The table holding her teacup tipped. The contents slid to the floor and shattered.
Women gasped around her, or gave little shocked cries.
Dark brown tea spread across the floor and soaked into the Persian rug.
Vivian moved out of the way of the table and the puddle, lifting the satin well out of the reach of the tea, for it would stain the hems.
Sharla clutched the top of the wing chair she had found herself pressed up against, her heart galloping and her breath whooping.
Vivian looked at her feet and bent to pick up Sharla’s reticule.
“No, don’t!” Sharla cried. “There is an insect in it!”
Horrified, she watched Vivian open the purse. The women around her gasped, only this time there was an eager quality to their sounds. They were enjoying the drama.
Vivian peered inside. “There is nothing here,” she said, and moved toward Sharla and holding out the reticule.
Sharla shrank back. “I saw it!” she whispered. “It was black and horrible!”
“I believe this might be what you saw, my Lady,” the footman said. He bent and picked up something and held it out on his hand. The insect lay there, black and enormous, just as Sharla had seen. She shuddered, as the women moaned with distaste.
“It won’t harm ye at all, my Lady,” the footman said. He prodded the thing with his finger. “I think it’s papier mache or something.” He shook it.
“It isn’t real?” Vivian asked, her tone sharp.
“See for yourself.” The footman held it out to her. Vivian took it between her fingertips and studied it. She smiled at Sharla. “He’s right. It isn’t even a very good imitation. There’s no antenna and no real legs. Look.” She thrust it toward Sharla.
As the women around Sharla drew back with more moans of disgust, Sharla bent to examine the little mound of painted, molded paper in Vivian’s fingers.
Ben.
He was at the root of this. Sharla knew it as surely as she knew he had placed the alarm clocks in her bedroom, including the one on top of her wardrobe that had been too high for anyone shorter than Ben to reach.
The laughter erupted from her middle, catching her by surprise. Sharla clutched at herself, the laughter spilling from her. There was only a tiny degree of humor in it.
Vivian patted her arm, biting her own very full lips.
The sob came with just as much surprise. Sharla hiccupped and slapped her hand over her mouth, to hold the sob in. Vivian pulled her over to the far corner of the room, glancing behind at the women whispering to each other, while footmen removed the broken china and cooling tea.
Salcombe’s butler was there, now, too. He directed the clean-up efforts.
Vivian rubbed Sharla’s bare arms, which were prickled with little bumps. “Breathe deeply,” Vivian replied. “There is nothing more calming than a breath that comes from your belly. My singing master taught me that. Breathe, my dear.”
Sharla tried to breathe as Vivian suggested. Her upset eased. The need to sob evaporated.
Vivian watched her, judging her recovery. “This was a joke of some sort, yes?”
When she thought she could speak without her voice shaking, Sharla murmured, “I will return the favor.”
Vivian smiled. “Of course you will. How?”
“With your help, if I may.”
“You have it.”
Sharla looked around for eavesdroppers. “I want you to tell me about the costumes at the theatre.”
Chapter Nine
Only because Israel Smith was a good man, did Ben agree to a match at the back of Israel’s public house, three days after Salcombe’s annual dinner. Ben had not accepted a fight for weeks. The Season and guarding Sharla ensured he was busy most evenings. During the day he worked hard to ensure Rhys was not further disappointed in him. He would work twice as hard for twice as long to avoid seeing that horrible expression on Rhys’ face ever again. He squirmed every time he recalled it.
However, Israel Smith had been good to Ben when he had first begun fighting. The publican’s logic was indisputable. “You haven’t had a match for over two months,” Israel pointed out. “The rubes and newcomers won’t know your history or your style and will wager against you. The smart ones will figure you’re rusty, which means we’ll pick up even more there. One last time, Ben. You can take home the biggest purse you’ve ever seen.”
Israel’s prediction that there would be new faces standing about the ring was correct. People who liked watching fights and betting on them drifted away and returned in cycles. They grew nervous after a few matches, wondering if their luck would hold, or if the risk of being arrested for illegal and immoral practices was too great. They would stay away for days, weeks or months, until the lure of drama and blood and an uncertain outcome drew them back to the yards and warehouses and alleys where such fights were held.
Ben knew his opponent. John Deacon Smith was a good, steady boxer he had fought before, professional enough to know how to make a show of it and please the crowd. It was an easy fight. Ben didn’t need to concentrate. Instead, he observed the faces on the other side of the rope, catching glimpses of big eyes beneath hat brims and mouths open as they jeered and taunted and called.
After a solid six rounds, Ben dropped Smith with an upper cut and roundhouse combination. There wasn’t a scratch on Ben. Smith had barely grazed him.
Israel escorted Ben and the winnings to the back room where he could bathe his face and get dressed once more. The patrons would stream back into the pub to drown their happiness or displeasure at the outcome to the fight. They would expect Ben to appear among them, to let them buy him drinks or insult him for emptying their wallets.
Israel took the towel from Ben as he got dressed. “A rich purse. Didn’t I promise that?”
“You did. You’re a man of your word, Israel. Thank you.” He buttoned the shirt swiftly and took his jacket from Israel, too. He wouldn’t bother with a waistcoat. The men in the bar rarely wore one. A tailored jacket was unusual, too, but he wouldn’t dispense with it, as he needed an inside pocket to carry his winnings. He didn’t bother with his collar and cuffs, either. Instead, he pushed them into the jacket pocket…and felt the crack and give of something at the bottom of the pocket. His knuckles dipped into thick, viscous substance.
He yanked his hand out.
Egg yolk coated his fingers and dripped from them in long yellow tails.
Israel laughed. “Someone is right corked at you winning, aren’t they?” He patted Ben’s chest.
The muffled crack heralded more eggs, in Ben’s breast pocket. The cold liquid soaked his shirt. He opened the jacket with his fingertips. Yellow stained the shirt and dripped from the bottom of the inside pocket.
Israel howled. He sat on the bench, hanging his head between his knees and brayed in long snorting guffaws, his eyes streaming tears.
Ben probed every pocket on the inside and outside of the jacket and extracted eight more eggs. Each time he put on egg on the bench beside Israel, the man laughed even harder, his silver hair dancing with his mirth.
Finally, Ben removed the jacket, took out his wallet and shoved it in his trouser pocket. He unbuttoned the shirt again. The undershirt was also soaked.
“Do you have a shirt I can borrow, Israel?”
“A fine white shirt like that? Not on your life,” Israel replied, hiccupping and wiping his eyes.
“Any shirt at all. Something that will cover me and let me walk through St. James without being arrested.”
“Aye, I’ll see what I can scare up.” Israel sighed and got to his feet. “Whoever he is, I take my hat off to him. That was an absolute treat, seeing your face just then. Finally, I got to see how you look when you’ve been beaten.” He went away, shaking his head, still shuddering with laughter.
Ben waited, listening to the roar of the patrons on the other side of the internal door that connected with the public rooms.
How had she managed it? There had been n
o women near the ring tonight. Israel discouraged them, as most spectators grew nervous when women were nearby, for they forced them to mind their p’s and q’s, instead of enjoying the match.
Only Easton Wash, with his superior attitude, could stroll around a fight ring with a woman in satin and lace on his arm.
Eyes beneath hat brims.
Ben caught his breath, remembering the faces he had seen on the other side of the rope. Surely not. Would she have dared…?
Yet the egg yolk was drying on his chest and knuckles, telling him she did dare. She would have worn trousers and a jacket and hat, disguising her features and her sex, then slid around the back of the fight and into the pub to slip eggs into his pockets.
For a moment, admiration filled Ben for her sheer relentlessness. Sharla had never given up, even as a girl on the croquet court.
Then his amusement faded as he realized that now, Sharla knew about his fighting.
Chapter Ten
The lecture was interminable. Sharla almost fell asleep, for the hall was warm and the lecturer droned in a nasal voice that encouraged somnolence. Fans waved slowly, adding to the lulling effect.
It didn’t help that Sharla was tired, yet must pretend she’d slept a full night. She and Vivian had crept through the window of the kitchen as the big grandfather clock in the front hall chimed two o’clock in the morning. They changed back into their dresses in the wine cellar, both of them still giggling over the success of the ruse.
Sharla sat up straighter, shifting on her hard chair to rouse herself. She glanced at the rumpled, printed program in her hand. The Encouragement of Public Decency and Moral Rigidity—a Public Lecture.
She glanced around at the audience, curious to see who nodded in agreement with the visiting professor from Scotland, and who looked disinterested. Sharla knew many in the hall. It was a good way to tally who leaned toward moral rigidity and who did not.
Melody Wakefield glowed with fervor and enthusiasm as she gazed at the lecturer pounding his lectern.
Ben stood by the big doors at the side of the hall that led onto Garrick Street.
Her heart squeezed. Sharla dropped her gaze to the program once more. How had he known she would be here? She knew he was there to observe her. His interest in the subject of the lecture was no greater than hers.
The lecture ended. The applause was a mix of lukewarm and thunderous. People were leaping to their feet to leave immediately, a sure sign the visiting professor had not earned large favor with his moralizing.
Ben threaded his way through the departing audience. He was heading in their direction.
Sharla moved ahead of Wakefield and his mother. Melody would want to speak to the professor and Wakefield must introduce her. It gave Sharla a few precious moments. She met Ben on the other side of the stage. “How did you know I was here?”
“I followed you.”
“You…!” Her mouth opened.
“You followed me, last night,” he replied. “There is no other way you could have found me there.” His jaw flexed. “You owe me a replacement wool evening coat.”
“You owe Lady Salcombe a replacement bone china teapot and company teacups and saucers.”
Ben smiled. It was almost a laugh. “That’s what the noise was.”
Sharla couldn’t help smiling in return. “Did the eggs ruin the jacket?”
“Israel hung the thing up to dry next to the oven in the kitchen. The eggs set.”
Sharla covered her mouth and held in her laughter.
Ben’s eyes glittered with good humor. Then the humor faded. “And now you know my secret.” His gaze shifted to something behind her, then came back to her face. He was monitoring Wakefield and his mother.
Sharla sobered, too. “Boxing, Ben? It’s not like you. It’s not…honorable.”
“There’s no money in fencing,” he shot back, his scowl forming.
“You don’t need the money!” She clenched the chain of her reticule. “What on earth do you get from fighting half-naked amongst drunk men?”
His gaze met hers and she knew with utter certainty he focused on that single word. Naked.
She swallowed and dropped her gaze. The reminder made her recall what she had seen of Ben while easing through the edges of the thick crowd of men standing around the roped off square. The bare, tanned skin gleaming in the torchlight. The muscles flexing. The true width of his shoulders, undisguised by jackets and shirts and coats.
The way his trousers hung from his hips, the band sitting low, for he wore no braces. They revealed his flat stomach.
“Wakefield comes,” Ben murmured. “This must stop here, Sharla. We’re even. Yes?” He held out his hand. “Shake on it.”
His hand held out in that way prompted a memory from her childhood. Sharla shivered as she recalled the cold touch of foggy fingers and the sensation of being alone among many people. Alone and frightened.
One of the thick sea fogs had rolled over the Cornish coast during the Great Gathering, turning the familiar gardens and features into a mysterious land of gray shapes.
Sharla had wandered into the maze and become lost, even though she knew the maze well. Unable to find the center of the maze, which would orient her, or the entrance, she sat on the turf between the high hedges. She hugged her knees and listened to the sounds of people moving inside and outside the house.
At first, Sharla did not want to call for help. It was foolish to be lost when she was so close to the house. She didn’t want anyone to laugh at her. She could not abide people laughing at her. When she had first arrived at Elisa’s house, the others teased her about her red hair. The teasing eventually stopped, yet she remembered those early days clearly.
Sitting in the maze, Sharla grew cold and hungry, too. She called out whenever anyone came close. Sound traveled well in the fog. She learned that what sounded like bootsteps just beyond the hedges was likely much further away, for no one answered her calls.
Ben appeared from out of the fog, at first just a dark shape moving closer, his steps silent upon the grass. Then she saw his face and realized that someone had answered her calling, after all.
Ben stood over her. “Did you get turned around in here?” His tone was gentle. He was already an adult, studying at Cambridge, while she still wore pinafores. His voice was kind, though. There was no laughter in it.
It let Sharla relax and nod. “It looks all different.”
“It does.” He held out his hand. “Up you come.”
She looked at his hand. Then she put her hand in his and he pulled her to her feet.
“The trick with mazes, when you are lost, is to choose to always turn left, or always turn right. It will take much longer, yet you will always find your way out if you choose to only turn right or left.”
As he spoke, he drew her through the hedges, his hand warm about hers. He turned both left and right, for he was not lost.
Sharla remembered the warm comfort she felt once Ben found her. She did not doubt for a moment he would find the entrance. He’d known exactly where he was going.
That was the first time she had noticed Ben as something other than one of the older boys of the family it was best to avoid. The older boys, such as her brother Jack, played hard and got into mischief frightening in its seriousness.
Yet Ben had been kind. She had never forgotten that.
Sharla looked at his hand now, that he held out toward her, the foggy memory dissipating.
Why had he been so nice, that day? He might have teased her about her foolishness, for giving up too easily, for becoming lost in such a familiar situation as the maze.
“Why are you doing this?” Sharla asked him, as the last of the lecture audience streamed past them. Wakefield would be here at any moment.
Ben lowered his hand. “Doing what?”
“You know what I mean. Alarm clocks, insects.”
Ben’s gaze was steady. “I can’t give you flowers, can I?”
Her heart gave another li
ttle leap, for the expression in his eyes said everything he would not say. She could read it there, as if she was reading book print.
Wakefield reached her side. “Mother invited Professor Ignatius to join us for afternoon tea. Good afternoon, Hedley. Did you enjoy the lecture?”
Sharla shook off the moment and turned her attention away from the heated longing building in her middle. With an effort, she looked at Wakefield with a neutral expression as Ben shook his hand and gave a bland answer about the quality of the lecture.
Perhaps her expression was not as innocent as she hoped, for Melody Wakefield observed her with narrowed eyes and a disapproving expression.
* * * * *
“What an absolute waste of time!” Will breathed as they climbed the broad steps toward the waiting carriages lining Garrick Street in front of the hall. “The only reason I came to the lecture was because Salcombe praised the man to the hilt.”
Cian glanced over the heads of the people ahead of them, as everyone streamed toward their carriages, dissecting the lecture among themselves. “I admit I’ve received more interesting lessons regarding morals from my mother,” he replied. “Why I must pay for a repetition is beyond me.”
“Just because he’s a professor, then?” Will asked.
“Or because he’s a man?” Cian added. As he learned more about the complexities of running multiple estates and the financial details that needed constant attention, he’d come to appreciate the extraordinary work his mother, Natasha, had done to preserve his inheritance. While a man would be praised for his sterling efforts, his mother’s achievements had gone completely unremarked.
Will raised his brow. “Don’t let anyone outside the family hear you say that.”
Cian saw the woman’s face as she turned to look over her shoulder. The refined jawline. The clear, big eyes. The arch of her brow. She was climbing into a carriage.
Lady Eleanore Neville.
There was no one with her. Clearly, she was waiting for her companion. Salcombe had turned out all of London for this worthless lecture. Ignatius would earn far more than he deserved for such simplistic drivel. Even Dukes and their daughters were in attendance.
Marriage of Lies Page 9
