by Allison Lane
"It does seem odd,” admitted Lady Wilkins. “The rooms at Funston's are small and dingy—or so Wilkins claims. Why would a wealthy man consider it?"
"Why not retire to his estate? It is near enough, and he hasn't enjoyed much luck this year. If he returned home, he could start over once his rooms are repaired."
Mary ceased listening as the ladies debated this point. A window alcove a few feet away offered space. Moonlight streamed in. Since it did not overlook the garden, no one would see her. She pulled out her sketchpad.
Her pencil fashioned a trio of bullfinches perched on a fruit tree, their heads huddled together as they chattered about the latest news. Greedy bullfinches stripped trees of buds, destroying fruit and sometimes even killing saplings. Not much different from gossips stripping reputations.
Their voices washed over her, sometimes clear, sometimes muted by music. “Clarkwell picnic ... Lady Atkins ... Sanders visited Lady Darnley..."
The set concluded. She peered through a crack in the drapery. Catherine would be looking for her, but Mary would not return while Mr. Griffin was in sight.
People milled about the room as ladies returned to their chaperons and gentlemen sought new partners or the card room. Griffin stood ten feet away, head craning to see everyone.
Frowning, she retreated to finish her sketch.
"I always knew Lady Flint would meet her comeuppance,” declared Lady Marchgate, joining the trio.
"What happened?” Lady Wilkins's eyes would be avid.
"You know what a pinchpenny she is."
"Insists on using that appalling modiste on Hay Market,” complained Lady Wharburton.
"And she never pays vails to the servants,” added Lady Horseley.
"She paid today,” announced Lady Marchgate. “She lost three pins from that awful striped gown, but the retiring room maid refused to repair it until Lady Flint paid a full shilling, in advance."
Chuckles met this news. As the gossips moved on to other tales, Mary concentrated on her sketch, again letting the voices wash over her. “Blackthorn insulted ... dancing master ... Nortons leaving for ... Grayson dying—"
Mary's pencil dug into the page. Lady Debenham had joined Lady Wharburton's group.
"You cannot be serious!” Lady Wilkins's voice squeaked.
"That's what Wigby claims,” swore Lady Debenham. “Food poisoning. Grayson should have expected it the way his luck is running. Funston's cook is terrible, and the service grows worse every year. Debenham dropped his membership because of it."
Listeners cited other complaints. At least a dozen ladies had joined the conversation.
Lady Debenham continued. “Fifteen victims, but Grayson is the most serious. Wigby swears he is at death's door."
Mary covered her mouth, bumping the draperies in her agitation. He could not be dying! It was too much. A beating, a fire, food poisoning ... It wasn't fair. What a waste of a good man.
Pain sliced her chest. No other man had set her so quickly at ease. Now she might never see him again. But at least she could stop fretting over Laura.
Laura!
The girl was bound to make a cake of herself when she heard. Having decided Grayson was her white knight, she would throw strong hysterics because he was dying. Catherine would need help.
Griffin had moved on, so Mary headed for her sisters.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Three mornings later, Mary rounded a shelf in Hatchard's and ran into Grayson. He caught her before she could fall.
"Good morning, my lord,” she managed to croak. His hands burned through her pelisse.
Gossip had learned nothing beyond that initial report—a matter for much speculation, leading Lady Beatrice to gnash her teeth on at least two occasions. He had disappeared from Funston's before morning, but no one knew where.
"Miss Mary.” He finally released her.
She stepped back. “I trust you are well,” she began, then blushed. Even an imbecile could see that he was anything but well. His face was pale and pinched, his hand trembled as he pulled a book from a shelf, and he had lost enough weight to affect the fit of his jacket. Yet she had never been happier to see anyone.
"I am recov—” He sighed. “You are too astute to believe social lies. I am improving, to the disappointment of my detractors."
"Nonsense. No one wishes you dead. Not truly,” she added, recalling Lady Horseley's satisfaction and the excited speculation that filled drawing rooms. That had been the titillation of the moment, for no one seriously expected him to succumb to food poisoning when the other victims had recovered within a day.
"But I would wager they discussed it quite avidly.” His smile hid a wince.
Her heart went out to him. Despite his façade of insouciance, he felt every barb. “Of course they did. You know people spend hours discussing a stumble in the park or the pink cheeks on a girl returning from the garden. They would do no less for you. But the most animated discussions cover speculation of your whereabouts. Lady Beatrice is beside herself."
"Really?"
"She hasn't a clue where you are. I'm just glad that you will recover."
"No thanks to the fish."
"Was that what is was?"
"Has to be.” He leaned against a shelf—casually, though Mary suspected he needed its support. “It was quite tasty—unusual for Funston's—so I ate several pieces. Which accounts for the severity of my illness. I should have been more prudent."
"I'd wager it won't happen again.” Her hand touched his arm in a gesture of comfort.
"Never. Even the thought of fish turns me quite green."
Realizing that she was caressing him, she reclaimed her hand, then changed the subject. “How is that dog you rescued?"
Shock twisted his face. “How the devil did you learn of that? Is nothing I do private?"
"I doubt anyone else knows of the incident, but I was emerging from Mason's Book Emporium when you dashed across the street. Had those boys injured it badly?"
His face bloomed with color. Embarrassment? But he answered readily enough. “A few bruises, and he was underfed—hardly a surprise. He must have lived with a family at some point, for he is at home indoors and well mannered."
"Poor thing. Where is he now? You can hardly have taken him to your club. Or Albany, for that matter."
"Have people spoken of nothing but me lately?” He sounded disgruntled.
"Everything you do is grist for the gossips, so don't pretend shock. You'd probably feel neglected if they ignored you."
"They twist facts until I fail to recognize my own deeds.” The pain was more evident this time.
"That is the nature of gossip.” She again touched his arm. “So what did you do with the dog?"
"Sent him to my estate, where I've another house dog. My steward reports that Fred agreed to share the space, but he made it clear that he had precedence. When Bones tried to pass him on the stairs, Fred read him the riot act. Bones now follows meekly behind."
Mary chuckled. “You did not accompany him home, then?"
He raised his brows.
"I am not asking you to reveal secrets, but I admit to curiosity. I can't imagine how you kept Lady Beatrice ignorant. She was quite incoherent when the subject arose yesterday."
"Seriously?” He looked pleased.
She nodded.
"She must be slipping."
"Or otherwise occupied. Miss Norton is in disgrace and expected to leave town. Blackthorn's feud with Atwater grows more ominous. Three betrothals, two births, and a carriage accident required attention yesterday. And we awakened this morning to news that Mr. Omney fled the country to escape his creditors."
He laughed, revealing a dimple that sent tingles clear to her toes. She would do much to draw another laugh.
"I am residing with a friend,” he admitted, “though I would prefer to keep that quiet until I fully recover. I've no wish to receive callers."
His mistress. She reached for a book to cover a ridiculous spurt of pique. “Of cours
e, but why then are you here? Remaining abed would hasten that recovery. You need rest after so many afflictions.” She examined him closely. “Frankly, you look little better than when you staggered into Oxbridge's library. And even then you managed to hide some of your injuries, like that limp I saw the day of the fire."
"Damnation,” he muttered. “Are you always there when I display my weaknesses?"
"So it would seem. But why not remain abed? Look what rising too soon accomplished the last time."
"I will lie down shortly, my dear Miss Mary. But I need something to read. Justin's library contains nothing of interest."
She shook her head. “You could have sent your valet."
"He is otherwise occupied."
"What you really mean is that you are bored."
This time the smile was rueful. “You know me too well. I wonder how. Even my closest friends can't read me so clearly."
"A guess, I assure you. I also find it hard to lie quiet for days, but you should know better.” She returned the book to the shelf and pulled out another. The books themselves were of no interest—they described the mathematics of constructing buildings. But they kept her hands from smoothing his jacket or touching his pale cheek. “Rumor claims that a fireworks rocket started your fire. How did a boy find one?"
"That is the question of the hour.” He paced two steps away, then returned. For a moment she thought he would turn the subject, but instead, he explained. “The rocket was the sort used by the army."
"A battlefield rocket?” Mary could not keep the astonishment from her voice. Her brother Andrew, who was a captain in the 95th foot, had mentioned such devices in his most recent letter from Spain.
"Precisely. Large and powerful. I know the inventor, so I recognized the remnants."
"Where would boys obtain one?"
"I'm not sure they did.” He rumpled his hair. “A dozen people were in the street when the fire started. Each knows the tale, but none actually saw a boy or can name anyone who did."
Mary nodded as enlightenment broke. “Ahh. Deliberate falsehood. I've seen it done before."
"What do you mean?"
"I told you Rockhurst saved my sister from ruin. The culprit used the same technique. His lies suddenly appeared on every tongue, yet no one could name a single witness to her supposed crimes. Nor did they know who had started the tales. But who would wish to burn your rooms?"
"Wrong question. Those rockets produce chaos, but they are unstable and cannot be aimed with any precision. What I really want to know is how the culprit obtained one and whether he has more. The War Office insists that all of them were shipped to Spain."
"Curious."
"Exactly. I have a runner looking into the matter, but so far he has discovered nothing.” He shrugged. “At least no one was injured. My valet noticed the blaze immediately, so the damage is confined to one room. Repairs should be complete in another week."
Mary returned the second volume to the shelf, then stepped past Grayson to a more interesting section.
"Are you looking for something in particular?” he asked.
"Anything on natural history. I would love to find that folio Lord Oxbridge has."
"You will have no luck there. They only printed a hundred copies, and all sold immediately. I have one myself,” he added, then looked like he regretted admitting it. Did he deliberately foster a care-for-naught image?
But she dared not ask. “It would have been too expensive in that case. Can you recommend one of these?” She pointed to two books on the birds of southern England.
"Mr. Aubrey's writing is ponderous, but he covers the subject in great detail. Personally, I prefer Stewart's more amiable style, but he confines his comments to birds found between Hampshire and Kent."
"I will try Stewart, then. I've studied many of the west country birds myself."
Grayson stiffened as voices approached. “I must leave before someone sees us together.” A raised hand forestalled her protest. “I know you do not expect a match this Season, but you must safeguard your reputation for the future."
Nodding a farewell, he grabbed a book and disappeared around a corner. Mary glanced through Stewart's book. Grayson was right. The style was quite readable and very informative. Only a dozen woodcuts were included, but the descriptions were precise.
She left Hatchard's a few minutes later. Her carriage would not return for half an hour, but she needed to visit the apothecary next door. Frannie would meet her there—she was running errands for Laura.
Grayson was standing at the curb, his head bowed as though in thought—or perhaps fighting dizziness. In the sunlight, his face was paper white.
She was opening her mouth to offer help when a cart driver whipped his horses into a gallop, careening past a carriage and around a flower cart. Then he aimed the team straight at Grayson.
Men shouted. Vehicles swerved to avoid collisions.
Grayson remained in a trance, seemingly oblivious to his danger.
In two frantic strides, Mary grabbed his arm and jerked him into the narrow passageway between Hatchard's and the apothecary. The cart thundered past, knocking an apple peddler into a horse, which bolted, dragging its teammate and a curricle with it. The tiger who'd been walking them raced behind, shouting.
Chaos filled the street. Horses whinnied. Curses vied with groans, wails, and hooves clattering over cobblestones. But the passageway remained an island of calm.
Grayson swayed, bumping the wall.
Mary stared at his white face. “Are you all right?"
"I'm bleeding."
His eyes remained on his wrist. Blood flowed from a gash, disappearing under his glove. The last vestige of color leeched from his face as his eyes rolled back.
Grabbing his chin, Mary forced his head up. He must be one of the unfortunates who could not handle the sight of blood. “Look at me, Grayson!"
He jumped.
"Keep your eyes on my face.” Releasing him, she used her handkerchief to wipe away as much blood as possible. “Where is your handkerchief?"
He fumbled in his pocket.
She tugged off his glove so she could bind his wrist, then replaced it, tucking the stained edge inside so the blood did not show. “Not quite the fashion, but it should do until your valet can look at it. I do not believe it will soak through. Now where is your carriage?"
"I walked from St. James's Square."
* * * *
Gray stared at his wrist. No trace of blood remained. But relief quickly changed to chagrin. Having finally divulged his most hated weakness in public, he would never live down the ignominy.
"You must think me the veriest coward,” he said, straightening so he no longer leaned against the wall. He glanced around, surprised to find himself in a narrow passageway.
"Not in the least. Blood affects many people adversely. Why blame you for something you cannot control?” She thrust her own handkerchief into her reticule. A package of books lay at her feet.
Should he explain? With most people, he would claim the lesser humiliation of dizziness from his illness. But Mary was different. When she'd touched his arm in the bookstore, her hands had sent ripples of pleasure to his groin. One reason he'd left so abruptly was his fear that she would note his reaction and start believing him a seducer of innocents.
Now he was again secluded with her. He ought to leave before they were spotted, but he had to make her understand. Something about Mary compelled confidences.
"My father—"
She looked up in surprise. “You cannot mean that he blames you."
He nodded. Discussing his father was hard, but he could not stop now. “His passions are hunting and shooting."
"Which you abhor."
He shrugged, as though the admission were easy. But even his friends did not understand his aversion to sport.
"So the tale that he kicked you out of the hunt was twisted."
"Very. I refused to ride with them, even as a youth. We argued often abou
t it. In the end, I left.” He didn't mention Rothmoor's determination to change his mind, his charges of cowardice, or his conclusion that Gray was less than a man. Rothmoor hadn't abandoned that suspicion until he heard exaggerated accounts of Gray's raking.
"Do you avoid hunting because the blood bothers you or because you hate killing other creatures?” asked Mary.
"Both."
"Which means you wouldn't hunt even without your blood problem. There is nothing wrong with that."
Gray stared, unable to believe his ears. He turned dizzy at the faintest hint of blood—had done so since childhood. He had disgraced his father by puking his guts out at his first kill, then fainting when presented with the fox tail. They'd carried him home on a litter like a swooning girl. Rothmoor had beaten him countless times, trying to turn him into a man. Yet no one had ever asked whether he would enjoy hunting if he could tolerate the kill.
"Do you wish to talk about it?” she asked softly, again laying that warm hand on his arm.
He led her to an alcove where they were out of sight of the street. The least he could do was protect her if anyone glanced this way, though it sounded like everyone was gawking at an accident. “What do you know about my father?"
"The Earl of Rothmoor never visits London. Supposedly he threw you out of the hunt for overriding the hounds. You responded by vowing to never set foot in the house again. But I cannot believe that is true."
"It is true that I vowed never to set foot in the house again,” he admitted. “But my reasons had nothing to do with that particular argument. Rothmoor's passions are horses, hounds, and whor—hunting.” He silently cursed himself for the stumble. “In his eyes, all gentlemen share those passions. My failure to join him in the field proves my cowardice. He blames my mother, of course. Her influence ruined me."
She turned you into a damned girl, Rothmoor had shouted during their final confrontation, his riding crop gashing the edge of a table. Gray had flinched, for it had too often gashed his flesh. A mealy-mouthed, swooning girl. I'd hoped her influence would fade once she died, but it was too late. You will never be a man. My father would turn in his grave if he knew the earldom would end with a woman, as would every other Rothmoor. I never should have wed that lily-livered foreigner.
