He walked toward her desk by the window and she tensed; had she left the note from Dorsey out? She could not remember and could not see from her viewpoint by the door. But he merely glanced at the desk and then strolled to the window.
“You have a lovely view here,” he said, staring out the window. “I own some property in Chelsea, but I have not yet developed it. Your house gives me the impetus I have been needing.”
“What do you mean, my lord?” Reluctantly, she moved from the door and joined him at the window.
“I like your house very much. It is modern. Airy. I live in a convoluted medieval horror in the heart of the old city; this is much more to my liking.”
“I am overjoyed that you approve,” she said.
His gaze swung to meet hers, and she was caught once again by the intelligence gleaming in his dark eyes.
“Sarcasm. I like that in a woman.”
“Do you indeed?”
“Yes. Don’t suppose you would care to sell me your house?”
“No,” she snapped. “Lord Ingram, what do you want?” She was sorry the moment the words came out of her mouth. People seldom rattled her equilibrium, but Ingram was successful whenever he tried. It was irritating. She bit her lip. How could she descend back into the idiocy she had been trying to feign without Ingram becoming suspicious?
The gleam died and his eyes became flat, unreadable. “I want to know why you are encouraging Dorsey.”
She wanted to tell him that was none of his business. She wanted to ask him why he cared. But neither of those responses would further her aims. She simpered and widened her eyes in a counterfeit of coquetry. “Mr. Dorsey is a very handsome man, do you not think so?”
“Oh, he is that. Is that the beginning and end of your attraction to him?”
She gritted her teeth. “Need there be more?”
His expression inscrutable, he said, “I suppose not. I should take my leave, Miss Lambert. I was curious about your house. Now that I have seen it, I am curious about you. But common courtesy dictates I take my leave.”
“I am surprised you are bound by the laws of courtesy, even the common variety,” she snapped.
He grinned, that unexpectedly attractive expression she had surprised him into before. “I cannot help but think that there is more to you than I have yet discovered, Miss Lambert.”
“I think you will find I am exactly what I appear to be, Lord Ingram.”
“If I knew what that was, I would know how to think of you,” he answered. He bowed. “I will leave you to . . . whatever you were about to do.”
* * *
Friday was dull and rainy, but by afternoon the weather had cleared and Ariadne stood staring into her wardrobe, nervously fretting over her clothing. It was a problem, dressing to appear like a fatuous fool. Her taste in garb was simple. She liked good fabrics, now that she had the money to indulge that taste, and clean lines. She had no illusions about her figure; she was thin and angular, and would not stoop to cotton wadding to amplify what nature had seen fit to deny. Nor would any amount of lace compensate.
But for this evening she must appear to be a fool convinced that she was about to embark on a romantic adventure. How had she been drawn into this ridiculous undertaking? When Olivia had first approached her, with the tale of Dorsey’s predation on a dear friend, her fertile mind had unfortunately been tickled by the idea of setting a trap, but she had not at first thought the bait would be herself, until her friend had pointed out how perfect she was to play the part. Ariadne had admitted that she was relatively unknown to those of the ton, so her intelligence or lack thereof would be unascertained, and she had enough truth in her tale to make the story ring true.
She had, indeed, tended an ailing aunt for many years, and been left her fortune. That she had done it out of love and gratitude, not need, was not an issue that needed to be canvassed. The simple fact was, she was now what she called wealthy, in that she had been able to purchase this house and devote herself to her work. Never again would she need to find employment or scrape to get by.
And so it made a perfect story. Olivia had pointed out that when they were both girls at school Ariadne had been inordinately fond of amateur theatrics. What she did not say but both knew was that she was also of a “certain age” and unmarried, and, most people would assume, desperate; added to all that, she was plain. The only thing left to ask was, could she play the part of a wealthy idiot?
She had made up her mind to try. She was not, however, willing to invest the kind of money it would take to buy an entire wardrobe of ugly clothing befitting that character, so she must make do with what she had and find a way to dress it up.
She reached into her wardrobe and pulled out her least favorite dress. As the fool she wanted to appear, she must alter the gown somewhat, and she needed the help of someone with abominable taste. “Dolly!” she shouted, leaning out the door and staring down the hall. “Come at once and tell me what to wear!”
* * *
Ingram strolled the entrance to Vauxhall, wondering if he had misread the note on the desk in Miss Lambert’s elegant drawing room. He had only had a second or two to peruse it, scanning it and committing it to memory in a way he did not truly understand, but had employed on previous occasions. It was almost as if his eyes recorded a visual record of the note for him to read at his convenience. But it was not a perfect skill. It could have been a future Friday to which the note referred.
But logic told him it would be soon, for men of Dorsey’s stamp did not pursue their objects in a leisurely fashion. He would not put it off to a future Friday, and so it must be this day.
He scanned the crowd and his senses sharpened as the familiar silhouette of Miss Ariadne Lambert emerged from the crowd. Familiar and yet different somehow. He watched her for a moment, taking in the hideous confection of mint green overdressed with blond lace that she wore. Why would she choose that gown, of all possible colors? Green made her look sallow, washing out her coloring.
And there was indeed something different in her silhouette . . . something . . . Lord, she had padded her bosom! He rolled his eyes. She must be an idiot if she thought Dorsey or any man would not notice the difference immediately and attribute it to cotton wadding. She was alone, and he was about to join her, to make sure Dorsey did not achieve his object that night, when a better idea occurred to him. Miss Lambert would never be satisfied until she learned the truth of Dorsey’s character. So let her find out the truth. And he would be there to soften the blow, and make sure she did not lose her reputation. Then he would work out the puzzle of Miss Ariadne Lambert, who appeared at times so sharp and intelligent and then descended so rapidly into idiocy.
He slipped behind a taller, broader figure and entered Vauxhall with a group of ladies and gentlemen.
Chapter Six
Ingram strolled the infamous Lovers’ Walk of Vauxhall smoking a cigar, letting the smoke curl up past his nostrils and eddy into the dark. He could hear the lilt of a waltz from the orchestra and the sounds of lovers cooing in the dim, leafy recesses of the walk. Dorsey and Miss Lambert he had left behind in their private booth, having dinner. He had heard quite enough of the rascal’s flattery and the lady’s simpering giggles. Why he gave a damn he did not know, but Dorsey deserved a comeuppance. He had preyed upon innocent women for too long, women whose only fault was stupidity.
He did not want Miss Lambert to suffer their fate, penury and abandonment. Was it just the lady’s contradictory nature and the curiosity she engendered within him that made him care so much that it was her wealth and reputation that would suffer at Dorsey’s hands? He could not reason away the two disparate halves of the lady in question’s personality. When with Dorsey she appeared the complete fool. Apart from him, she seemed a rational human being, even an unusually intelligent one at times.
But she would not be the first intelligent woman to become a fool for love. He pondered the subject while he strolled, waiting the requisite length of time it woul
d likely take for them to consume their dinner and for the gentleman to propose a stroll down the caliginous avenues of the Lovers’ Walk.
He had known another woman who had allowed love to blind her. His youth had been spent on the streets of London as the forgotten branch of the title that he now held. There was a young woman there—a girl really—who had been kind to him, but whose lover had been surpassing cruel. He had tried but could not save her from her own poor judgment. She had died, pregnant and abandoned, in a sponging house.
A few short years later the serpentine twists of fate saw him elevated to the title of viscount. The lessons of his youth had never been forgotten; he would share his good fortune. Money as money did not appeal to him. It was only good for the use to which it could be put.
And he did use it well, though few in society knew that.
What it could not do was repair his reputation, earned when his title was new and he was naïve. Too proud and stubborn to make an effort, he did not have the knack of making friends among the ton. It took something he was not in possession of, an insouciance, a devil-may-care attitude that he just could not cultivate.
And that was the very heart of the problem.
As much as he denied it, he cared. He cared too damn much. No matter what people thought—and he knew what they thought, for far too many were willing to tell him—he did care about his dismal reputation. But pride, which he possessed in abundance, made him unwilling to do the social mending, the small talk, the making up to the right people that it would require to encourage a forgetful mind-set. If he would have publicized the many good deeds he did . . . but there. That was impossible, for his motives for what he did were buried deep within him, and to have them canvassed by the general public would make him uneasy. And so he existed in uneasy limbo, not a part of society, and yet by virtue of his title not to be disregarded.
In most cases he did not regret the few invitations denied him, however there were people he would like to meet on friendly terms but whose poor opinion of him had been ensured by gossip. In an odd twist, he was invited almost everywhere and yet welcome nowhere. He went to spite those who would snub him. And he lurked on the sidelines making everyone uncomfortable.
He glanced at his pocket watch in the dim light shed by a fairy lantern and then made his way back to the entrance of the walk. By his estimate he should have several minutes to wait before they made their way toward the walk—surely maidenly modesty on her part would make her pull back, hesitate—but no, there they were! Thank God he had not strolled longer, or he would have missed them. He slipped into a gap in the grove of trees and extinguished his cigar.
* * *
Tedious. The man was tedious beyond belief. So hideously tiresome was his company that Ariadne was tempted to botch the whole episode and leave any woman who was idiotic enough to enjoy Dorsey’s company to be taken advantage of, as she surely deserved.
But no. This was for Olivia and her friend, Henrietta Godersham. The woman, a widow of good and solid reputation and of an even more solid figure, had been seduced by Dorsey and then had written some desperately improper letters to him—Olivia had seen one and assured Ariadne that they were intensely improper in their sexual detail—reminding him of what they had been to each other, and asking him to take her back into his arms and his bed. He had taken large sums of money from her already but had fled her bed, presumably upon sighting a more tempting purse. Dorsey had apparently degenerated to practicing blackmail. He told Mrs. Godersham that without substantial and regular payments he would divulge all, publish the letters and let her be incarcerated in Bedlam for “nymphomania,” a lunacy that afflicted the female half of creation only. The corresponding male condition, satyriasis, was, from Ariadne’s limited knowledge, considered a mild and harmless tendency.
Ariadne glanced over at Dorsey. How this pallid, doltish, unctuous, fawning fellow could have inspired such febrile fantasies she would never understand. Mrs. Godersham must indeed be a desperate woman to entertain flights of sexual fantasy about such an anemic young man.
Now if it was Ingram—
She wisely left behind that line of thought for the time when she would be alone to enjoy it. Dorsey guided her toward the entrance to the Lovers’ Walk.
She drew back. “Oh, sir, I do not think it right for us to walk thither!” she said, despising the sound of her own voice, lifted in breathless, girlish accents ill-suited to both her intelligence and her mature appearance. But the hideously transformed dress helped her attain the correct attitude and Dorsey seemed wholly convinced.
“Miss Lambert,” he said, in wounded tones. “Do you not think that your gentle, unassuming manners are first in my mind? I would never guide you to any place or occupation that I thought would shock or dismay you.”
In faltering tones, she said, “But I have heard that gentlemen . . .”
When she did not go on, Dorsey bent his head toward her and said, “Yes?” in a caressing tone.
Now was the moment. With all the latent skill in acting she hoped she possessed, Ariadne looked at him with wide eyes, and injected a trembling note of quivering, breathless excitement into her words. “I have heard,” she whispered, “that gentlemen, on occasion, will try to . . . kiss a girl on the walk!” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled.
She could see the ill-concealed derision in his expression as he replied, “Ladies only get kissed on the Lovers’ Walk if they really want to, so mind you are not so naughty as to ask for it!”
She screamed in shock and playfully hit his arm.
He winced and rubbed it, then took her hand in his and pulled her down the dark walkway.
Ariadne felt a qualm, for Dorsey’s hand was much stronger than she thought it would be, and held hers in an iron grip. But there were people all around and she was safe, she reminded herself. This was just the next stage of the game, where the trap would be baited and the hook set. Then, when the correct moment came, Dorsey would be revealed for the scoundrel he was. And made to pay.
* * *
Ingram slipped through the darkness, his eyesight and senses sharpening. Whispering and murmurs came to him, voices and hushed pleas. Ladies giggled, their swains pleaded, mouths met and hands slid and rustled over silk, muslin and cashmere. And then he heard the tone he was listening for. He slid past a branch and felt for the pathway that was close.
“Sir, it is so very dark!”
That was Miss Lambert’s voice. Or one of her voices, for the fatuous tone was not the one she used when speaking to him. But then, she was not attracted to him as she was to Dorsey. The thought irritated him.
“Ariadne,” came Dorsey’s fawning tone. “Oh, Ariadne, if I could but tell you—”
“Sir! You forget yourself!”
“Oh, my dear lady, my deepest apologies, but I am a mere man, after all, and weak.”
“I forgive you,” she whispered.
“Would you forgive me if I did this?”
A scream and a giggle answered whatever incursions on her modesty Dorsey made. Ingram was about to turn and leave—if she truly wanted the pestilential idiot then let her have him—but he could not abandon a lady of such good repute to the machinations of a practiced swindler like Dorsey. She did not know his true nature, after all, even though he had tried to warn her.
Ingram frowned into the dark. Why had she not listened to him? One would think she would at least ask for details. When he again paid attention to the pair, he could hear nothing but a muffled snuffling and a grunt.
Then—
“Mr. Dorsey . . . Edward . . . you make me forget my proper upbringing! My Aunt Constance would be shocked if she saw me now!”
“Your aunt?”
“Yes. I looked after her for the last years of her life. She told me a lady’s reputation is like brass. She must polish it and care for it, or it will become sullied.”
“You were truly blessed to have such a sterling character as your . . . aunt, you say? Did she pass away?”
“Yes, poor dear Aunt Constance. I was ever so surprised at the will reading, you know, to hear that she had left me all her vast estate! I never thought such a thing. I really do not know what to do with it all but leave it with my banker, for I do not understand the first thing about money, you know, and it is such a vast amount. Ladies do not, I fear, have very practical minds. I have made a will, but all I can think to do is leave it to the care of my cats, Prinny, Maria and Caroline, and to a foundling hospital. I have no husband . . . or . . . or children of my own.”
“Would you like to marry?”
Ingram gritted his teeth. How foolish could she be to maunder on about her money to a virtual stranger! It was an invitation to thievery. And why was she speaking about her nonexistent cats again? Was she attics to let?
“I would like it above all things,” she said, in a breathless, girlish voice. “To have a gentleman to take care of all my finances, and . . . to care for me.”
“Oh, Ariadne, the man would be blessed indeed to have you, such a . . . such a handsome woman . . .”
There was a rustling for a moment, and then a shriek of dismay. Ingram tensed. It was getting late; the walk was deserted now.
“Mr. Dorsey!”
Miss Lambert’s voice was muffled; when she shrieked again and the sound of a branch breaking reached Ingram, he made his move.
Chapter Seven
Ariadne felt Dorsey’s hand crawl up to her cotton-wadding bosom and she shrieked with what she hoped was convincing fervor. Now she would swoon and Olivia would—
As she began to close her eyes on the dim pathway, she heard a hoarse, angry shout, and felt a thud beside her as a handful of the cotton wadding was ripped from the low neckline of her hideous dress. It was certainly not the cotton wadding that had made such a noise. She screamed again and opened her eyes on a struggle. Two figures—one of them certainly Dorsey—lashed about on the pathway, then with a shriek, her supposed swain struggled to his feet, shoved his assailant toward Ariadne, and fled along the path.
A Rogue's Rescue Page 4
