The Nobody: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix)

by Diane Farr

  “No, I do not see! My dear Ned, it cannot be a simple matter to arrange the details of a murder attempt in two or three days.”

  “You forget that if he has attempted it twice before, he already has accomplices in his employ. I expect having them ready to hand saves one a great deal of time,” Mr. Montague argued. “And you should be jolly glad he had to act in a hurry! If he’d been able to plan more carefully, or find a more skillful hireling, we might not be having this conversation.”

  “A pleasant thought!” remarked Kilverton. “How kind of you to stop by when I am not feeling well, and cheer me in this fashion.”

  Mr. Montague gave a short laugh. “Yes, I know you are a hen-hearted creature whose spirits are constantly in need of support! Now, Kilverton, I wish you will heed me. You must be more careful, dear fellow, you really must.”

  Kilverton regarded his friend with tolerant amusement. “What do you suggest I do, Ned?” he inquired. “Surround myself with bodyguards? Never step out of the house? Have all my dishes tasted before I touch them? Be reasonable, man, be reasonable! I have no real grounds to suspect anything, you know—I have merely suffered a series of stupid accidents.”

  Mr. Montague wasted the next half hour in a vain attempt to convince his friend to take their suspicions seriously. Kilverton alternately indulged him, argued with him, and laughed at him, and the end of it was that Ned departed in a mood of extreme dissatisfaction.

  He hesitated for a moment outside Lord Selcroft’s door. Mr. Montague was a creature of impulse. He suddenly recalled Oswald’s proclivity for the old-fashioned art of the duel, and inspiration seized him.

  He did not stop to consider the consequences; he suffered no qualm of conscience; it did not even occur to him to be afraid. He was convinced that Oswald Kilverton cherished murderous designs on his nephew’s life, and if Richard Kilverton would not put a stop to his uncle’s plots, by God, Edward Montague would! In fact, ridding the world of Oswald Kilverton appeared to him in the light of a public service.

  Mr. Montague set out with a purposeful stride toward White’s.

  Chapter XII

  Before the astonished gaze of several fashionable gentlemen, Mr. Montague was attempting to offend the Honorable Oswald Kilverton by insulting him in every way his fertile imagination suggested.

  Edward Montague was known to be a sunny-tempered, easygoing fellow, not in the least quarrelsome. This rendered his behavior so baffling that it gave even Oswald Kilverton pause. In short, Mr. Montague—unused to picking fights with anyone—overplayed his part. Oswald, watching Mr. Montague with a detached and bemused air, gently and skillfully deflected every affront. Ned, frustrated, eventually announced a spurious belief that Mr. Kilverton had won his last rubber of whist through somehow fuzzing the cards.

  This caused a general exclamation of disapproval, exasperation, and protest. Several members suggested in no uncertain terms that Montague be encouraged to go somewhere and sleep it off. Lord Omberfield, much shocked, objected feebly. “Really, Montague, you go too far. This is no backstreet hell. You’re at White’s, dear boy! The best of good company! What are you about?”

  Mr. Montague then folded his arms across his chest with what he hoped was a sneer. “Does Mr. Kilverton deny it?” he demanded.

  Oswald Kilverton stood calmly in the center of a knot of excited persons gesticulating and arguing around him with varying degrees of heat. He was a tall, saturnine gentleman who retained a definite air of the previous century in his elegant languor and meticulous dress. Preserving his haughty detachment, he closed his eyes for a moment as if pained. He opened them again.

  “Naturally I deny it, Mr. Montague,” he said gently. “And I would be very much interested in hearing your response to Lord Omberfield’s uncharacteristically intelligent question. What, in fact, are you about?”

  This threw Mr. Montague momentarily off his stride. He resorted to bluster. “I suppose a man may take exception to the presence of a sharpster in his club!”

  Mr. Kilverton appeared bored. “Undoubtedly. Just as a man may take exception to the presence in his club of an ill-conditioned, boisterous puppy possessing neither manners nor sense.”

  Mr. Montague pounced eagerly, “I take your meaning, Kilverton!” he exclaimed. “You refer to me, in fact, as an ill-conditioned puppy!”

  “Did I say so?” queried Oswald in feigned surprise. “I feel sure you are mistaken, my dear Montague. I spoke generally, I assure you. I would never so far forget myself as to utter disparagements of a fellow member of White’s. And to his face! While actually at White’s! No, I am sure no one—however ill-bred—would do such a thing. It is impossible; you really must acquit me.”

  “Aha!” cried Ned, doggedly pursuing. “Now I am ill-bred, am I? Do you expect me to let that pass?”

  A friend of Mr. Montague’s by the name of Featherstone stepped into the fray at this point. As he was not in Ned’s confidence on this matter, he had no idea that he was spoiling the soup. He struggled through the knot of men gathered round the combatants, and tugged furiously at Mr. Montague’s sleeve.

  “Expect you to let it pass? I go further, Ned—I dashed well expect you to apologize!” announced Mr. Featherstone, incensed. “What the devil do you mean by all this rigmarole? Never saw you in m’life with the malt above the water before noon!”

  Oswald turned courteously to Mr. Featherstone. “Mr. Montague is not inebriated, Featherstone,” he explained kindly. “He is merely attempting to offer me an intolerable insult, thus forcing me to issue him a challenge. His purpose in doing so, I will admit, has me puzzled. I am hoping he will enlighten me, however.”

  Mr. Featherstone stared at Ned in the liveliest astonishment. “Well, I call it dashed peculiar!” he exclaimed. “Never knew him to do such a thing before.”

  “Here, Featherstone, what business is it of yours?” demanded Mr. Montague, harassed. He twitched his sleeve out of his friend’s suddenly slack grip. “Just leave well enough alone, can’t you?”

  “No, that’s just what I can’t do,” said Featherstone unexpectedly. “What I mean is—friend of mine! Can’t let you go about making a figure of yourself all over town. Besides, old fellow, Kilverton’s the devil of a swordsman, you know. Cool customer, too. You’ve never been out before, have you? Really, I can’t be expected to encourage you to meet him! Stands to reason. And don’t go telling me you’d want pistols. I’ve seen you shoot at Manton’s, Ned! I ain’t going to let you stand up for Kilverton to blow a hole through you—”

  Oswald’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “But I protest, I have no desire to blow a hole through Mr. Montague!”

  “Yes, that’s all very well—” began Featherstone, but Mr. Montague interrupted him wrathfully.

  “Featherstone, I’ll thank you to let me manage my own affairs! Do you imagine I am afraid to meet Kilverton?”

  “No, upon my honor!” gasped Featherstone, distressed to think his words had been misconstrued. “Nothing to say against your courage, Montague. Pluck to the backbone!”

  Oswald Kilverton touched Lord Omberfield’s sleeve at this point. “Let us quit the room, my friend, and allow Montague and Featherstone to hash this matter out between them. I perceive I am infinitely de trop.” Mr. Kilverton bowed gracefully and would have gone, had not Mr. Montague leaped desperately forward to bar the way.

  “No, I say! Kilverton, I insulted you—or, rather you insulted me—” he stopped, exasperated, and turned to Featherstone. “You’ve muddled me!” he exclaimed. “Where was I?”

  Oswald regarded him amusedly, but a sharp gleam of watchful suspicion appeared in his hooded eyes. “I believe you were about to explain yourself, Montague,” he said softly, a faint smile curling his lips. “Your conduct is really most extraordinary. I, for one, am unable to account for it. I await your explanation with intense interest.”

  Oswald’s air was languid, his expression weary, but his eyes, half veiled by lazy lids, were cold with intelligence and mal
ice. They never left Mr. Montague’s face. “I hope you do not cherish an ambition to meet me on the field of honor, Mr. Montague. I really hope you do not. I fear you are destined to be disappointed. You will never realize that—particular—ambition.” His teeth bared in the briefest flash of a smile. “You must appreciate my position, dear boy. I cannot issue—or, for that matter, accept—such a challenge. You are considerably younger than myself, you know, and you are—correct me if I am mistaken—one of my nephew’s satellites. His closest friend, in fact, are you not? How shocking it would be for us to quarrel! Whatever else may be said of me, I hope I have never been accused of bad ton.”

  Mr. Montague stared at him helplessly. “You will not meet me?”

  “No, Mr. Montague, I will not.”

  “I insulted you!”

  “Then I forgive you.”

  “But you insulted me!”

  “Then I apologize. Come, Montague, if you continue this absurd behavior you will only be made to appear foolish, you know.”

  Mr. Montague looked round at the assembled company. Quite a number of avid gentlemen had crowded into the room, and all were regarding him with varying degrees of amusement, annoyance, or interest. Mr. Montague was suddenly assailed by all the embarrassment natural to a man of his upbringing finding himself the center of such attention. His impulse was to bow himself out with whatever dignity he still possessed but then he thought of Richard Kilverton’s danger and a gust of genuine wrath shook him.

  “Aye, you’re a cold-blooded scoundrel,” he growled. “I might have known I couldn’t maneuver you into losing your temper. Nevertheless, Kilverton, I warn you to have a care! Do not grow too confident. I promise you, even if you succeed in your mischief, you will not achieve your ends—for there are those who will see to it that you are brought to book!”

  An instant hush fell upon the room. Oswald Kilverton’s hand, in the act of raising a pinch of snuff, checked for a moment. The veiled expression left his eyes as his brows flew upward, startled. Then he regained his iron composure. His eyes narrowed to slits and his voice became silky.

  “Now you interest me extremely, Mr. Montague. Extremely.” He deliberately took snuff, and dusted his lapel with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Is it you, perhaps, who will—er—bring me to book?”

  Mr. Montague’s hands clenched involuntarily into fists “You may rely on it,” he said evenly.

  “Ah,” mused Oswald pensively. “And of what crime, exactly, will I be accused?”

  Oswald’s eyes raked Mr. Montague contemptuously, but Ned thought he could detect an arrested, alert expression in their depths, almost that of a cat at a mouse hole. This caused Ned to again become aware of the roomful of spectators, and he realized with sickening suddenness the danger of his own position. He could not make a startling and serious accusation in this extremely public place unless he was prepared to offer irrefutable proof. He had no such proof. He swallowed, irresolute, and finally said, “You are perfectly aware of your own plans, Mr. Kilverton, so I fancy I need not explain them to you. Suffice it to say, your designs have been suspected—and thus will not bring you your desire. I urge you, then, to reconsider! I am persuaded that a little calm reflection will convince you to abandon your fell purpose. That is all.”

  A flash of anger lit Oswald Kilverton’s cold blue eyes. “That is very far from all, Mr. Montague. You have seen fit to accuse me of some nameless, but apparently reprehensible, plot. Kindly divulge, for the benefit of our interested spectators, precisely what scheme you believe me to be hatching. Otherwise I may find myself in the dock, charged with whatever unsolved crime next comes to light! Do you accuse me of planning some treasonous exploit? Espionage? Theft?” His eyes narrowed again, watching Ned carefully. His voice did not alter in pitch or volume, but there was a barely perceptible pause before his next word. “Murder?”

  Mr. Montague met his gaze squarely. “I trust you are planning nothing whatsoever, Mr. Kilverton. It will be very much the worse for you if you are.”

  “Dear me!” mocked Oswald. “Should I tremble with fear? I am desolate, Mr. Montague, to disappoint you yet again. Strange as it may seem to you, your dramatic threats have impressed me as little as your clumsy insults. But I am a phlegmatic creature, I am told, and not easily moved—nor, I may add, am I easily persuaded to abandon my plans. Having determined the course I mean to pursue, Mr. Montague, I pursue it single-mindedly.” His gaze hardened, and his lips curled into a singularly unpleasant sneer. “Ruthlessly, if you will.”

  With this extraordinary utterance, he bowed mockingly and left the room. A buzz of conjecture and exclamation burst out as soon as he had left, but Mr. Montague, much agitated, heard none of it. He escaped Featherstone’s clutches, left the club, and returned to his lodgings, berating himself for having made matters—if anything—worse.

  Eventually it occurred to him that, whatever Oswald might say, surely it would give him pause to know that his attempts on Richard’s life had not gone unnoticed. Ned comforted himself with the thought that he must have done some good, after all, by making the would-be murderer aware that it was impossible for him to avoid the consequences, should he succeed. Why, only an idiot—or a madman—would attempt a murder knowing he was already under suspicion! This was a cheerful thought. Before long Ned was happily congratulating himself on having (probably) saved his friend’s life.

  He would not have felt quite so sanguine had he been privileged to observe the final effect of his words on Oswald Kilverton.

  After leaving White’s, Oswald wended his way slowly homeward, apparently in deep thought. His abstracted frown indicated that his cogitations brought him no pleasure. However, although he reached home in the devil’s own temper and snapped mercilessly at his valet, his unpleasant ruminations eventually helped him decide upon a course of action. Whatever he may have said to Mr. Montague, the incident at White’s did cause him to think furiously—and plot cleverly. It finally occurred to him that certain steps might yet be taken. A grim smile then disturbed the gravity of Oswald Kilverton’s countenance.

  Oswald was next seen in the company of a small, sharp-eyed, closemouthed youth. The boy accepted from him, without comment or surprise, a substantial sum of money and a complicated set of orders.

  Ned would have recognized this unsavory individual within the week as Richard Kilverton’s new tiger, hired to assist the injured Mullins.

  Chapter XIII

  For several days after the curricle accident, Caitlin stayed within doors and allowed Aunt Harriet and Emily to pamper her. Her thoughts were in such turmoil she found it difficult to concentrate and almost impossible to sleep, and her listlessness, together with the fairly spectacular bruises she had suffered in the curricle accident, made a sufficient excuse for her to avoid company. First Lord Kilverton, then Mr. Montague and Captain Talgarth, and finally even Sir Egbert sent round to enquire after her health. But it was Emily who appeared downstairs to reply to their kind messages. Caitlin hid in her chamber.

  It was most unlike her, but Caitlin had never been so wretchedly unhappy in her life.

  She knew it had little or nothing to do with her physical discomfort. It had everything to do with Richard Kilverton. Before he entered her life, she had been tranquilly happy, content with her lot, and enjoying her London holiday. Now she hardly recognized the pale and stormy creature reflected in her mirror.

  It was appalling—indeed, it was shocking!—to find herself obsessed with thoughts of a man who was betrothed to another. That went so deeply against her moral code, she never would have believed it possible such a calamity could occur. She was afraid to go among people for fear she would meet him; she was unable to sleep for reliving every conversation she had ever had with him; and she bathed her pillow each night with hot tears, longing for impossible things. Caitlin was furious with herself, distressed by her own waywardness, determined to stop these insane feelings—and terrified that she might feel this way forever.

  She was sorely in nee
d of advice, but there was not a soul in whom she could confide. If Caitlin herself was ashamed and confused, she feared Emily would be even more shocked and uncomprehending. Her only other confidante was Lady Serena—and how impossible it would be to tell Serena!

  She had heard it said that a green girl invariably fell in love with the man who gave her her first kiss. Well, there could hardly be found a greener girl than herself. Her experience of such matters was less than limited, it was nil. She wondered miserably if that absurd encounter in Curzon Street could really be counted as a kiss. She had nothing to compare it to. She devoutly hoped (however unlikely it seemed to her) that what she felt was, perhaps, just a silly infatuation that would pass as quickly as it came. She had no idea if what she felt was likely to prove lasting. In fact, she was not even sure what it was she felt. Agitation, surely, and melancholy; a strange, terrified exhilaration; and a great deal of misery. The term “lovesick” took on a new meaning for Caitlin—as near as she could tell, what she was experiencing had all the symptoms of malaria!

  It would be terrible to see him too soon, before she could command herself. On the other hand, she thought feverishly, perhaps the sooner she saw him the better it might be for her. Perhaps when she met him again she would immediately recover her balance! Her current state of mind might prove to be an unaccountable fit of madness. Not long ago, a friend of Caitlin’s had fancied herself head over heels for an absent suitor, and when he reappeared her feelings had instantly evaporated. Such things could happen.

  After all, Lord Kilverton was the rudest and most provoking person of her acquaintance! And apart from that, she hardly knew the man! But this train of thought was dangerous. It caused her to recollect everything she did know of him, and that was a painful process. She knew a great deal about him from Serena, of course, who adored him. Caitlin could not help thinking that a sister’s recommendation was not to be lightly dismissed. Apparently he was a teasing, but kindly, creature of infinite patience and great good nature, generous to a fault, not above showing his little sister the sights of London or teaching her a few tricks worth knowing before her come-out. Most telling of all, there was no one on earth to whom Serena would rather turn in a fix. Praise indeed! But what did Caitlin herself know of him?