on Oliver. “I didn’t,” he said wildly. “I didn’t hide that card!”
“Oh, I know,” Oliver said softly. “My wife and I planted it there.”
Phineas blinked several times as though to assure himself he was not dreaming. “Is this some kind of joke, Ollie? For I take leave to tell you that it is already out of hand! The damage—”
“Damage? You mean, like forging a letter purporting to come from my wife? Was that a joke, Phin? Or a cynical attempt to keep us apart until I, hopefully, died at sea or got killed by bandits?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Phineas said with dignity. “You took yourself to China if you recall.”
“Thus playing right into your hands. Did you laugh—it being such a great joke—while you continued to drip poison to me by letter? And into my wife’s ears? Only, you were a little too sure of yourself to keep your stories straight. If Grace’s true love was the mysterious Anthony, then why did he never reappear in the two years I was away? Why did Grace immediately take up with other rakes and scapegraces? And yet, when I came home, she was fending them off. And still no Anthony.”
“I told you her flirtations were nothing but that,” Phineas pointed out. Grace had never seen his eyes so serious, and although he seemed relaxed, even poised, his fingers on the stem of his wine glass looked white and rigid. As though the glass were about to break with the force of his grip.
Oliver, his gaze on those fingers, said, “And you told her mine were nothing important, mere peccadilloes to be expected in a man away from home for so long. I never told you that, Phin. I never told you anything about my private life. The funny thing is, while believing the worst of Grace, I lived those two years as celibate as a monk.”
Phineas shrugged, impatient now. “Mere misunderstandings! For which you have ruined me?”
“No, I’ve ruined you for endangering my wife and trying to kill me.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“I know it was you,” Oliver interrupted. “I asked questions. You told me a lot of nonsense about the firework party, who was where and for how long, but the thing is, Phin, I asked everyone else, too, and you were the one who was missing. You were the one who provoked Rollo to a duel with Boothe and then told me of it so that I would charge to the rescue and be shot in a tragic accident. And you just sent a man after me with a knife.”
