Unmasking Deception, page 7
It seems I am more cut out for intrigue than I knew!
Chapter Six
They did not stay until the end of the ball, for after supper, Viola noticed her mother looked overly tired. The Season must have been as grueling for her as for Viola, with so many late nights and anxieties, especially with a daughter who did not appear to be “taking.”
After one glance at her mother, Viola pleaded a headache and suggested they send for the carriage. Mrs. Dove made only token objection, and so by just after one of the clock, Viola was back in her bedchamber, parting the curtains to peer out of the window for a sign of the Bow Street Runner in the mews.
But the mews were still and quiet. A few lights still shone as coachmen waited to fetch home their masters from the frivolity of the evening. With luck, Mr. Smith had given up. And even a Bow Street Runner had to sleep.
She was just dropping the curtain back into place when a movement in the mews caught the corner of her eye. Someone in the shadows, only a few yards to the left of their house, had been leaning against a gatepost, so well hidden that even when she peered at him, she could not see whether or not it was the Runner. It could be someone else up to no good. Or just a servant enjoying the peace and the night air before retiring. But she determined to be vigilant tomorrow.
And then something else moved in the Doves’ own garden. With a jolt of her stomach, she saw it was the cellar door and heard, or perhaps just imagined, its faint scrape on the ground. She flattened her face against the glass to see better what was happening—another Runner breaking in? Surely they were not allowed to do so!
But it was a golden head that caught the starlight as he walked into her view. Lord Dominic breaking out again. If Newgate could not hold him, what chance did their cellar have? Emotion swirled in her, some of it laughter, some of it unnamable, yet strangely exhilarating.
He stretched hugely, his face turned up to the stars, although one hand dropped quickly to his injured side. She poised for flight in case he should turn to face the house, but he only began to walk around the little garden in great, loping strides. Even from where she stood, some massive relief seemed to roll off him, freedom to move in the fresh air. Or at least as fresh as London air ever was in the summer.
She felt guilty, observing him unseen as he paced the garden, yet she could not look away. She liked the way he moved, loose-limbed, urgent, and unexpectedly graceful. She remembered dancing with him at Maida Gardens, his scent, the feel of his strong arm at her back, the full force of his smile when she managed to distract him from watching his pursuers. Foolishly, the memory made her wish to be in his arms again now, waltzing alone beneath the stars.
With, probably, a Bow Street Runner lurking only yards away in the mews.
As though he heard her thought, Lord Dominic grew suddenly bored with circling the same patch of garden and swerved onto the path, striding toward the gate to the mews.
Dear God, did the children not warn him about the Runner?
In panic, she bolted from the room, snatching up her night candle as she went. For speed, she flew down the dark, narrow servants’ stairs that led directly to the kitchen. There was no time to light the lantern by the garden door, so she simply abandoned her candle beside it, yanked back the bolts on the door, and turned the key in the lock.
Her heart in her mouth, she sped down the path in full ball dress. The gate was shut, and there was no sign of Lord Dominic. Wrenching up the latch, she glanced first to the left, where she had seen the lurker who could have been Barnaby Smith. She thought a darker figure stood in the shadows there, closer to the house, but she could not be sure. She just knew it was not Lord Dominic.
A hasty glance in the other direction found him, sauntering casually along the lane. At least he now wore Napper’s floppy hat, hiding the distinctive golden blond hair. But if the Runner followed him, it was only a matter of time until…
“Adrian!” she hissed wildly, grasping the first male name that came into her head. And with it came a possible, if unlikely, solution to the problem. For it was enough to pause Lord Dominic in his tracks, though he did not turn.
She hurried toward him. “Adrian, where do you think you’re going at this time of night? Mama will be furious!” She seized his arm, wrenching him around and tugging him back toward the garden gate. “You mustn’t be so foolish,” she insisted, gazing up at him pleadingly.
He did not seem surprised to see her, though she thought a smile flickered on his lips. He let out a long-suffering sigh and allowed himself to be manhandled back through the gate. She dared not glance at the place she had last seen the Runner, but she was glad Lord Dominic had at least kept his head down as though bending toward her to speak.
“Someone watching,” she breathed as she marched him up the path, straight toward the open kitchen door, from which the pale, tiny light of her candle still shone. He did not resist, even let himself be shoved inside like a naughty young brother whose adventure had just been curtailed by a sensible sister.
She still didn’t know what the Runner could see. He could be peering over the gate for all she knew.
Snatching up the candle, she dragged Lord Dominic through the inner doorway to the kitchen, where the shutters were drawn, and pushed him into the first chair at the kitchen table. Hastily, she shoved aside his coat to see if he had made his wound bleed again. It seemed he hadn’t, for his shirt remained pristine white.
With relief, she dropped into the chair beside him and set the candle on the table.
Lord Dominic promptly blew it out.
“What did you do that for?” she demanded of the darkness.
“You and Adrian are hardly likely to sit about in the kitchen,” he said mildly. “If someone really is watching, then we might as well do the expected and set his mind at rest.”
“The shutters are closed.”
“There are cracks and gaps. If it’s Smith, he is more observant than you might think. I’m sorry for causing you worry yet again, but I needed to get out of your wretched cellar.”
“It can’t be very pleasant,” she allowed. “I was watching from the window and was sure someone was lurking in the mews. And then I saw you walking straight into his trap. As I thought.”
“I might have been,” he allowed. “Though I am probably up to dealing with one man.”
“And making the charges against you worse!”
“Why do you care about me?” he demanded.
She blushed, suddenly glad of the darkness. “I have no idea. But since I started this, I might as well finish it. Why do you risk going back to prison?”
“Recklessness. Impatience. Stupidity. Take your pick. But trust me, I shall never go back there.”
There was a grim certainty in his tone, and yet she had the feeling that there was more here than personal discomfort and the injustice of his conviction.
“Was it very awful?” she asked quietly.
“For me? No. Richard brought me money for food and a certain amount of privacy, but for most…” He drew a long, audible breath. “It’s unspeakable,” he said intensely, “inhuman, a melting pot for disease. If I ever get out of this—and even if I don’t—I will shout about prison conditions so loudly that things will have to change. The whole justice system needs to reform. I was not the only innocent man in that place. And as for those punished ridiculously harshly for minor infringements of the law…” He broke off and, after a moment of silence, said, “I’m sorry. I’ve had no one to say this to. No point in telling Napper. He already knows.”
“I want to know.”
It seemed he needed no further encouragement, for the words spilled out like animals too long confined, eager and desperate. Not that he sullied her ears with the worst of the conditions he had hinted at. But he launched into descriptions of what needed to be done and even how to make justice more just.
She should have been surprised by this compassionate and thoughtful side to an infamous rakehell, well on his way to the devil before he was arrested. But listening to him, talking to him, she accepted it, as though she had always known this side of him existed. He was not a man who lived by halves, and he was passionate about this as about everything else.
She asked him questions, trying to fully understand, and somehow the discussion moved on to poverty in general and the scandal of soldiers coming home to unemployment after all they had risked and sacrificed in the war.
“I wanted to be a soldier,” he confessed. “Since I was about ten years old, it was all I ever wanted. The glory of fighting in a righteous cause.” She was sure he smiled deprecatingly in the darkness. “Richard got his colors, and I did not. But perhaps causes are not so black and white as they seem. What was your dream?”
The sudden question took her by surprise. “Nothing as grand as yours,” she answered because the darkness was strangely intimate. “I only wanted my parents to be proud of me.”
“Are they not?” His startlement soothed her, pleased her in ways she didn’t quite understand.
“I was a difficult child,” she confessed. “Adventurous to a fault and disobedient. Seeking attention for things I could do, I suppose, even if they were naughty, to distract from what I could not do.”
“And what was that?”
She shook her head, for that was a confidence too far. She could not bear to see disappointment or even disinterest in his expressive face the next time they met. Tonight, they were friends, and she would not change that. “Oh, many things. Perhaps I did not want to grow up. Because, especially after my father died, I knew it was my duty to save the family. But I like your ideas, my lord. You should pursue them.”
“I don’t think you need to my lord me. We’ve been talking in the dark for nearly two hours. I think that puts us on first name terms.”
His hand found hers on the table, and she jumped. But when he would have withdrawn, she grasped his fingers.
“Because we are friends?” she blurted.
“Yes.”
She wished she could see his expression in the silence that seemed suddenly charged with something new. Not unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all, but definitely new to Viola. They sat so close together that his distinctive scent surrounded her, masculine and exciting. His thumb moved against the side of her wrist, like lightning through her veins.
“You look very beautiful in your ball gown.” Before she could even take that in—after all, they had been in darkness since he blew out the candle—he kept talking. “I’m told obliging your family is a virtue. I wouldn’t know, never having done so. But you are not a sacrifice, Viola. There are better ways to make your family proud. Your siblings already are.”
His fingers tightened on hers, lifting her hand from the table. To her amazement, his lips brushed her knuckles, and heat flamed through her. Then he released her hand, and his chair scraped back.
“And on those words of wisdom, I shall sneak back to my cellar. Can you manage in the dark to the front of the house?”
“Of course,” she scoffed, and she thought there was a smile in his “Good night.”
As she felt her way after him to lock and bolt the door behind him, she realized her heart was beating as fast as when she had flown down here to save him from recapture. Yet he didn’t say a word, just vanished.
She listened very carefully for any creak of the garden gate, of footsteps on the path. But all she heard was the faintest scrape of the cellar door and more silence. He was safe.
She felt almost lost without him beside her, and yet around her heart was gathering a warm, happy feeling, from surely a very special new friendship.
*
Viola woke to the children bouncing on her bed. At least, she could hear their voices while the bed undulated, and she opened one bleary eye just as Pup pushed his wet nose into her face.
She sat bolt upright. “Oh, no, Mama will banish him if she finds he’s been on the beds!”
“He sleeps on mine sometimes,” Catherine confessed from the foot of Viola’s, where she perched with the others. “But Sarah never says anything.”
Viola fended the pup off with one arm while patting him with the other. “What time is it?”
“Nearly ten,” Adrian said.
“Drat,” Viola exclaimed, throwing off the covers. “That’s the annoying thing about balls! They go on so late that you sleep in without meaning to!” Especially when you spent two hours afterward in a darkened kitchen, talking to the most interesting man you had ever met. He had kissed her hand. She could still feel the touch of his lips. “How is our guest?” she asked hastily.
“We took him dinner,” Adrian reported.
“But Mama ordered breakfast to be later today,” Arabella added. “Because of the ball.”
Viola glanced at her. “Let her sleep. She seemed very tired. However, I don’t believe for one minute that you haven’t eaten anything since last night.”
Her sister grinned. “Well, only a slice of new bread and butter. What happened last night? Did you deliver the note to anyone?”
“Yes.” And bizarrely, she hadn’t even told Dominic that last night. Nor had he asked. “I’ll tell you about it,” she said hastily, “but not until I’m dressed, and we can sneak down to the cellar. Oh, and you must keep watch for replies. Any letters that are addressed to me, you must filch before anyone else sees them.”
“We know that,” Susan said scornfully.
“Good. Well, take Pup off, and I shall be down shortly.” She pushed Pup off the bed—twice, for he clearly liked the game and jumped straight back up until Catherine induced him to dance happily after her and out the door.
Ten minutes later, washed, dressed, and her hair hastily brushed and pinned into the simplest roll behind her head, Viola peeped into her mother’s chamber to find her fast asleep. Satisfied, she ran downstairs to join the children in the breakfast parlor.
The food which had just been laid out was mostly cold since no one knew when Mama might want to eat. But there were at least some eggs and bacon along with the cold meats, a hearty amount of which they piled onto plates to take to the cellar. Viola, as the one least likely to be questioned, carried two empty plates beneath her own. Thus armed, they sailed through the kitchen passage.
“We are breakfasting in the ‘other house,’” Viola said to Cook, who shook her head and laughed tolerantly.
“By the way,” Adrian said, relieving her mind of one worry, “you can’t see anything of the garden from the mews unless you peer over the gate. The rest is shielded by hedges and the carriage house.”
“Good. Well reconnoitered!” Pretending it was part of their game, Viola knocked on the cellar door before unlocking it and walking cautiously in.
She need not have worried. Both his lordship and Napper were fully dressed and pacing the floor like caged animals in candlelight. They stopped and gazed at the troop descending the steps.
“Bolt the door, Adrian,” Viola reminded her brother before her attention focused almost entirely on Lord Dominic.
To her anxious eyes, he seemed better than yesterday, even in the dim light. His color was more natural, and despite his nocturnal wanderings, he did not appear to be in quite so much pain. In fact, he looked very wild and handsome, like some brooding Byron character, his too-long fair locks flopping rather fetchingly across his forehead. And when he smiled at her, the darkness vanished, replaced by a much more boyish charm that did nothing to calm the sudden turbulence in her breast. Why was it so difficult to breathe around him?
He came and took the plates from her, placing them on the table so that Napper had to help with hanging onto Pup to prevent him from jumping up and gobbling the lot.
In the task of dividing up the food to make sure the fugitives were well fed, Viola managed to recover her equanimity. Susan was dispatched to the kitchen for a pot of coffee and, with Pup tied to a useful hook in the wall, the others sat down to eat.
“I saw Lord Richard at Mrs. Dorland’s ball,” Viola announced, very aware of Lord Dominic’s large person beside her on the sofa.
“Did you, by God?” he said in surprise. “Good for Richard. Though I suppose he’ll have been pushed into it. I’m fairly sure Mrs. Dorland is his godmother. Did you speak to him?”
“He doesn’t seem to be a man for small talk, but I did pass him the note, and he didn’t give me away.”
Dominic nodded. “Good. Thank you. If I can just see him, I’m sure I can convince him to help.”
“I also spoke to Mr. George Minton,” Viola told him.
“She went driving with him,” Arabella said.
Dominic frowned, though he seemed to be unaware of his expression.
“He claims to have been fond of you and Mr. Crawley,” Viola reported. “He says he misses you.”
“Actually, we were never friends,” Dominic said ruefully. “We were just rootless younger sons who found themselves all too often in the same gaming hells and drinking dens.”
“He told me he wishes he had not left you and Mr. Crawley alone together when you walked home that night.”
Dominic shifted restlessly on the sofa, his thigh brushing against Viola’s skirts. She pretended not to notice.
“That’s what I don’t remember,” he said abruptly. “Although I suppose it would make sense. Coming back from the club, we would have first passed Minton’s and Jarvey’s rooms in Piccadilly, so I suppose Crawley and I will have walked on from there. Someone else must have done it and left the evidence at my door, though God knows why. Unless they were as drunk as the rest of us.” He broke off, casting her a quick, apologetic smile. “Sorry, this is extremely unedifying for you, to say nothing of your brother and sisters. I’m afraid we were all badly behaved.” He looked away. “I am not a good man. But whatever I can and cannot remember, I was never bad enough to commit cold-blooded murder.”
No, he would storm and fight openly, and everyone would know. A stab in the dark was not his way, however angry he might be. Viola had no idea how she knew this, but she did. He glanced up again, catching her in her scrutiny, and her heart fluttered most distractingly.
