Unmasking the Hero, page 4
Perhaps the wife he did not cherish would object.
For some reason, he intrigued her. She felt a strange thread of intimacy between them, quite at odds with the nature and number of their encounters. Dancing with him, too, had caused a little flutter, a tug of attraction. But he seemed to be a gentleman for, unlike Sir Nash, he had made no effort to take advantage of her. He had merely asked her to stay until midnight. What would have happened then? Would he have tried to kiss her?
That was a vexing question. She had to confess that she would have quite liked to allow that kiss. And yet, she would have been disappointed if he had tried, and she certainly wouldn’t have let him.
In any case, this was a quite inappropriate direction for her thoughts when she was trying to recover her husband’s wedding gift, and he was due to return on Friday. Her stomach twisted. The day after tomorrow.
To the devil with it, she told herself crossly as she climbed into the hackney, which was indeed still waiting for her. The misguided sentimentality she had attached to it did not matter in the slightest. If she found the bracelet before he came, good. If she did not, he would just have to live with its loss, as she had lived with the loss of him.
Chapter Four
Mr. Phineas Harlaw was the only member of her husband’s family who Grace found remotely congenial. She was glad to accept his escort to the theatre that evening. In fact, it promised to be a pleasant outing since Bridget, Lady Arpington, was also to accompany them.
In her first Season, before she had even met the Earl of Wenning, Grace had been stunned by the sheer racket in the theatre that had prevented her from concentrating on the stage. It hadn’t taken her long to learn to filter out the noise of the audience and enjoy the play rather than the gossip. And if she occasionally missed remarks made to her, well, they were usually spoken by admirers who had to be kept in their place anyway.
Naturally, she maintained her own box, from where she had an excellent view. She looked forward to the play, which boasted the talents of Frances Caldwell, an actress she had noted and admired before, although Mrs. Caldwell rarely played the leading roles.
Phineas fussed about the box, making sure everyone’s chairs were placed correctly, and pronounced himself the happiest of men to be escort to such beautiful and charming ladies.
“Oh, what tosh, Phineas,” Grace said with only half-amused impatience. “You know you are the perfect escort, so there is no need to flatter.”
“I’m just grateful not to see Nash Boothe here,” Phineas said, frowning with mock severity. “I have to tell you, cousin, your name is linked too often with his, and certain other family members are noticing. It might be politic to—er…keep him at a distance. For a while, at least.”
“Indeed, I will,” Grace agreed cordially.
Bridget had leaned to the other side of the box, exchanging bows with friends as she spotted them.
Phineas shifted closer to Grace and murmured, “Have you heard his lordship is expected home on Friday?”
“Indeed, yes,” she said neutrally.
“Did he write to you?” Phineas asked in tones of surprised pleasure.
“Lord, no. I read it in the newspaper like everyone else.” It no longer even hurt that this was the only way she received news of him, so she could speak with quite genuine carelessness.
“What will you do?” he asked.
She shrugged. “What can I do but welcome him home?”
“Would you, perhaps, be more comfortable in the country for the next few weeks?” he suggested hesitantly. “Rather than conducting a difficult reunion under the glare of the ton’s gossip machine.”
“I think reunion is somewhat optimistic. I was planning to go to the country, though. Perhaps I shall, next week. But I will not run from him like a guilty wife.”
He looked appalled. “Oh, my goodness, no! But there are those who misunderstand your liveliness, who misconstrue your string of admirers and might bring such nasty suspicion to his lordship. It strikes me that until he better understands, a little distance might be…helpful.”
She regarded him with affectionate gratitude. “You are kind. And I know you mean to help him understand. But the truth is, if he wants to make a cake of himself, I see no reason why I should care.”
Phineas subsided, although she had the impression he was not happy with her answers. Poor Phineas walked a fine line of family loyalty and doing what was right.
Despite her determination not to care for either Wenning’s return or the loss of his wedding gift, she found it annoyingly difficult to concentrate on the play, the talents of Frances Caldwell notwithstanding.
At last, she gave in and whispered, “Has he written to you?”
“I received a letter last week,” Phineas admitted.
She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know. And yet she blurted, “Did he mention me? Has he said anything about me or his feelings for me now?”
Phineas shifted uncomfortably. “He would not. Not to me.”
“You are his cousin, his heir, his friend. Who else would he talk to?”
“Oliver is a very private man. As usual, he says very little about personal matters.”
Very little. Which meant he had said something and that Phineas didn’t want to tell her what. Which meant it had been bad.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.
She returned to the play, but already the curtain was coming down for an interval, and the audience had begun its true purpose of visiting each other’s boxes, of seeing and being seen. Among Grace’s guests at the first interval was Sir Ernest Leyton, always so proper and polite. And yet, she had seen him waltzing with an unknown lady at a Maida Gardens masquerade.
Which meant, of course, that he might have seen her.
Over the two years her husband had been away, she had appreciated Sir Ernest’s friendship. He never criticized or advised and rarely spoke of Oliver. And yet he had been there more than once when situations among her admirers had grown heated, castigating them for daring to bandy a lady’s name about. And so, the trouble had always been nipped in the bud.
Tonight, he broke his habit by saying, “I suppose you will have seen the news of Wenning’s return.”
“If I hadn’t, I would still know. Everyone has been desperate to tell me.”
To her annoyance, Sir Nash entered the box. She ignored him.
So did Sir Ernest. “I’m sure. I look forward to seeing what changes travel has wrought in Wenning, as must you.” His gaze flickered to Sir Nash, who was conversing with Bridget.
“Feel free to let me know.”
His attention snapped back to her. “You don’t expect to see him?” he murmured, frowning.
“I don’t expect anything at all,” she said frankly.
For an instant, and quite unusually, she caught a glimpse of pity in his eyes and a spurt of anger that did not appear to be directed at her, for he pressed her hand and reluctantly made way for Sir Nash Boothe to speak to her.
“Am I forgiven?” Boothe asked lightly.
“For what? Losing a wager? I hold nothing against you. Lady Mary! How delightful to see you. I did not know you were back in London. Come, sit by me.”
There was nothing for Boothe to do but give up his chair to Lady Mary. Sir Ernest, she noted, stayed until after Sir Nash had departed.
*
Although it was tempting to continue her social butterfly existence and go on from the theatre to Mrs. Wortley’s ball, she felt too exhausted. Phineas seemed disappointed.
“Take the carriage,” Grace offered as compensation.
“Thank you. I hope this is not simply to please Oliver? He has never been one to object to anyone’s innocent pleasures.”
“Of course not. I believe I am simply finding town life dull.” She smiled. “Present company excepted, of course!”
“Well, one mustn’t burn the candle at both ends, I suppose. Ah, this is your home, Lady Arpington. Allow me to see you inside.”
He alighted, ready to help Bridget from the carriage. Hastily, Bridget embraced Grace. “It will be well, truly. And remember, I am always here. Arpington will be delighted to receive you, too. Good night, Grace.”
Grace smiled a little bleakly after her. Even her best friend seemed to think she should run before Wenning returned.
It is he who should run from me. He has insulted and neglected me. He should expect a little revenge.
*
Behind her uncle’s cottage on the boundary of Maida Gardens, shading the sun from the side of her face, Kitty Renwick peeped cautiously through the half-open barn door. Discovering their mysterious guest to be absent, she walked in, patted Betsy, the old pony, gave her a piece of carrot, and edged into the stall their guest used to sleep in.
On her uncle’s instruction, Kitty had made up a comfortable straw mattress, covered with decent sheets and blankets. Presumably, the man was paying well. It was her duty to tidy up for him and launder his clothes when asked.
There was not much tidying to do, for he seemed to be clean by nature. She spread up the makeshift bed, then turned to his two coats hanging from a hook in the wall. His morning coat was looking a little tired, so she took the clothes brush from her pocket and gave it a good brush down.
Something, however, was preventing the brush’s smooth passage. Frowning, she felt the lumpy spot with her hand and realized the coat must have an inside pocket. She delved inside and came out with something cold and metallic.
Something that shone, even in the barn’s dim light. Her breath caught at the beauty of the thing. Real gold and rubies and diamonds, if she was not much mistaken. And definitely a lady’s bracelet.
A shadow fell over her, and she spun around to face the barn’s temporary occupant. He had paused at sight of her, and his gaze fell at once to the bracelet dangling from her awed fingers.
Tall and darkly distinguished, with even features and compelling eyes, he was undeniably handsome. In fact, their guest had always struck her and the rest of the family as a gentleman. But he was no fop. His skin was too browned by the sun, and his body was too muscular, which was particularly obvious when, as now, he stood in his shirt sleeves. His eyes were too hard and too perceptive. If Kitty owned the truth—and she tried to—she was a little afraid of him. For after all, what was a gentleman doing lodging in a barn at Maida Gardens? He had to be in hiding, which made him dangerous. And now he had discovered her holding the feminine bracelet he had kept in his coat’s inside pocket.
Was the bracelet the reason he was hiding?
She felt a growl rise in her throat, which could easily become a yell for help, and Rob and Uncle would come running. But being no coward, she turned it into a cough and swallowed back her fear.
Since he made no move toward her, merely captured her gaze and raised his black eyebrows, she held out the bracelet to him. “It spoils the hang of your coat.”
He strolled toward her and took possession of the bracelet without touching her fingers. “Do you think so? I had scarcely noticed.”
She turned back to the coat, her neck prickling as she finished its brushing. Her heart thudded, but she wasn’t foolish. She kept the brush in her hand and made sure she was nearer the door before she blurted, “There is a lady looking for a bracelet just like that one. She lost it here the evening you came.”
He smiled faintly, clearly unconcerned. “I know.”
“Will you give it to Chaplin for her?” she asked boldly.
His hand closed, and he reached for his coat with the other hand. “No. I will give it to her myself.”
She had no reason to believe him, yet she found herself smiling at him. “Good,” she said and turned for the door, though not before she saw she had finally surprised him.
She went rather thoughtfully back to the cottage, where her uncle was enjoying his breakfast. He grunted by way of greeting. Since he was up late every night, mornings never found him at his best.
“Do you know who he is?” Kitty asked. “Our barn guest?”
“Don’t ask questions, and you stay out of trouble.”
“Is that what he’s doing here? Staying out of trouble?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t pry.”
Kitty’s eyes widened. “Are you afraid of him?”
“No,” Uncle scoffed. His eyebrows twitched. “Not that I’d care to get on the wrong side of him.”
“Because he might take his money elsewhere?”
“No,” came the unexpected answer. “Because in spite of his being a nob, I quite like him.”
*
Once more veiled and traveling by hackney through the morning sunshine, Grace returned to Maida Gardens. She almost didn’t bother since she was sure she would not find the bracelet. But she had said she would, and in any case, the journey would fill up her day and prevent her thinking about her husband’s return. About his sister’s soiree tomorrow evening.
She hoped a storm at sea held him up. Not that she wished him to die—the very thought induced a sense of panic she was at a loss to account for. But she wouldn’t mind if he was vilely seasick. And if it put off his return for another day or so, she would be very glad.
Or would she? Shouldn’t she just get it over with and begin the rest of her life, whatever that would entail?
A wave of desolation swept over her. Was that the best she could hope for? Imprisoned in a name-only marriage with the trappings of a countess…
I will not care. I will not. Perhaps I will meet my stranger here and flirt for an hour before I go home.
Accordingly, she walked up the path to the pavilion. The doors were open once more, although no cleaning appeared to be in progress. However, in a tiny office on the left of the door, she found Mr. Chaplin.
“Good morning,” she said pleasantly.
He scowled up at her before his face cleared. “Oh, it’s you. I ain’t found your bracelet nor anything else. I even asked around in the right quarters, if you know what I mean, but if anyone took it, they ain’t telling me, even for the readies.”
She hadn’t expected to hear any different. She took the gold coins from her purse and laid them on his desk. “Thank you for your time. Good morning.”
“Wait, ma’am!” Chaplin jumped to his feet. “I have a message for you.”
“A message?” She swung quickly back to him. “From whom?”
“Don’t know his name. But he—”
“Then who did he leave the message for?” she interrupted.
He frowned. “The veiled lady what was here yesterday. That is you, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she agreed, relaxing. “What is the message?”
“For you to meet him at the same place. Says he has something for you.”
“Thank you,” Grace said civilly and walked back out into the fresh air.
She hesitated, for the message, presumably from her stranger, bore a distinct resemblance to a trick once played on her shortly after her marriage. Foolishly hoping for even a word from her husband, she had gone alone to a private room during a ball to find a well-known rake waiting for her.
Only Sir Ernest had got her out of that one. He shouldn’t have followed her, of course, but she couldn’t help being glad he had. He had explained many things to her after that, truths that had ended what was left of her naivety, but which had made the social battlefield of the Season easier to navigate. There was safety, she had learned, as well as prestige, in numbers. At least where admirers were concerned.
Was her stranger setting some kind of trap for her? Did he want a tryst by the swing, away from prying eyes? Or did she have an unknown enemy? An unknown admirer?
Eventually, she resolved not to come upon the swing from the same direction as yesterday, where she would be seen approaching. Instead, she took the path he must have used then in order to have come upon her from behind.
And there he was. Of course, she could only see his tall beaver hat, the back of his head, and the considerable breadth of his shoulders. But she was sure it was him, idly swinging in a blink of sunshine, the breeze catching a lock of his unfashionably long hair.
The clouds were ominous this morning, so she had brought her umbrella. Clutching it before her like a soldier marching into battle, she stepped forward.
She meant to approach him quietly, perhaps even see his face, for whether he was good or evil, she was, suddenly, insatiably curious about him. However, she had only crept forward three paces before he rose from the swing and sauntered off toward the other path.
Devil take him! “Sir!” she called, walking faster. “You asked to see me.”
To her surprise, he spun around, sweeping off his hat and bowing. By the time he straightened, he was already completing his spin and returning to his path. He had revealed no more than a blur and a shock of black hair, which she had already seen at the ball.
What on earth is all this about? She walked on more slowly, in no hurry to catch him up in case it was some kind of ambush. How could she suspect him of so much ill, while remaining so curious?
Because she did not trust anyone. Except perhaps her brother and Bridget. And Henley, up to a point.
Meaning to sit in the swing for a few minutes, she approached it, her eyes sweeping the lawn and the path ahead for a sign of him or anyone else. She found none and so spread her skirts to sit.
Only then did she see something on the cushion of the swing. It glittered red and gold.
She all but fell onto the swing, snatching up the bracelet. Oh yes, it was hers, without doubt. And with it came a folded note, held in the bracelet’s clasp.
Involuntarily, she pressed the bracelet to her cheek. Her sight was blurry, and there was a lump in her throat. I don’t care. I don’t. But it is as well to have it back.
