Letters to a Lover, page 5
The dowager viscountess was seated in an armchair, dressed in her usual, severe black and grey ensemble, a cup and saucer on the table beside her, an open magazine on her lap.
“Lady Trench,” Azalea greeted her with a curtsey, for the older woman had never encouraged greater warmth. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to receive you.”
“Obviously, you have more important matters to attend to.”
Unease clawed at her. “Did I forget an arrangement?”
Lady Trench looked down her nose, a difficult feat when she was sitting and Azalea standing. “I have no idea of your arrangements.” Her emphasis made them sound shameful.
“Well, I am glad to see you,” Azalea lied brightly, taking a seat on the sofa and laying her reticule beside her. “How are you?”
“Well. I am always well.” Her tone scorned those who chose not to be. Her gaze flickered over the reticule as though she could see the guilty money inside it. “I gather my son did not return with you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not perfectly sure where he is. Did you want to see him particularly?”
Lady Trench glared at her. “I saw him yesterday, as you should know.”
She did know, though only because the children had told her. “Ah, here is tea. A fresh cup, Lady Trench?”
“I have had one. That is sufficient.”
When the maid had deposited the tea tray, Azalea dismissed her with a murmur of thanks and poured herself a cup which she drank almost convulsively. Her mother-in-law always had this effect on her. Criticism, either implied or blatant, seemed to drip from the dowager’s every word to her, especially when Eric was not present.
“Perhaps you would like to see the children?” Azalea suggested with sudden inspiration.
“I saw them yesterday, too. You, I gather, were busy elsewhere.”
I was seeing a doctor about a serious health problem. But of course, she didn’t say that, either. “Sadly, I was,” she murmured instead. “I hope the children were on their best behavior.”
“I hope it was not their best! Wild to a fault. They need discipline.”
They are not wild, they are spirited and happy. “I am in the process of finding a replacement governess.”
“Governess! The boy needs to be at school.”
He’s only just seven years old, and he most certainly does not need to be away from us at school. “Perhaps. Is there news with you, Lady Trench?” From experience, she knew her ploy to change the subject was unlikely to succeed, except to redirect the criticism to herself.
But quite unexpectedly, the dowager said, “I spoke to Lady Royston today. We met by accident in the park.”
Lady Royston’s was one of the names that made Azalea uncomfortable these days, but she was so pleased by the change in conversation that she said pleasantly, “How agreeable. Is her ladyship well?”
“Going on about servants, mostly. It’s my belief she doesn’t pay them enough. She told me you were taken ill at her ball the other week.”
Was I? Oh, God, I don’t remember that either. “Oh, it was nothing,” she said hastily. “Too warm and stuffy, I expect.”
“And Eric was not with you,” she said sternly.
No, he was escorting you to a dull dinner with your poisonous old friends. “Alas, no.”
“He doesn’t know anything about it. Denied you were ill.”
“I’m not.”
“You should have stayed at home.”
With an illness I didn’t yet have? “I expect I should.”
“Then there was no reason for your indisposition?” Lady Trench said sharply.
“None that I can think of,” Azalea replied, almost touched by the dowager’s concern. “I assure you I am perfectly well.”
Lady Trench looked disappointed. “Then you are not expecting an interesting event?”
“Interesting event?” Azalea frowned, receiving a fulminating look from her mother-in-law, who was clearly irritated by her obtuseness. “Ah, that sort of interesting event. No, I am not expecting a baby.”
“I should have known. Your nursery should be twice as full by now.” Lady Trench stood, causing Azalea to lay down her cup hastily and stand with her. “I shall take my leave. Give my love to Eric if you see him.”
Old bat.
*
“What do you think?” Azalea asked anxiously.
Griz, who had come early to Mount Street to make last-minute plans, and was closeted with Azalea in her sitting room, leaned over her shoulder and read aloud,
“Sir,
“Since you appear to be in grave need, I offer the enclosed donation. However, though your epistle is clearly intended as blackmail, I am at a loss to understand who you are or to what you refer. Please, therefore, send me these strange letters at your earliest convenience that I might judge for myself. I assure you there can be no further transaction between us until this is done.”
“Will it do?” Azalea asked. “I did not sign it.”
“Oh, no, quite right. I think this is perfect. Just in case we do not catch the blackmailer in the act. How will you carry it to the theatre?”
“Hidden in my shawl.” She drew the money from her desk, placed the note on top, and began to wrap the whole tightly in paper which she sealed. “Did you speak to Dragan?”
“Yes. He approves our plan and will help.” She seemed to hesitate, watching Azalea, then she said abruptly, “I am glad you saw Dr. Gibson. But I think you should get a second opinion.”
“Well, if he is right, worrying myself to skin and bone over my health isn’t going to help.”
“Speak to Dragan, at least. I know he is not quite a physician, but he has a lot of practical and unusual experience. He would at least be better able to advise you whether or not to seek another consultation.”
Azalea stared at her. “I cannot speak to Dragan about… Oh, Griz, you have not told him that, have you?”
“How else could I explain about the blackmail letter and why you had to take it seriously?”
Azalea rubbed at her forehead, digging her fingers into her temples. “This is a nightmare. Where is Dragan?”
“On his way, I think. He has finished with the accounting tasks and is catching up on studying, but he will definitely be here in time for dinner.”
*
In fact, Dragan Tizsa was at that moment closeted in Trench’s study, listening to suspicions about recent housing investments.
“These people worry me,” Trench said frankly. “In my own association, I can keep my eye on their actions, but I know they have fingers in several building and renovation projects, and if they are implementing those sorts of sloppy jerry-building practices, people will be defrauded and even die.”
“It would certainly make a nonsense of your Prince Albert’s designs for decent housing for the poor,” Tizsa observed in his pleasantly foreign accent. The perfection of his English and the quickness of his mind had been the first things to impress Trench about him, although it was true, he was also one of the most handsome men he had ever encountered.
Trench, who was fond of Griz, had at first thought him a most unlikely and possibly dangerous suitor, but like Azalea and everyone else, he had been proved wrong. He was different, as Griz was different, but his principles, while unconventional, were strong and compassionate.
“I believe so,” Trench said, “and since I have His Highness’s backing in these projects…”
“I see.” Tizsa glanced back from the row of books he had been contemplating. “Do you want me to poke around?”
Trench’s lips twitched. “Investigate discreetly was the term I was about to use, but I suppose poke around covers it, too. I would like a detailed report, something I could show to my colleagues, but the bill should come to me.”
Tizsa frowned. “There will be no bill. You are family, and I am happy to help if I can.”
“I know, but the matter is not about family but business. I will pay, and be damned to your pride.”
A reluctant smile curved Tizsa’s lips. He took out his ever-present notebook, which seemed to be full of close writing and pencil sketches. “Lord Verry and Arthur Fenner,” he said, scribbling.
Taking that for assent, Trench added, “Besides, there is a family matter I would like to discuss with you. Have you seen much of Azalea since your return to London?”
“No, I think I only met her once in Park Lane when we were all there.”
“Will you talk to her?” Trench said abruptly because the question was difficult. “Tell me your opinion.”
“Of what?” Tizsa asked.
“Her health. Something is wrong, something elusive. Even my mother has noticed, and she rarely pays attention to such matters. I need to know if it is physical.”
“I’m sure you have a trusted physician.”
“I want to know if I need to persuade her to go.” Trench met the younger man’s gaze. “There are reasons I do not wish to play the heavy-handed husband.”
Tizsa looked away, then back to his face. “I can approach her if she lets me. But you should know that I will respect her confidentiality if she wishes me to.”
“That is perfectly fine.”
“You should also know that Griz asked me more or less the same thing.”
Fear clawed at Trench, sharp and shocking. “Then I do have reason to worry.”
“Not necessarily. Where is she now?”
“Upstairs with Griz.”
Tizsa’s eyes brightened. “Griz is here already?”
Trench smiled ruefully to himself, reminded of the first, uncomplicatedly blissful months of his own marriage. At least, they seemed uncomplicated, looking back. “Let’s go and have a glass of brandy before they join us,” he suggested.
*
Azalea spent the evening on tenterhooks. It was in her nature to cover this in conversation and laughter, but she felt brittle, over-excited. If Eric noticed, he must have assumed she was eager to see the play.
Which she barely watched.
Having smuggled her packet of money into the theatre in her shawl, as soon as she reached their box, she threw herself into the chair at the far left, and while Griz spoke to Eric at the front, she dropped the packet over the side of her chair and casually kicked it under the seat.
Dragan watched her. She didn’t know if his expression was amused or admiring. Either way, she rose, cast her shawl over the back to prevent any visitors from moving the chair, and rustled forward to join the others at the front of the box.
While she chattered and the stage came alive, she felt peculiarly detached. She paid little attention to the plays but spent her time watching the audience.
Early on, she spotted Gunning, in a box in the row above, with Lord Darchett and Mr. Fenner, one of Eric’s business associates. She looked hastily away. Lord and Lady Royston and their two grown-up children waved and bowed from a few boxes along. Sir George and Lady Naseby did likewise. Lewis Hammond, another old friend, leaned close to a pretty, young debutante.
She could not help wondering if any of these strangers, friends, or acquaintances were her blackmailer. If—please, God, no—she had been intimate with any of the gentlemen who bowed to her from the other boxes or simply ogled her from the pit. She wondered the same of their visitors during the intervals.
When their box was busy, one visitor, Mr. Edgerton, sat on the chair on the left-hand side, but he did not move it nor appear to notice the package beneath, which was still there when he left. Azalea exchanged glances with Griz.
“Are you quite well?” Eric murmured in her ear as she returned her ostensible attention to the stage. He had stood to bow the visiting ladies out and now bent toward her, his breath tickling her ear.
“Of course,” she replied in surprise. “Why should you ask?”
The backs of his fingers brushed her nape, sliding to the pulse at the base of her neck and away. Her breath caught in pleasurable shock.
“You seem…fevered,” he replied.
There were several answers to that, most of which she could not say in front of their companions. Or, indeed, while this blackmail vileness hung over her.
“No,” she managed, without wit. “I am fine.”
He moved away, taking his place beside Griz, who laughed her way through the final act of the pedestrian comedy with apparent delight.
And now was the moment she had been so desperately awaiting, when they should be able to unmask the blackmailer.
“Shall we join the throng?” Eric suggested, and she rose obediently, snatching up her shawl from the chair on the far left.
At the door, she glanced back, and sure enough, the shadow of the package still lurked beneath the chair.
By the plan she and Griz had agreed, Azalea would walk away with Eric for the benefit of the blackmailer, while Griz and Dragan would fall behind and watch. Azalea took Eric’s arm, and they joined the other departing guest in the slow procession along the corridor. Griz nodded once when their eyes met, and then she seemed to stumble to a halt. Dragan stopped with her.
Azalea’s fingers curled involuntarily, digging into Eric’s sleeve.
He patted her hand. “I know, it’s a bore,” he murmured. “I hope the play was worth it.”
“So do I,” she said fervently. But that was in the hands of Griz and Dragan.
*
Griz had pretended to turn her ankle while Dragan protected her from the crowd as they both glanced back to the door of the Trench box. Unless Azalea’s blackmailer was a member of the theatre staff, now was the likeliest moment for him—or her—to collect his money. It would be easier to slip in and out while the corridor was busy.
So Dragan kept his attention on her while she surreptitiously watched the box doorway. And she was rewarded with the sight of a top-hatted head ducking inside the box. Triumph soared.
“Now!” she uttered, and at once, Dragan spun around and darted back to the box. Although people tutted and looked disapproving, his size, or perhaps his considerable presence, meant that they got out of his way, while Griz battled against the tide of departures to toil after him. He bolted inside alone, but she felt no fear for him, for he could take care of himself. She was just fiercely glad they were about to solve the most immediate of Azalea’s troubles.
She slid into the box, at last, to find Dragan the only occupant. He lifted up the far-left chair to reveal the packet was gone.
Griz stared, then slowly raised her gaze to Dragan’s. “How the devil did he do that?”
*
The short journey back to Mount Street was torture for Azalea. Although Griz and Dragan joined them just before the carriage appeared, she could hardly ask questions in front of Eric or even watch them unduly to gauge their mood. Instead, she watched the lights of the other carriages go past the window and talked of she knew not what.
“You are coming in with us?” she said suddenly to Griz.
“Well, only if you’re not off to some other party,” Griz replied.
“I am not.” But for the first time ever, she wished Eric was.
He only smiled sleepily and murmured that they were most welcome. But his gaze was on her, amiable as ever. She was not fooled. Those heavy-lidded, blue eyes hid a perception and sharp intelligence that only an idiot would underestimate.
“Did I tell you we are going to Trenchard next week?” She spoke to Griz, but the words were for Eric, to distract and remind. Trust me, please trust me, just one more hour…
It was only as Dragan followed Eric into the Mount Street drawing room that Azalea was able to drag her sister upstairs to her sitting room under the pretense of refreshing themselves.
“You may go, Morris,” she dismissed her maid, waiting impatiently for the door to close behind her before she swung upon Griz. “Well? What happened?”
“We lost him,” Griz said flatly. “I’m sorry, Zalea. He took the money and got away.”
The disappointment was as intense as an ache, but while she’d hoped, she hadn’t really expected things to be quite so easy. She sat down abruptly at the dressing table, turning to face Griz, who sat in the nearby armchair, polishing her spectacles.
“But it was a man?” Azalea said urgently.
“He wore a top hat when he ducked into the box.”
“Then he is a gentleman!”
Griz shrugged. “Or a man of wealth enough to mingle with that crowd. Neither Dragan nor I saw him come out again, though he must have. Perhaps there are secret doors between the boxes. I shall go there tomorrow and ask.”
Azalea was briefly distracted by her willingness to do something quite so odd. “Really?”
Griz cast her a quick smile. “Really.”
Azalea sighed. “I knew it would not be so easy. What shall I do?”
“Watch for another letter. He’s bound to send one, as we talked about yesterday. Which will give us another chance.”
“He’s clearly cleverer than we imagined,” Azalea remarked. “Or at least wilier.”
“Well, we shall just have to be wilier, too. Come,” she added, rising to her feet, “we had better not lurk up here, or Eric will ask you awkward questions.”
In fact, now that the excitement of the evening had passed in something of an anti-climax and was thrust to the back of her mind, Azalea found she could enjoy herself. Griz and Dragan were good company, lively and funny, and there was a great deal of infectious laughter.
Azalea was genuinely sorry to wave them off. On top of which, being alone with her husband was an exquisite form of torture in the present circumstances.
“I suppose we should go to bed,” he murmured as the front door closed behind their guests.
A delicious weakness threatened her limbs. “I suppose we should.” She turned toward the stairs. “You may lock up, Given,” she added to the hovering butler at the foot of the staircase.
Her heart thudded as they walked upstairs in silence and, just as two nights ago, turned toward their bedchambers. He was close enough to touch, to feel his heat. To remember the intense, bodily joys he could give her.
“You did mind going to the play, then?” she asked, just a shade desperately.
