The Rake And The Wallflower

by Allison Lane

  She frowned, then realized that Grayson had triggered that last memory. He'd been limping badly when he raced inside, most likely from the beating. Last night's saunter had hidden the extent of his injuries. Today's dash had made concealment impossible.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gray took the stairs three at a time and raced down the hall, coughing from the smoke. His door stood wide open, belching more smoke. He'd had to count windows twice to believe his eyes. But there was little doubt. His bedroom was ablaze. The neighbors would blame him for any damage to their rooms. He should have stayed at Shellcroft for another week. Luck had been against him from the moment he'd returned to town.

  And it could worsen. Laura Seabrook was serious trouble. If he interpreted Mary's warning correctly, her sister's obsession could precipitate a worse scandal than Miss Turner, banning him from ballrooms as well as from respectable drawing rooms. He must keep Nick or Justin near at hand to deflect trouble.

  But he could address that problem later.

  A footman carrying two empty buckets ducked into a servant's stair, returning a moment later with full ones. Jaynes must have organized a line to pass water up from the kitchens.

  Gray followed him inside.

  Lord Sedgewick Wylie and Terrence Sanders, his nearest neighbors, were tossing water on the fire. They were the last men he would have expected to find here. Granted he barely knew them, but both had struck him as fools. Wylie was a consummate dandy, slavishly following Brummell's dictates. Sanders had spent the last five years cutting a wide and very public swath through the muslin company, provoking even more notice than Gray had done ten years ago.

  They weren't the only men battling the blaze. Jaynes wielded a rug, as did two servants Gray didn't recognize. But there was no sign of firemen.

  "We're making headway,” reported Lord Sedgewick, nodding a welcome before wiping his face on the sleeve of a sooty dressing gown.

  Sanders handed his empty bucket to the footman, then mopped his face with his cravat. His evening coat lay in a heap by the sitting room door.

  "You've made excellent progress,” acknowledged Gray. “Thank you.” Tossing his own coat in the corner, he dipped a rug in a pool of water and attacked the fiercest flames.

  Smoke stung his lungs. Sparks burned his hands. Shouts funneled through the broken window from the drive below. But victory seemed to dance just out of reach.

  Water hissed angrily every time it lost a battle with the heat. Though each blow of the rug snuffed the fire for an instant, it always returned, greedily reaching for new fuel. Gray's bruises screamed, but he kept fighting—stooping, swinging, gasping for air.

  He was wavering from dizziness when Lord Sedgewick's victory shouts revived him. New energy surged through his shoulders. His rug swung faster.

  "Toss those draperies out the window,” he ordered. Jaynes could finally reach the smoldering fabric.

  "Behind you, Grayson,” warned Sanders.

  Gray turned. Flames had found a dry line of carpet. “Water!"

  Lord Sedgewick hurled a bucketful at the new blaze. Gray followed up with the carpet.

  Half an hour passed in growing elation until the final flame flickered and died. But the room was not a pretty sight. The mattress had followed the draperies through the window. Puddles stood in corners and saturated the carpet. Charring blemished the walls, ceiling, bed, shaving stand, and one end of the wardrobe. His bootbox and bureau were in ashes. The acrid stench of burnt leather bit into his nose.

  Gray staggered into the sitting room and collapsed in a chair. Now that the crisis had passed, he could barely move.

  The loss and violation were beginning to hit. He had occupied these rooms since the day Albany opened ten years earlier. Though he now spent half the year at Shellcroft, in the early days he had lived here year around. But at least the fire had damaged only his bedroom. The library, with its five thousand volumes, was intact. As was his office. He hoped the smoke had not reached his birds.

  Lord Sedgewick and Sanders joined him. Jaynes opened windows, passed brandy, then disappeared to serve the servants who had helped.

  "What happened?” Gray asked once they had eased their parched throats.

  Sanders stretched his legs and examined his ruined shoes. “I had just returned from my evening revelries when someone shouted fire! I'd heard nothing until then, but when I reached your rooms, your man mentioned a rocket."

  "A rocket?"

  "I know it sounds preposterous, but that's what he said."

  Lord Sedgewick nodded. Today was the first time Gray had seen the dandy less than impeccably dressed, yet the man even appeared elegant clad in a filthy dressing gown. His Hessians shone despite soot and ash. “When I arrived, the bed and wall were ablaze,” he reported. “This fell from the coverlet when I pulled it off.” He produced a flattened metal cone.

  Gray turned the piece in his hands. Though damaged, he recognized it as the cap-piece of the military rocket designed by one of his inventor friends. Reports indicated that it sent the French troops scrambling for cover whenever it rained blazing gunpowder across a battlefield. The effect was lessening with custom, but it had caused considerable chaos at first.

  "The servants claim that two boys ignited a rocket in the street,” continued Lord Sedgewick. “Perhaps they planned to pick a few pockets in the resulting confusion. They did not expect it to crash through a window."

  "But where would pickpockets find a rocket?” Gray asked.

  "Probably stole it from Vauxhall.” Sanders shrugged. “They use them in the fireworks displays. Strap two to a wheel so it rotates in a shower of sparks. Quite a show."

  "I know,” agreed Gray. “But Vauxhall won't open for another fortnight. And their rockets are small. More to the point, fireworks rockets don't use this sort of cap."

  Lord Sedgewick frowned.

  Sanders straightened. “What are you saying?"

  "I've seen this piece before, because I know its designer. It is found only on military rockets. God knows the army's supply problems are notorious.” Many shipments went missing, and others substituted inferior goods for those contracted. “But if rockets are in the hands of street urchins, we need to know. Can you imagine one of these loose in Seven Dials? It could ignite another Great Fire."

  "Devil it!” Sanders gulped brandy.

  "No one has fire insurance in the stews, and the streets are too narrow to stop a blaze,” said Lord Sedgewick, frowning.

  "Not that fire insurance helped here,” grumbled Gray. “I appreciate your assistance."

  "It was nothing."

  Sanders echoed the view.

  "Nevertheless, I thank you,” repeated Gray. “I will call at Bow Street. We must discover where this rocket came from. Do you know who saw the boys?"

  Sanders shook his head.

  "I can ask,” offered Lord Sedgewick.

  "Thank you. Too many would ignore my questions."

  The dandy nodded. “Fools. The shortsighted rarely grasp the larger view. This endangers us all."

  Gray thanked them again, expressed hope that smoke had not damaged their quarters, then bade them farewell.

  "Have you anything to add?” he asked Jaynes, who had been lurking outside the door for some time.

  "Nothing, my lord. By the time I set the volunteers to work, we were too busy to ask questions."

  "Neither fire company appeared."

  "Perhaps they were at another scene,” suggested Jaynes. “The porter dispatched a footman to summon them."

  Gray nodded. Finding both services occupied fit the way his luck was running lately. Albany subscribed to two companies to avoid this very situation and to assure enough men to fight a serious blaze. Fire was an ever-present danger in London, where buildings crowded against one another and entertainments usually lasted until dawn. The new lights along Piccadilly added to the danger, for the gas lines were prone to leakage.

  "How long will the repairs take?” he asked.

  "A wee
k, perhaps two. I do not know the extent of the damage. Perhaps cleaning will remove the smell in here, or perhaps not. I dare not open the wardrobe to inspect your coats until the bedroom is aired. And—"

  "That is the least of my problems. Weston is nearly done with this Season's clothing. Have him deliver the finished items today."

  "Where?"

  "Funston's.” He'd stayed at the club for several months when he first arrived in London, newly estranged from his father and with barely enough funds to cover a week's lodging. If Medford's ship hadn't docked ... “They keep rooms for members."

  "What about the birds, my lord?"

  Gray sighed. “The titlark is ready for release, but the hoopoe will have to remain here. Its wing will not be fully healed for another week. Where are they?"

  "The pantry.” Jaynes didn't like it. Birds were insignificant in his estimation, though he had learned to care for them properly.

  Gray followed him to the butler's pantry. A dozen sketchbooks Jaynes had rescued from the bedchamber were heaped beside the bird cages. A pain eased in Gray's chest.

  The hoopoe's black-tipped crest was fully raised, indicating agitation, but it did not seem to be suffering. It was a striking bird, a foot tall, with a clay-colored body, startling black-and-white-striped wings, and a white stripe chevroned across a black tail. The long curved beak had been known to fend off predators.

  "Easy, fellow,” crooned Gray, slowly extending his hand to check the splint he had contrived for a broken wing. The bird had lost a fight with a hawk—unusual for hoopoes; their skill at evading birds of prey was legendary. Gray had brought the creature to town with him, trusting only Jaynes to properly care for it. If the bones knit badly, it would never again fly free.

  The hoopoe gradually relaxed. Two wing feathers were out of line, but the splint remained intact, and the fragile bones had not shifted. Its recovery remained on schedule.

  The titlark was a simpler story. Gray had rescued it from a cat two days earlier, keeping it under observation in case it had suffered hidden injuries. It had showed normal hunger that morning, so it was time to release it.

  "Free this one in the yard,” he ordered Jaynes. “And keep your ears open. I need evidence of how the fire started. The rumors do not ring true."

  "You know it was a rocket."

  "Yes, but street urchins?” He shook his head. “As soon as I change, I'm for Bow Street, then the War Office. Perhaps they know of a theft. If more are at large, the entire city is in danger."

  He wondered briefly if someone had attacked him because of that idiotic rumor that he was a spy. But it didn't seem likely. Only a few people, like Lady Horseley, still believed it. And these rockets had very erratic flights, so could not be aimed. Their main purpose was to light battlefields after dark, allowing artillerymen to see their targets. Frightening the enemy was a useful side effect.

  Jaynes summoned a footman to fetch hot water from the kitchens. Then he drew in a deep breath and opened the wardrobe. “Not too bad,” he said in relief. “These should clean up quite nicely."

  "For now I'll wear the green coat and fawn pantaloons,” said Gray. “Smoke will add urgency to my tale."

  * * * *

  "Where the devil is he?” Laura smoothed her skirt. “I saved the supper dance for him."

  "Who?” demanded Mary. “Your court is all here, and then some."

  Miss Norton stood alone tonight, despite heated denials from family, friends, and even two neighbors. Most of her former admirers now clustered around Laura, with the rest doting on Miss Harfield. Even her bosom bows hesitated to approach lest they be tarnished by association.

  "Grayson, of course. I expected him to manage an introduction by now."

  "Why?” Mary stifled a sigh. Laura was as stubborn as ever—and as shortsighted. “He rarely dances, and then only with matrons. Lady Debenham reports that he has not spoken to an unmarried miss in three years. She should know. She's as avid a gossip as Lady Beatrice."

  "But he was not in love with anyone else. He cannot help but dance with me."

  "Laura!” Thank heaven they were alone in the retiring room. She played one of her trump cards. “Even were he to request a set, you could not accept. It would destroy any chance that Lady Jersey would approve you for the waltz. She is considering it. But if she suspects you have a tendre for Grayson, she will forbid you the waltz and might even revoke your voucher. Dancing with him could ruin you."

  "I can't believe you are so stupid,” hissed Laura. “Speaking to Grayson would ruin a nobody like you—you only received vouchers as a favor to me anyway—but my credit is too high. Even sticklers love titillation. They still receive Lady Caroline Lamb despite her scandalous pursuit of Byron."

  "But she will never set foot in Almack's again. And her situation is entirely different. She is wed; you are not. You are chasing a notorious scoundrel rather than a dashing poet. Despite your beauty, suitors care that Father was merely a baron. And you lack a powerful patron like Lady Marlborough. Blake is related only by marriage, and he would never support you through a scandal—not after you tried to compromise him."

  Laura swore. “How dare you—"

  "I dare because I do not want you hurt,” said Mary. “If Grayson truly cares, he will find a way to approach you. But chasing him will give him and everyone else a disgust of you. Blake would pack you off to the country in a trice. You know it took Catherine more than a year to convince him to sponsor you. He won't tolerate impropriety."

  "You would love to see me packed off, wouldn't you?” demanded Laura. “But it won't do you any good. Even if I leave, no man will notice you. There are too many choices for them to waste time on an ugly, manipulative bluestocking. I doubt Blake could pay a farmer to take you on."

  "This has nothing to do with me,” protested Mary, though Laura's venom hurt. Even knowing it arose solely from temper did little to ease the pain. “I want you to succeed, but you have to follow the rules. Haven't you learned that ignoring convention never works?"

  She might as well be speaking to a wall. Laura peered this way and that in the long mirror, pulling her bodice lower to draw attention to her bosom, puffing her sleeves and teasing tendrils loose from her curls to frame her graceful neck. With a last pat on her hair, she flounced out.

  Mary shook her head. She should not have allowed passion into her voice. The more adamantly she protested, the more likely Laura would do the opposite. Besides, this was a bad time to argue. Grayson would not be here tonight. Aside from the fact that his evening clothes were probably in ashes, he knew Laura was stalking him. He had apparently taken her advice to heart. Or so she hoped. It was also possible that the fire had worsened his injuries. If he couldn't hide his pain, he would stay home.

  She wished she could see him—just to verify that he was well—but it was better this way. They could never be friends. Anyone who saw them together would assume the worst.

  Regret stabbed her chest. Heaven knew he could use a friend.

  Three young ladies entered the retiring room, laughing. With the peace shattered, Mary left, passing Lord Hartford and Mr. Turlet outside an antechamber. Those two gossiped as avidly as Lady Debenham.

  As Mary started down the steps into the ballroom, Laura laughed, then drew Griffin's attention to the stairs. He immediately started forward.

  Mary cursed, plunging into the crowd. Laura was becoming as vindictive as Lady Wilkins. She must speak to Blake in the morning.

  In the meantime, she ducked into the refreshment room, circled through the card room, then slipped behind the draperies that formed a backdrop for a mass of flowers. It was a tight squeeze, but she was flat enough to leave no bulge, and the flowers would mask her slippers. Hugging the wall, she prayed that no one had seen her. Especially Mr. Griffin.

  Three matrons were talking nearby, too intent on discussing the fire at Albany to have noticed her.

  "Mr. Sanders said it was started by a lad playing with fireworks,” reported Lady Wilkins. />
  "Absurd,” snapped Lady Horseley. “Grayson probably knocked a lamp over in a drunken stupor. A shopkeeper in Upper Bolton died in just such a fire last month."

  "You may say what you like about Grayson, but he is rarely the worse for drink. And he was not home at the time,” said Lady Wharburton.

  "According to whom?"

  "Lord Sedgewick Wylie. He helped fight the blaze."

  Mary smiled, though it was hard to imagine Lord Sedgewick battling a fire. He was one of Brummell's followers, oozing ennui as well as style. But Lady Horseley could hardly deny his credit.

  "Why would he risk his coats in a fire?” demanded Lady Wilkins.

  "His rooms are adjacent to Grayson's, so he was first on the scene,” said Lady Wharburton. “Grayson arrived half an hour later."

  "Spent the night with his mistress, I suppose,” snapped Lady Horseley. “That Wren person—or so I've heard."

  "Cut Clifford out to win her favors,” murmured Lady Wharburton. “Their competition caused a stir in the clubs. She's been all the rage every since."

  "Men!” Lady Horseley snorted.

  That explained Clifford's animosity in the library, Mary realized. More than Grayson's reputation and Clifford's priggishness stood between them. Competing for the same courtesan often created bad blood—or so Blake had admitted when she'd wheedled details of London life one night when he'd been the worse for wine. He'd been appalled to recall the conversation the next morning.

  "Will he move in with the Wren while repairs are in progress?” asked Lady Wilkins.

  "Even Grayson would never consider it,” replied Lady Wharburton. “He is staying at Funston's."

  "Why not the Pulteney?” grumbled Lady Horseley. “He is wealthy enough to command the best suite, and the service is better in a hotel. Funston's attracts vicars and the like."

  Mary wondered why Lady Horseley disliked Grayson. Granted, she was one of the more rigid dowagers, but she criticized everything he did, whether good or bad. Other gossips distrusted him, but took avid pleasure from discussing his affairs. Lady Horseley simply hated him.