by Allison Lane
Turning pages, Mary stared at the sketch of Lord Wigby. Her stranger had chuckled wickedly when he'd seen it. She still glowed from his approval, for her drawings had never seemed good enough to show to others—not that she would have done so anyway. People already laughed at her. She could hardly risk further censure.
Yet he had enjoyed them. And more. He had not only recognized her drawing of the chaffinch, he had improved it with a few brisk strokes. Was he an artist?
She choked down a laugh. Of course he wasn't an artist. Lady Debenham would never invite such a person to her ball. He probably dabbled with pen and brush to fill time, just as she did. Many gentlemen could produce decent watercolors. It was more surprising that he knew about natural history.
Returning to the blank page, she concentrated on his face—the intriguing eyes that turned silver when he smiled, the lock of hair tumbling over his brow, the hollows under prominent cheekbones, the grace that reminded her of a cat. Power and a hint of wildness lurked under that elegant façade. An intriguing combination. Did he ever feel an urge to do something outrageous?
She penciled a sleek panther, then frowned. While it radiated strength and grace, it also implied a haughtiness he'd lacked. Did he truly share her interests? It was a tempting thought, for it hinted that he might become a friend.
Shaking away such a ridiculous notion, she turned the page. Men did not form friendships with ladies. Especially handsome men gifted with talent and intelligence.
Who was he?
The question teased her harder this time. In three weeks of perpetual entertainment, she had met hundreds of people. She would have sworn only an hour ago that she had seen everyone of note at least once. Even the Regent had attended the Hartleigh ball last week. But she'd not seen this man. Who was he?
Someone on the fringes of society perhaps, like Griffin? A lord would have been shocked to find her hiding behind the palms. Of course, he'd been hiding, too—
Her eyes widened. Maybe that was why she'd felt comfortable with him, though the idea that he was hiding seemed ridiculous. But why else had he been back here? Did he also have something to fear?
Catherine begged every day that she not slip away. Laura was usually more emphatic. “Such cowardice will ruin you,” she'd snapped in the carriage tonight. “Society will cut you, and me with you. I know they will. They will wonder if I share your disregard for convention. You must abandon these silly fears and talk to people. Flirt. Dance. Ignore your unladylike education and plain face. Prove to the world that Seabrooks know how to behave.” There had been much more, including a vow to arrange a marriage for Mary once she settled her own future.
But this was no time to think of marriage. Mary knew what Catherine refused to admit. Staying out of Laura's way would keep people from wondering how the Seabrooks had produced such dissimilar daughters. Raising such questions could only lead to trouble that would impede Laura's chances.
Two sets later, Mr. Griffin finally left, so Mary rejoined Catherine. Laura was enslaving the very eligible Lord Seaton when the stranger returned from the card room. Lady Horseley snorted loud enough to be heard above the buzz of conversation, then administered the cut direct. Three others followed suit.
"Who is that?” Mary murmured to Catherine, nodding in his direction. “The man Lady Horseley just cut.” The woman was one of the highest sticklers in London. Was he an artist after all?
Catherine bit off an oath. “I thought he left an hour ago. Lady Debenham swore he came only to speak with Mr. Barrington. Stay away from him, Mary. Any contact could ruin you."
"Why?” she asked, grimacing. Another faux pas, though how she could have avoided him she didn't know.
"If you had been here when he arrived, I wouldn't have to repeat the tale,” Catherine chided. “Lord Grayson is the most dangerous rake in society. Worse even than Devereaux, for he preys on innocents and has already ruined several. Surely you can't find him attractive."
"Of course not,” she lied. “But I thought I had met everyone."
Catherine relaxed. “Be careful. Not everyone in society is acceptable. Grayson is very wealthy and is heir to the Earl of Rothmoor. Almack's won't admit him, and he knows better than to enter drawing rooms, but he is welcome elsewhere. Few can afford to shun a future earl."
"Does he really ruin innocents?” The statement did not fit her impressions.
"Yes. I don't know all the details—and this is hardly the place to discuss them—but four years ago he jilted his fiancée. He might have recovered if he hadn't seduced a baron's daughter the following Season, leaving her with child. After she took her life, he had the gall to deny responsibility. Lady Horseley is determined to drive him from town."
"Why?"
"The man is too dangerous.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “He spent a year on the Continent after the last scandal. Some think him a French spy."
"A spy?” demanded Laura, joining them. Her eyes shone with excitement. “Who?"
Mary cringed. Laura's greatest weakness was a quest for adventure that had led to trouble more than once. She had rejected a dozen suitors in Devonshire because they disliked travel. The family thought she'd settled down after the scandals of eighteen months ago, but the expression in her eyes made Mary wince. And it added a new perspective to last night's complaints.
"You'd think the cream of society would contain more than bores and idiots,” Laura had snapped, slamming the door behind her. “But London gentlemen are no better than the farmers at home."
"Sir Bertram seems quite nice,” Mary had said calmly. “And he dotes on you."
"He's impossible. His idea of excitement is perfecting a new knot for his cravat.” She'd stalked to the fireplace to kick an andiron.
"So you don't like dandies.” It hadn't surprised her. Laura wanted a beau who worshiped her beauty, not his own. “What about Mr. Carlson? He is seeking a wife."
"He plays faro until dawn most nights and will undoubtedly lose his estate at the table before much longer. That is not the sort of excitement I can condone."
Mary had nodded, grateful at this exhibition of sense. Gamesters made poor mates. “Lord Biddlethwaite seeks excitement."
"But he defines it as emulating Devereaux. His list of conquests grows longer every day. Besides, can you imagine going through life with a name like Biddlethwaite? I would become a laughingstock."
"Lord Kemp? He will one day be an earl, and you can't deny he dotes on you."
"Perhaps, but he is boring. I've seen him near hysterics because his tea was weak or his coat wrinkled.” Laura ripped the pins from her hair in frustration. “Is there no one who seeks more than gossip and cards? Why do men no longer travel?"
"The war,” explained Mary succinctly. She had refrained from adding that men drawn to adventure were likely out seeking it rather than dancing and gossiping in London. And she had yet to meet any man who believed ladies could endure hardship. Even Blake embraced that view, and he was the most tolerant man she knew.
Now she shook her head at the gleam in Laura's eyes. All it had taken was the word spy. Laura had learned nothing from past mistakes.
Catherine must have also spotted that gleam. “Stay away from Grayson,” she murmured, gesturing to Laura's court. “Making his acquaintance will drive away your suitors and ban you from respectable drawing rooms."
"I wouldn't dream of it,” said Laura demurely. “But which one is he? I must know whom to avoid."
Catherine pointed him out, but Mary wasn't fooled. Laura's eyes gleamed brighter than ever, for Grayson dominated the room. Mary could almost hear her plotting. They would have their hands full if they hoped to keep Laura from making a cake of herself—again.
But perhaps all would be well. Catherine's report might be exaggerated. No one knew better than the Seabrooks how gossip twisted facts. And her own impressions did not fit an unscrupulous cad. The man she had met was honorable. No matter how she twisted his words, he could only have been setting her at ease.
* * * *
Gray left before supper. The card room had offered little sport. He dared not dance even with his married acquaintances, especially after Lady Horseley cut him dead. Returning to the ballroom had been a stupid mistake arising from too much cold rain atop too little sleep. The cut resurrected gossip made more lurid by time—or by Lady Horseley. Though three years had passed, she still blamed him for Miss Turner's death, keeping the scandal alive.
Tonight's cuts had hurt just as badly as the first one and focused every eye on him. Unfortunately, nothing discouraged Miss Derrick. She seemed more interested than before. And she wasn't the only one. Miss Huntsley had smiled in a disturbingly predatory way, as had a blonde holding court near his artist. He had no idea why some girls loved rogues, but having intrigued three of them, he would have to be careful. So he had collected his cloak and left.
A shiver tingled his spine as he climbed into his carriage, almost as if eyes were digging holes in his back. Yet a glance over his shoulder revealed only servants. Lady Horseley was nowhere in sight. Nor were his other detractors.
Sinking into the squabs, he closed his eyes. It was harder to slip back into his London routine this year—as he had proved by talking to that artist. He should not have succumbed to temptation. If anyone had seen them, her reputation would now be tarnished. Yet he couldn't get her out of his head.
Incongruities teased him as the wheels rattled over cobbled streets. She wasn't a diamond, but neither was she an antidote. Average, he decided, with the potential to look better. Five-foot-three, but sturdy enough not to seem fragile. A hint of gold in her hair, though it was buried beneath those failed curls. Wit and intelligence that added vibrancy to her face when she forgot to be nervous. Quick, clever fingers that turned that wit into something substantial. And her view of society was intriguing.
Again he chuckled over her sketch of Griffin. The man was rotten to the core, though his earnest façade and treacly compliments fooled many. While in the card room, Gray had casually steered the conversation to Griffin. New rumors were circulating that hinted at questionable honor. No one could prove Griffin a cheat, but few would risk a game with him. And fathers steered their daughters elsewhere.
Gray pressed his lips together. Without evidence against Griffin, he could do little to keep his artist safe. So he would hire a runner to watch Griffin for a few days. It was the least he could do.
He did not question why he felt so protective. Or even why he did not turn the matter over to her father.
His carriage rocked to a halt in front of White's. As Gray emerged, malevolent eyes again sliced his shoulder blades, accompanied by hatred thicker than a London fog. It seemed to originate from the shadow between two buildings.
He glanced back. No one was in sight, but he couldn't shake the certainty that someone wanted him dead.
Imagination. He must be more tired than he'd thought. The encounter with Lady Horseley had unsettled him. But cards would improve his mood.
* * * *
The watcher waited until Grayson disappeared into White's. Hatred choked him, twitching hands that wanted to squeeze the life from the blackguard. But that would be too easy. First Grayson must suffer as badly as his victims. A quick death would not satisfy vengeance.
Pulling a vial from his waistcoat pocket, he followed his quarry into the club.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning, Mary sat in the corner of Lady Beatrice's drawing room, doing her best to fade into the wall.
Lady Beatrice was London's most knowing gossip, a title she had held for forty years and one which gave her great power. It was said that she had spies on nearly every staff in Mayfair, which explained why she was the first to know everything. Thus her drawing room was the best place to hear the day's news.
Sitting in the corner allowed Mary to listen without joining the conversation. And it kept Laura from voicing her daily complaint in public. Today's concerned Mary's gowns. Mary hated wasting money on embroidery, lace, and other trims. Until Laura was wed, no one would notice her anyway, and it was more rewarding to use the funds Blake had provided for books and drawing supplies. Besides, donning fashionable gowns required a maid, but she shared Frannie with Laura.
As the elder, Laura had first claim on Frannie's services. Mary was too used to the situation to complain. Nor did she blame Frannie for devoting most of her time to polishing the Season's diamond. But since Mary often had to dress herself, it made more sense to use a special corset that laced up the front and to buy simple gowns featuring drawstring bodices. Unfashionable, but practical.
Blake would have provided a maid had she asked, but she disliked putting him to the expense when she couldn't make a match anyway. Catherine hadn't thought of it. Laura and Mary had always shared Frannie's services, and Catherine was too new to London to realize how much work was involved in dressing a society lady.
But Mary was beginning to wonder if she should raise the issue. Her favorite walking dress remained smudged from staggering against a carriage in Bond Street three days earlier. Frannie had not yet found time to clean it. And though only Frannie had accompanied her that day, Laura knew every detail of the incident, confirming that Frannie shared everything with her favorite mistress. It was another reason Mary kept her sketchpads well hidden.
But complaining would make her seem petulant. Blake had already given her so much, despite having no obligation to her. How could she ask for more?
She pulled her mind back to Lady Beatrice's drawing room. It was furnished in the French style that had been popular thirty years earlier, before revolution and war had pushed it out of fashion. It was also just a wee bit shabby, though no one would dare criticize. Lady Beatrice's power arose from information rather than from wealth.
To Mary's right a new scandal was brewing, this one concerning Miss Norton, another of the Season's diamonds.
"Her dancing master!” Miss Ingleside laughed. “No imagination at all. I swear half of society's beauties have formed attachments for their dancing masters."
"Not I,” insisted Laura.
"Nor I,” added Miss Cummings. “Mine was sixty if he was a day."
"I heard Miss Norton eloped with him,” said Lady Catherine Crosby.
"No!"
"So Lady Wilkins swore."
"They weren't caught until morning,” added one of the Caddis twins. Mary could never tell them apart.
"I don't believe it.” Miss Ingleside glared. “Miss Norton is all that is correct. She might flirt, but she would never elope. And her father would have kept her home if it were true."
"Then maybe he abducted her,” suggested Laura.
"You can't mean it!” The other twin paled.
"Of course not. I'm sure she went quite willingly. Lady Wilkins said—or maybe it was Miss Ormsby; I don't quite recall. Anyway, I heard she was in dishabille when her father caught up with them—hair down, clothing rumpled. And so was he."
"How dare she play the innocent after that?” demanded Lady Catherine.
"It's false, I tell you,” repeated Miss Ingleside. But no one listened. Voice after voice condemned the Nortons, fury rising with each new detail.
Mary remained silent, though she was amazed at how silly Miss Norton seemed. Eloping with a dancing master! At least Laura had never put the family through that scandal.
To her left, the topic had moved to Lord Grayson.
"He's a bad one,” swore Lady Horseley. “But what can one expect? The Dubonne family has always been unpredictable."
"But he's the worst.” Mrs. Martin gripped her cup so tightly, it was in danger of cracking. “Rothmoor threw him out years ago and won't let him return."
"You exaggerate. He only threw Grayson out of the local hunt,” countered Lady Sefton. “Grayson insisted on overriding the hounds.” Gasps greeted this infamy. “Now he refuses to set foot in Yorkshire until he is reinstated."
"Nay,” snapped Mrs.
Martin. “I had the tale direct from Lord Granger, whose land runs with Rothmoor's. The rift had naught to do with hunting. Rothmoor cannot condone Grayson's reckless raking."
"Hah!” snorted Lady Horseley. “He's no saint himself. The only thing Rothmoor ever approved about the boy was his expertise in bed."
"Mildred!” Lady Cunningham gestured toward the innocents across the room.
"Facts are facts."
"Whatever his reasons, Rothmoor cut him off without a shilling, proving Grayson's dishonor. A man don't throw out his heir without reason,” said Lady Marchgate, accepting another biscuit from a footman. “I'd hoped he would stay in Sussex this year or go off on another of his adventures. How can I protect Eleanor from his ruinous attentions? The man has a positive genius for enticing girls to clandestine meetings."
"Lady Eleanor would never listen to him,” said Lady Wharburton soothingly. “She is all that is proper. You are fortunate in your daughter. Miss Derrick is already showing a dangerous interest in the fellow. I thought she'd come to her senses when Wroxleigh cut her dead. For all he's a rake, at least he is honorable. But now that she's after Grayson, I must withdraw the invitation to my masquerade. I cannot abide impropriety."
Mary flinched. Being stricken from Lady Wharburton's guest list was almost as bad as losing vouchers to Almack's. Her annual masquerade was the highlight of any Season, but it was open only to those of the highest ton, meaning those who adhered to Lady Wharburton's very strict standards. Losing that invitation was little better than being put in stocks.
"I have no patience with Miss Derrick's behavior,” said Lady Horseley. “But the blame lies with her father. What was the man thinking to consign her to Miss Pettigrew? I wouldn't hire the woman to shepherd a dog through the Season, let alone an innocent. She lets her charges run wild. Miss Derrick will be ruined in a month."
