CHAPTER TEN
“Indulgent madness, Humphrey. That’s what this is. Perhaps the consequences to come will be enough to dissuade her from future insanity. But I doubt it.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her boon companion, Humphrey, in response to Lady Berne’s unreasoning regard for creatures of a feline persuasion.
The argument commenced when a shot across the bow was answered with an indignant volley of objection. Maureen was already weary, and it was barely noon.
“Cats are useless creatures. Even the least useless among them leave headless vermin upon your doorstep as though to announce all that lazing about was a figment of your imagination.”
Mama’s mouth tightened as she shot a sidelong glare at her dear friend, the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham. “If I recall correctly, Dorothea, you expressed similar sentiments about dogs.”
“As usual, I was right. Humphrey is the great exception, but one does not judge all creatures by a single extraordinary specimen.” Humphrey was Lady Wallingham’s boon companion, a bloodhound with a cheerful disposition, but no more extraordinary than any other dog. In the dowager’s eyes, the fact that Humphrey was hers made him deserving of such exaltation, Maureen supposed.
Mama was not persuaded. “Cats are both cleaner and less damaging than dogs.”
Lady Wallingham glanced pointedly to where Erasmus currently arched, sharpening his claws upon the rosewood leg of Mama’s chair. The fragile-boned, purple-clad lady raised one imperious white brow.
Mama huffed and reached down to pluck up the gray kitten, stroking his disgruntled fur. “He is young. These incidents will wane after he is trained properly.”
“Hmmph. As properly as you trained the last one? Even Berne is not so indulgent as to refurnish an entire house with new draperies a second time, my dear.”
Letting their tiresome debate retreat into the background, Maureen crossed the expanse of the drawing room to the corner where Genie sat at a small table, sketching a pattern for the twins’ christening caps. Maureen tilted her head and blinked down at the emerging image. “Do you think it wise to add long plumes, dearest? These are infants, after all.”
Genie’s pencil paused and hovered. “Hmm. A sound point. Perhaps the feathers should be smaller. Proportionality, and all that.”
“Sometimes simpler is better.”
“Very seldom.”
Maureen sighed. “But sometimes.”
Releasing a hiss of exasperation, Genie tossed her pencil onto her sketchbook and glance up at Maureen. “Why do you not simply say, ‘Remove the dashed feathers, Genie, for they shall look preposterous upon the heads of babes in a church’?”
“I prefer to be kind.”
“Yes, well. Kindness wastes too much time. Holstoke, for example. You should decline his offer now. Delaying is cruel, in my estimation.”
Stiffening at the reminder of her impossible quandary, Maureen swatted Genie’s shoulder. “My decision is not yet certain, brat. I knew I should not have confided in you.”
“Oh, rubbish. Firstly, you confided in me because you wanted honesty, not coddling. Secondly, your decision was made last night, as you know very well. You have been in love with Henry Thorpe since Jane’s house party.”
As her face heated, she swatted Genie again, who swatted back. Over her shoulder, Maureen eyed Mama and Lady Wallingham to ensure they hadn’t witnessed the spat. Fortunately, they were still sipping their tea and debating whether Erasmus was destined to be “a prized mouser” or “the fatal test of Stanton Huxley’s affections.”
Maureen sat in the chair across from Genie and leaned forward, keeping her voice low. “The fact that I am in love with him—”
“At least you admit it.”
“—makes me a sentimental ninny. He deceived me about his feelings for over a year.”
“Punish him if you like. Use Mama’s tactic of serving his most despised dish for dinner each night. Or, better yet, apply shears to a few of his waistcoats.”
Maureen winced at the image. Genie could be diabolical.
“But do not punish Holstoke. He’s done nothing to deserve it.”
“You think being married to me would be a punishment?”
“I think marrying a woman in love with another man would be torment.”
And there it was—the reason she had confided in Eugenia, perhaps the least diplomatic person she knew, save Lady Wallingham.
Content with her argument, Genie returned to her sketch, her dark hair shining warmly in the midday light. The strokes of her pencil filled the silence while Maureen’s mind spun and circled and tilted.
“As Lord Holstoke’s wife, I would do all in my power to bring him happiness,” Maureen choked out, despite an ever-tightening throat.
From behind her, she heard a small meow. It was all the warning she received.
“Holstoke? Good heavens! He has offered marriage? Why did you not say?”
She watched Genie’s eyes fly up from her sketch and go round as tea saucers. Maureen’s own eyes closed briefly as the words “bloody” and “hell” danced repeatedly through her head.
“Mama,” she said without turning around. “It—it has only been a day or two, and I—”
“Holstoke!” came the trumpeting cry of Lady Wallingham, drawing closer than before. “Peculiar fellow.”
“Maureen Elizabeth Huxley! You should have told me immediately. I am your mother.”
“The eyes are a family trait on the father’s side,” Lady Wallingham continued, her overloud voice growing louder as she arrived to stand beside Mama. “Possesses more land than God and His Majesty combined, of course, which increases his attractiveness considerably.”
“How did you answer?” Mama demanded. “Surely you consented. Tell me you consented.”
“If one desires offspring who resemble spectral apparitions, he is a splendid catch. Does he know you fancy Dunston?”
“Dorothea!” Mama snapped.
Lady Wallingham harrumphed. “The question must be asked, Meredith. Unlike his father, Holstoke is far from a dithering fool. And that mother of his, while unpleasant, is shrewder than most. They will sniff out such conflicts faster than Humphrey scenting a squirrel.”
“It is neither here nor there,” replied Mama with waspish tension. “Dunston is out of the question.”
“I fail to see why. He is an earl. Sufficiently plump of pockets. A good deal handsomer than Holstoke. Apart from which, he and your daughter have been infatuated with one another for years. You can scarcely pry them apart with a cannon blast. All that laughter and carrying on. Nauseating, really.”
“Out. Of. The question, Dorothea! I’ll not have my daughter marrying a … well, a man like him.”
Unexpectedly, Mama’s statement caught Maureen’s temper. She rose from her chair and turned to face the pair of matrons—her pleasantly round mother and the birdlike Lady Wallingham, whose plumed turban should please Genie immensely.
“What precisely do you mean, ‘a man like him,’ Mama?”
Mama’s rapid blink and darting gaze signaled a good deal more discomfort than seemed warranted by Maureen’s question. She bent to place Erasmus on the floor with a pat while formulating her response.
“He is frivolous. A dandy.”
Maureen could not explain her fierce indignation at her mother’s charge. She only knew it billowed like smoke inside her, acrid and burning. “Henry Thorpe is an exceptional man,” she said tightly. “Generous of heart. Powerful of intellect. Charming as a siren’s song.”
Mama took her hands. “Yes! And just as dangerous, my darling girl.”
Frowning, Maureen shook her head and tugged her hands free. “Dangerous? In what way?”
When Mama pressed her lips together and refused to speak, Lady Wallingham intervened. “A spendthrift, my dear. Too much puce silk. Then there is his annual hunt at Fairfield Park. Having attended last winter, I can attest it is quite extravagant. Imagine if he should take up even costlier entertainments. You would find yourself pockets-to-let in a trice.”
Maureen examined the pursed lips and sharp green gaze of the woman many had dubbed a dragon for her fearsome cleverness and candor. Lady Wallingham rarely lied so explicitly. There was little need, as her formidable nature ensured no one dared rebuke her for her blunt assessments. But it was there in her eyes, direct though they were. She was coming to Mama’s rescue, for Mama obviously had some hidden objection to Henry that she’d no intention of sharing.
“From everything I know of Lord Dunston, he is no greater danger to me than Erasmus,” Maureen answered, nodding toward where the cat had begun rolling about on the carpet, batting at dust motes.
Behind her, Genie snorted. “A good deal less so, I should think. The scratches that little menace gave me are still smarting.”
Maureen ignored her sister, raised her chin, and calmly addressed her mother and the dragon. “If either of you have insights to impart—reasons why I should refuse to marry Dunston or Holstoke—now is the time to speak.”
Mama opened her mouth, only to have Lady Wallingham intrude again with the declaration, “I have nothing more to offer on either man. I do, however, have this to say about the feline menace your mother insists on keeping here at Berne House: You must consider the damage that shall be wrought by acting in haste, Meredith. Consider it well, for it cannot be undone.”
With that ominous pronouncement, the dowager gave an imperious sniff and retreated to her seat across the room.
For her part, Mama regained her pinch-lipped expression. “I take it you have not yet given Holstoke your answer,” she said.
“No. He has granted me time to … think it through.”
“And Dunston? He has proposed as well?”
Maureen nodded, swallowing at the reminder of her quandary.
Sighing, Mama slowly softened. She gathered Maureen into her arms, rocking her back and forth as she’d done when Maureen had been a child. “All will be well, dearest. Let us see what we might have for luncheon, shall we?”
That, too, was an echo from her girlhood. Maureen squeezed her mother tight and drew back, chuckling. “I fear this is one dilemma that food may not resolve, Mama.”
“Nonsense.” Mama’s rounded chin rose. “Everything is improved by a good meal.”
As she and Genie followed Mama and Lady Wallingham from the drawing room to the dining room, Mama turned back. “Oh! A question, dearest.”
“Yes, Mama?”
“Lord Holstoke’s offer. Was it made during your visit to the Physic Gardens?”
She smiled and shook her head. “In the library after we returned. He was most sincere, as you might expect from such an esteemed gentleman.”
“Hmm. And Lord Dunston? How did he propose?”
Maureen felt the beginnings of the Huxley Flush rising as prickling heat in her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “H-he too was sincere.”
“Sincere? Well, at least may I know whether he tendered his offer on bended knee?”
Oh, dear God. The Huxley Flush was going to send her swooning. Visions of Henry on his knees offering her unspeakable pleasure flooded her head, along with copious heat and, presumably, crimson color.
Brows arching, Lady Wallingham swept Maureen a single, assessing glance and promptly moved to Mama’s side. Clasping the arm of her bewildered friend, she tugged sharply in the direction of the dining room, spinning Mama around and all but dragging her down the corridor. “Come, Meredith,” the dragon trumpeted. “Let the girl have her secrets. Luncheon awaits!”
As Mama stumbled and protested, Maureen pressed her hands to her cheeks and breathed to dissipate the heat.
“So,” began her smirking sister. “An intriguing shade of red you have there.”
Maureen held up a finger in front of Genie’s nose. “Do not ask, or I shall bury your favorite bonnet somewhere you will never find it.”
A sigh. “No matter. I tend to discover these things eventually.”
“One hopes ‘eventually’ comes after you are married, brat.” She looped her arm through Genie’s and followed in Lady Wallingham’s wake. “After you’ve been married for a good, long while.”
*~*~*
Henry had a simple plan—not easy, but simple. As was his long practice, he’d begun with his ultimate desire: He wanted Maureen Huxley. As his wife. In his bed. He wanted her baking orange cakes in his kitchen and filling every room with her laughter. He wanted this all quite ferociously, as it happened.
He’d next identified all possible barriers and set about dismantling them one by one.
The first barrier was Maureen’s infernal resistance. The previous night’s interlude had worn away a goodly portion. Although he would have preferred her immediate assent, that might have been asking too much.
The second barrier was proving more intractable—he required her father’s consent. This had brought him to the coffee room at White’s on a bright Sunday morning better suited to riding.
Lounging in a seat near the windows, he took a sip of strong brew and eyed his future father-in-law. “What more can I offer to set your mind at ease? I have abandoned my prior pursuits. We shall leave London for Fairfield Park immediately after the wedding. My staff there is well trained. Prepared for any eventuality.”
Lord Berne gave a small smile and set his own cup on the white-clothed table. “You are not yet a father, Dunston, so I will forgive you for thinking anything less than perfect certainty will ‘set my mind at ease.’”
“I love her. I would die rather than see her harmed.”
Typically a man of good humor and gentle mien, Berne now resembled only a stern father. “The likelier eventuality is that she will die for you.” After that soft-spoken kick to his nether regions, the older man demonstrated no remorse, instead giving him another whack. “She is better off with a man like Holstoke.”
Henry crushed the snarling reply he wished to give. The goal was persuasion, not a shouting match. “Safer, perhaps,” he conceded. “But she does not love him.”
Henry watched hazel eyes twitch. Good. He had him thinking. Stanton Huxley knew his daughter’s soft heart, knew she would suffer more than most in a loveless union.
“In two years or four, when all possible danger has passed,” Henry continued, “will you be glad to have denied her the man she truly wanted? Will she thank you, do you suppose?”
“She will be alive. I can content myself with that.”
Henry had no answer. Berne was correct in thinking Holstoke was the safer choice, barring a mishap involving Greek follies or one of the man’s blasted fish ponds.
“True, the risk to her is greater as my wife. Precisely the reason I have hesitated to advance my suit until now.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbow beside his empty cup. “If I believed for one moment that I could not protect her, I would let her go to Holstoke. It would damned near kill me. But I would do it.”
For a long while, the older man sat in silence, holding his gaze as though trying to hear his thoughts. Then, Berne slowly eased back in his seat, nodding faintly. “You have managed to keep your mother and sister safe. How?”
“With great diligence,” Henry answered. “And unusually skilled servants. Former soldiers, for the most part.”
Berne’s brows arched. “Given such a penchant, and your declared affection, I’m a bit surprised you haven’t assigned a guard to Maureen.”
Henry held his tongue.
Berne blinked. And blinked again. “Regina?”
He loathed revealing his methods, but in the interest of gaining the man’s cooperation, he inclined his head.
“Good God! I’ve been paying her to be a lady’s maid, not a—”
“She is worth every penny of what we both pay her, I assure you.”
Huffing an exasperated chuckle, Berne sat back and shook his head. “I’ve little knowledge of these sorts of intrigues, Dunston. I would be trusting in your capabilities.”
Again, he had no answer. So, instead, he waited.
Berne tapped his finger rhythmically on the white tablecloth, alternately gazing out the window and shooting Henry speculative glances. Finally, he sighed and stilled his hand. “I will not give my approval, but neither will I stand in your way. If she accepts you, then you may marry.” He held up a finger, stalling Henry’s wave of relief. “One condition. You have vowed to never take up such pursuits again. But you must also keep Maureen safe.”
“I have promised this already.”
“Not merely her life. Protect her innocence, Dunston. Do not burden her with knowledge of this dark world you inhabit. Were she more like Annabelle or Jane or even Eugenia, I might suggest otherwise.” His smile was wistful. “Her heart is both soft and pure. To sully it would be a kind of poison, I suspect. Slow, perhaps. But fatal.”
Henry considered the demand. It would mean continuing the charade, keeping a great many secrets from the woman he least wanted to deceive. Not that he’d intended to burden her with tales of wretched woe on their wedding night. Certainly not. But vowing to hide a significant part of himself from her forever? It was no small thing.
Necessity, however, rarely complied with one’s desires.
“Very well,” he said to his future father-in-law. “She will not learn of these things from my lips. I will protect your daughter, my lord. Even from myself.”
*~*~*
When Dunston and Drayton had first entered Reaver’s office with boxes of correspondence and reports and documents and journals, Reaver had been elated. Finally, he would have what he needed to pursue the Investor, if not the direct assistance of Dunston himself.
“Have it all,” Dunston had said, waving to the piles of paper. “Be warned I am using you, old chap. As a married man, I cannot have the Investor hunting me any longer. With any luck, he will hunt you in my stead. Congratulations. And my condolences.”
Reaver had wondered at Dunston’s decision to abandon a decade-long pursuit rather than simply partner with Reaver and complete his mission. But he’d seen other men change course over a woman before. He scarcely understood it, as few women he’d ever known merited such a shift, but he’d shrugged away the question and dug into the reports on the Investor.
Now, having read through the lot, he was sickened. With hatred. With disgust. With helpless rage. It wasn’t enough that the Investor had poisoned at least five old men at last count. No. The bastard had targeted a little girl for slaughter.
By all accounts, Syder had kept her hidden for ten years. At Syder’s death, she’d been fourteen. God only knew what that butcher had done to her, but had the Investor laid hands upon her first, she would have been dead.
She’d been Syder’s bargaining chip, near as Reaver could determine, and he’d played it well. Most who entered the Investor’s sphere perished the moment they were no longer of use. Syder had lasted ten years.
Reaver sighed now as he leaned one shoulder against a fluted column in the main parlor of his club, watching the fevered glint in a young lordling’s eyes as the dice rolled across green baize.
Beside him, Shaw nodded to the croupier. “Fair business today. Frelling thinks we should add another hazard table to the east parlor.”
He might have said more, but for once, Reaver didn’t care a jot for business.
The bloody Investor had planned to kill a child. At least the poisoning victims had been old. They had lived privileged lives. Syder’s ward had been four, perhaps five when she came into Syder’s hands.
“Reaver.”
“I want to find the man who manufactures the poison.”
Shaw cleared his throat. “We have all our sources working—”
Reaver turned a dark glare upon his friend and partner. “He aims to kill a young girl. If we cannot find the maker, we cannot find the Investor. If we cannot find the Investor, then sooner or later, she will die. Simple thing.”
Much like Reaver, Adam Shaw had begun his life in squalor, scraping and fighting for every inch of ground. He’d eventually gained a position with the East India Company and journeyed to England, his mother’s homeland, at sixteen.
Neither Reaver nor Shaw had a drop of innocence left, but both found threats to children particularly motivating. Now, Reaver watched Shaw’s amber eyes shift. The other man nodded, his lean features hardening with the ruthlessness Reaver felt. “I shall put Frelling on it. His wife’s father is a physician, I believe. He may know something.”
Reaver glanced to the ceiling, where crystalline chandeliers glittered precisely as he’d envisioned. He surveyed the closed silk draperies and the hushed fervor of the club he and Shaw had built. For years, this place had been his wife, his mistress, and his babe. He’d thought of little else. Certainly, he had aided Dunston in bringing down Syder, but that had been partially self-interested. Syder’s butchery had blighted all club proprietors.
Now, the Investor had Reaver’s full attention.
He narrowed his gaze upon a man laughing triumphantly and pointing at the latest turn of the dice. Blond, thinning hair. Expansive forehead. “Bring me Hastings,” he said to Shaw.
“Are you certain?”
Reaver nodded.
Minutes later, Christopher Hastings approached, flushed from his win. “Mr. Reaver,” the man said in a reverent tone. “It is my honor to make your acquaintance, sir. I am a great admirer of your club.”
Shaw raised an ironic brow, but he stood behind Hastings, so the insipid man did not see.
Inclining his head, Reaver gestured toward the doors. “Come. I’ll show you the east parlor.”
Hastings trailed him eagerly. As they strode by, Shaw motioned to Duff, the nearest sentry, to keep others from following them down the corridor. Soon, they passed the doors to the east parlor. Reaver kept walking. He nodded to another of his sentries, who nodded in return, before rounding a corner and entering Shaw’s office. The room was small but classically English, as Shaw preferred: white-paneled, blue-draped, and centered with a golden mahogany desk Shaw had paid entirely too much for.
Reaver waited only for the click of the door closing before clapping a hand upon Hastings’s shoulder and pulling the confused man closer. “Your grandfather was a member here.”
Hastings’s eyes darted toward Reaver’s hand. “Er—yes. That is, yes, I do believe—”
“He died recently, did he not? Leaving your father the new Lilliworth.”
“I-is this the east parlor? Rather smaller than I—”
Shaw chuckled.
Reaver shook Hastings until his brows arched into his broad forehead. “Who is your father’s physician?”
Hastings blinked. Glanced at Shaw, who tilted his head expectantly. “W-why do you wish to kn—”
The question ended in a squeal as Reaver’s hand dug into his shoulder at a tender spot along the joint.
“Just answer, Hastings. Your father’s physician.”
“Fenwick! Dr. Fenwick.”
Reaver loosened his hold. Patted Hastings’s shoulder. Ignored the man’s sputtering outrage. “Best not mention this conversation to anyone,” he warned. “Your friend Walters owes a substantial sum. He is fortunate we allow him past the door.”
Hastings rubbed his sore shoulder and glared first at Reaver then at Shaw. He waved a finger between them. “Is this about Lord Dunston?”
Shaw answered first. “Dunston. No. Why do you ask?”
“He accosted me, as well. Cup-shot at the time. I assure you, my intentions toward Miss Andrews remain entirely honorable!”
Reaver frowned. Looked to Shaw, who was equally bewildered. Then answered, “Good. Now, leave.”
Hastings hovered, appearing confused.
Reaver lowered his voice. “Leave, man. I’ll not say it again.”
Shaw opened the door, and Hastings scurried out.
“Miss Andrews?” Shaw queried, amusement coloring his voice.
Reaver sighed and shook his head. “No idea. Perhaps Hastings made advances toward Lady Maureen. Dunston loses all perspective where she is concerned.”
“Well, at least we have the physician’s name.” Shaw chuckled. “And a guarantee that Miss Andrews will be treated honorably.”
Reaver grunted and flexed his fingers into fists then flared them out. “Thought this sort of work was done.”
“Using your fists, you mean?”
“Aye.”
“It saves time. Not to worry.” Shaw’s grin was white and annoying. “I shan’t be scheduling any bouts for you anytime soon.”
Reaver shoved his partner’s shoulder and started out the door. “If you’re the opponent, I might just accept.”
Laughter was Shaw’s only answer.
“Find the physician, eh?” Reaver threw over his shoulder as he headed back toward his office to comb through the boxes of paper once again.
“And if a few quid fails to persuade him?”
“We’ll see whether my skills have rusted or not.”
Shaw shot him a speculative glance.
Reaver kept walking. “Find him soon, Shaw,” he said. “A girl’s life hangs in the balance. Remember that and act accordingly.”
*~*~*