Unmasking Sin, page 9
Ludovic smiled deprecatingly. “I would find another. Stephen’s is not the only injustice in the world.”
“There is also that of the beautiful lady.”
“Exactly.”
Francisco sat back, provoking and challenging as always. “And if it came to a choice between proving Stephen’s innocence and righting your own wrong against this beauty, which would you pick?”
Ludovic twirled the stem of his glass. “It would depend on which action is needed more urgently. Contrary to your bacon-brained ideas, I am not so single-minded as all that.”
“No? So, tell me about this beauty you wronged.”
“Shab off, Francisco,” Ludovic said amiably. “Unless you are prepared to tell me what you’ve been up to these last three months?”
“Fair point,” Francisco conceded. “Though I have several weeks in London to winkle it out of you.”
“Then so have I.” He raised his glass. “Cheers.”
*
After another couple of brandies, Francisco ended up sleeping on Ludovic’s sofa. And Ludovic almost fell asleep without thinking about Rebecca.
However, he surprised himself by waking early without a headache. Leaving his friend slumbering peacefully—he knew Francisco would be gone by the time he returned—he set out to investigate the activities of his former clients.
A few conversations with bankers and tradesmen turned up nothing interesting on the Rawlston family. They owed no great sums that he could discover. Moving toward the gentlemen’s clubs—where he doubted he would learn anything in any case—he ran into the slightly swaying figure of an amiable young rakehell he had once helped out of an extortion predicament.
“Dunne, old fellow!” beamed Mr. George Handley, thrusting out his hand. “How do you do?”
Dunne shook hands. “How do you do? I’d say you were up and about uncharacteristically early, but I suspect you haven’t yet been to bed.”
“Bit of a late night, to be honest. Woke up where I shouldn’t be and still a trifle disguised!”
“You’ll end up with some actress trying to inveigle you into marriage again,” Dunne warned.
“That’s what I have you for, old fellow. Where are you off to?”
“Just keeping an appointment. Between ourselves…are you acquainted with the Cornish family?”
“Knew Theo. He was a roaring boy…”
Since Ludovic knew from experience that Handley would remember little or none of the conversation by the time he awoke with his sore head, he walked with him, letting him talk, leading him down various avenues until they came to Theo’s widow.
“They’re calling her the Black Widow,” Handley observed with a hiccough.
“Do you believe that?”
“What, that she’s been bumping off her husbands? ’Course not. Decent people, the Kingswoods. She’s more a merry widow than a dangerous one.”
“What makes you say so?”
Handley touched the side of his nose with a bit of difficulty. “One hears things.”
“Like what? Who was her lover?”
“That would be telling, old fellow.” He frowned. “Actually, I don’t know. Heard she was available but wouldn’t touch her myself. My father’s a friend of her father’s. Lovely girl, though. Theo never appreciated what he had…”
Ludovic let him ramble on until their ways parted. “Seems to me,” he said by way of farewell, “that a gentleman should support his friends rather than repeating such vague rumors.”
“Quite right,” Handley nodded. “You’re always right, old fellow! Going home to bed now. Good night!”
Ludovic watched him fall in the front door, unexpectedly opened by a footman, then walked briskly on to Grosvenor Square and Dearham House.
His Grace had obviously left word with the servants, for he was shown at once upstairs to the duke’s sitting room.
Dearham was dressed in shirt sleeves and waistcoat, sprawled in a comfortable armchair, and reading letters with apparent enjoyment. But he cast his correspondence aside and stood up when Ludovic entered.
“Bang on time,” he observed. “I can never manage that.”
“I don’t imagine dukes have to.”
“Tell that to His Grace of Wellington. Sit down! Coffee?”
His valet appeared on cue, with a tray containing a coffee pot, two elegant cups, and a few bread rolls with a pat of butter.
The duke grinned. “Gets me as far as the breakfast room for a proper meal,” he observed. Dismissing the valet, he poured the coffee himself and offered the plate of rolls, which Ludovic declined.
“I won’t waste your time,” Dearham said after swallowing some coffee. He reached for a roll, cut it, and spread butter on one half. “Every family has a skeleton in their cupboard. Mine is a cousin—a distant cousin who eloped with someone eminently unsuitable. Of course, she was cast off and never spoken of again. Only it has recently come to my attention that she died some years ago, leaving behind a child. I have been trying to find her.”
“With success?”
“I hope so.” Taking a bite from his roll, he stood and walked to a bureau in the corner, from which he extracted a piece of paper. “Here is the name and address. My problem is, I don’t know that this woman is my cousin, and I don’t want to approach some family and raise hopes where there are none. Could you find out for me if she is related to us?”
“I can try,” Ludovic said cautiously. “But a little more information would help.”
“By all means.”
Fifteen minutes later, Dearham said doubtfully, “Don’t you want to write any of this down?”
“No. I’ll remember. Might I ask what led Your Grace to me?”
“Most immediately, I heard it was the information you dug up that exonerated Dominic Gorse from his troubles. My brother-in-law, Harry de Vere, is a friend of Dom’s brother. But I’d heard of you before then, from another friend of mine, Christopher Halland.”
Halland had recommended him to several clients, many of whom had stayed with him for all legal needs. More than that, Ludovic liked Halland and trusted him.
“You are close friends?”
He thought about it. “I like his…integrity. Living proof that a man can settle down from a wild past and do useful things.”
“Is that your aspiration?”
“God, no. I’m not cut out for serious matters. Ask anyone.”
The humor as much as the genuine self-deprecation in his tone was interesting. “I suppose, in your circumstances, you must hear a lot of society gossip.”
“I don’t pay attention to it. I have reason to mistrust it.”
“You have been a victim yourself?”
His Grace laughed. “Lord, no. Most of what they say about me is true enough, and I’m pretty much fair game. But it has hurt my sister in the past. I don’t like malicious gossip.”
“I wonder,” Ludovic said slowly, “if you might like to help right a wrong of that nature?”
“If I can.”
“Are you acquainted with the Cornish family?”
“I knew Theo a bit. He was good company.”
“What of his wife?”
“Rebecca Kingswood? Beautiful creature,” he said appreciatively. “Witty, too, as I recall.”
“I believe she has been the victim of a slander campaign. Rumor, innuendo, all aimed to poison her reputation. I wonder if you might…fight back a little on her behalf.”
Dearham gazed at him with open curiosity. “What is her reputation to you?”
“Injustice,” Ludovic said.
Chapter Nine
After scaring Rebecca witless with his fever, Tom bounced back to his usual ebullient self. His cold appeared to trouble him very little, except for the annoyance of having his nose wiped so often, and he slept a bit longer than usual.
The relief was huge, and yet as she began to get used to it, restlessness returned. Boredom, anger. She found she wanted to slap Ludovic Dunne even harder than the uncles. Because he had made her believe he was a friend, and yet, like everyone else, he had been prying, trying to trip her up, ruin her, allow Theo’s family to take Tom from her.
And then, during Tom’s afternoon nap, Dawson brought her a note which had, he said, been delivered by hand by some street urchin.
She did not recognize the hand, though it was both bold and precise. She broke the seal and found a short note, which began without preamble.
There are things you have to know for your own safety and that of the boy. Come to the masked ball at Maida Pleasure Gardens tonight. There, I may discreetly put you in possession of everything you will need. Don’t fail.
Your servant,
D.
Rebecca blinked at this bizarre epistle and read it again. It did not appear to be a threat. On the contrary, it appeared to recognize the threat and be offering her the means to fight it. There were no demands for money or threats of retribution if she did not go.
And it was signed D.
Dunne? She could think of no other D, though that may have been because thoughts of him had been churning her up since his refusal to help. Had he repented, then? She remembered again the quickly hidden expression of helpless regret. And being fair, if he was employed by the uncles, he could hardly help her against them.
At least, not openly.
Her heart beat faster. Was there some way out of this conflict with Theo’s family? Some way to answer their increasingly unveiled threats and keep Tom safe with her? Things you have to know for your own safety and that of the boy.
She folded the note and placed it in her desk drawer. She would think about it, about the best thing to do. Ignore it—because after all, D could be anyone, and even if it was Ludovic Dunne, she had no reason to trust him. Or go and find out what he had to say. The latter was a risk, but she was fairly sure she would take it, simply to keep Tom safe if she could.
But she was not stupid. She told Simmie, who had been with her through both her disastrous marriages, where she was going, why, and with whom. And Simmie placed the solid stones and the familiar, sharp little letter-opener in her reticule. Once, these had been her protection against Bowden and the denizens of the disgusting places he had forced her to go to with him. After those dens of vice and depravity, a public masked ball at Maida Gardens was nothing.
*
The weather continued to hold fair. Even out in the relative fresh air of Maida, the evening was warm. Rebecca, duly masked, with her domino cloak dropping off one shoulder, sat at her usual table under the chestnut tree, and when the waiter brought her wine, she asked him to remove the other chairs. Having encountered her before, he obeyed without comment or surprise.
Seated, she allowed herself to quarter the garden and the visible part of the ballroom for any sign of Ludovic Dunne. Or any threat.
An aristocratic table drew her attention at once and made her uneasy from the beginning. It was not uncommon to find a few of the more rakish young bloods at Maida. Theo had been one of them. Even that bold leader of fashion, the Countess of Wenning, had held the odd party here. But such events were exceptional, and Rebecca had never seen a gathering of this size here before.
A group of four masked ladies and at least as many gentlemen occupied the large table closest to the pavilion. For a time, when she found no sign of Ludovic Dunne, she amused herself trying to recognize the members of the ton.
Mrs. Belfont, she guessed at once. A woman who had tried to be her best friend when Theo was alive and now spread rumors about her while working up to the cut direct. She doubted that Mr. Belfont was among her escorts.
On any other occasion, she would have abandoned her wine and gone home, for she had no wish to be recognized alone and without escort at Maida. With fresh unease, she realized that Ludovic Dunne would have told the uncles about their encounter here. And tonight, she did not feel the safe, vicarious pleasure from watching the dancers and listening to the music. She was too aware of hostile acquaintances close by.
But at least no one seemed to be paying her any attention. She decided she would give Mr. Dunne half an hour to arrive. And then, however frustrating it might be, she would leave without seeing him or his information. If it was even Dunne who had summoned her.
She became aware that one of the gentlemen near the pavilion was gazing in her direction. Deliberately, unhurriedly, she let her gaze pass over him and move on. Her stomach tightened with fresh alarm, for, even masked, this man was surely married to Theo’s cousin Louisa. Edward Lovell. And if she recognized him…
She almost bolted. But surely it was unlikely he would know her? They had met seldom, and her mask was both thicker and longer than the one she had worn on previous occasions. She doubted her own mother would recognize her.
As she watched the dancers, she saw from the corner of her eye that he was no longer looking in her direction, and he clearly hadn’t brought her to the attention of the others, for none of them looked her way either.
A young, masked man approached her table from the right, smiling. She met his gaze with her best haughty, repelling glare. Even with the larger mask, that appeared to work, for his smile faded rapidly, and he swerved off toward the next table instead. She let her own, unconcerned gaze pass on to the dancers and to the path leading to the main gate.
Hurry up, damn you! If you invite me here, the least you can do is be here.
If the invitation was his…
She all but groaned. Edward Lovell, her cousin by marriage, was skirting the dancers, strolling toward her. She kept her gaze determinedly on the waltzers.
“Fair cousin,” he mocked, bowing. “It is you, is it not?”
She brought her eyes slowly to his face. “No.”
He smiled beneath his own mask. It was not a pleasant smile, but then she had never thought him a very pleasant person. “Little liar. But come, dance with me, and I shall keep your secret.”
She let her gaze move indifferently away. “I do not dance.”
“Oh, liar again,” he protested. “You’ve set out your wares like a Covent Garden whore.”
Stunned by such blatant rudeness, she had no time even to guess what he would do. Seizing her elbow so that the wine glass dropped from her nerveless fingers and spilled its contents all over the tablecloth, he jerked her to her feet and hauled her into his arms. Before she knew it, she was being waltzed with.
Instinctively, she went rigid and tried to wrench herself free.
“Don’t,” he advised with condescending amusement. “Don’t think of hitting me either,” he added as she swung up her free hand. “Making a scene on the dance floor is the last thing you want to do in present company.”
He was right. With Mrs. Belfont and her sycophants present, the story would be all over London by dawn and all over the scattered ton house parties by the following evening. And it was, of course, exactly what he wanted.
Her ears sang in frustrated fury. Somewhere, a commotion of outraged voices and clanking glasses reached her. She barely noticed.
The uncles had brought her here, with Ludovic Dunne’s connivance. And she was now caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Either she made a scene to be free, or she was discovered waltzing too close in a secret assignation with Cousin Louisa’s husband.
The realization gave her an instant’s warning of his next move. Her free hand was already flying to her mask as his hand swept up her back to her hair and pulled the ribbon that tied her mask in place.
*
Ludovic had spent all day fighting the urge to call on her, even if only to ask after her son. He wanted to tell her as much of the truth as he could without breaking his own code of conduct. Even though, in his heart, he knew there was nothing he could say to make friendship possible. All he could do was discover the truth and act upon it, even if she would never know.
He worked hard, catching up on his “bread and butter” work and discovering what he could about the possible long-lost cousin of the Duke of Dearham. This young lady lived in pleasant Kensington Street and appeared to be the only child of her parents. Apparently, they doted upon her. She was being courted by a schoolteacher and was generally well-liked. Her parents had moved to London when she was a young child, from a small town near Manchester.
Ludovic, who did not want to leave London again just yet, was glad to remember he had friends in Manchester, whom he might ask for favors. He called in at a pleasant inn on his way home to eat some supper and then walked briskly eastward once more.
Inevitably, perhaps, he found himself among the luxurious townhouses of the fashionable part of town. He had not consciously walked there since it was somewhat out of his way, but in the end, he gave in and made for Barclay Square.
It was dusk and too late for a social call. She would not see him anyway. But he could at least ask at the door after Tom.
The door was opened by the butler he had last seen in a nightcap, wielding a poker. He looked much more dignified now as he gazed with haughty civility at the late caller.
“Good evening.” Ludovic proffered his card. “I wonder if Lady Cornish might spare me a few minutes of her time?”
“Her ladyship is not at home,” the butler pronounced.
Was she truly not at home? If so, the only place she was likely to be was Maida Gardens, enjoying another evening of exquisite loneliness. Well, he would not pursue her there.
“No matter,” Ludovic said. “I only came to inquire after her son. I heard he was ill.”
“The young master is quite recovered, Mr.…” He peered at the card. “Mr. Dunne. Thank you for—”
“Mr. Who?” came another voice entirely. Beside the butler appeared a tidy, thin woman in her thirties, an upper servant by her dress, but definitely not the housekeeper whom Ludovic had encountered in a grocer’s shop last week. Her ladyship’s personal maid, no doubt. Simpkins, or Simmie, who had nursed her mistress in Naples.
He raised his brow at her somewhat fierce examination, and her eyes fell to the card in the butler’s hand.
