by Amanda Scott
She licked her lips nervously. “I didn’t expect to be—”
“How could you expect anything? You went off without thinking at all. Moreover, you lied to Tom Coachman, told him you meant to walk straight home.”
“He told you that?”
“Of course he did. As soon as he discovered you hadn’t returned. He was nearly sick with worry, moreover.”
“I shall apologize to him, sir. It was only that I could think of no other means—”
“I don’t wish to hear another word about what you thought or didn’t think!” he grated savagely. “I simply want to ensure that this sort of thing never happens again.”
“It won’t,” she muttered in a small voice, feeling quite wretched again.
“It had better not.” Though he was calmer, his anger still showed clearly. “I know you thought to help Meg by this escapade, but your action was foolish beyond permission. Catching thieves is the business of thieftakers, my girl, and you must leave them to tend to it. You can only confuse the issue and put yourself in jeopardy by such addlepated meddling as this, and if you ever do anything like it again,” he concluded grimly, “I promise I shall make you regret you were ever born. Is that clear?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Good. Have you got a warm dressing gown? We’ve got to get your hair dry.”
She stepped to the wardrobe to find the blue woolen gown, then dropped the towel in order to put it on, grateful for its fleecy warmth against skin that had been chilled as much by his threat as by the now-damp towel. She looked at him uncertainly as he stirred the fire and put another log in place. He had slipped his shirt back on, and the shirttail hung loosely about his slender hips.
“It will take some time to dry, sir. We shall be most unconscionably late, I fear.”
“I’ve already sent a message to South Audley Street excusing us from dinner.”
“Then we are to meet the Lynsteds at Lady Holland’s?”
“No.”
“I-I see.” She swallowed, wishing once again that she could assuage his anger, but not having the slightest notion how to go about it. Clearly, though, this was not the time to mention her missing pearls. She watched him as he poked at the fire. Then he glanced over his shoulder.
“Don’t stand there. Come to the fire. How do you dry your hair?”
“Meg usually makes me sit with my back to the fire whilst she brushes it dry.”
He carried the dressing chair over to the hearth. “Are you hungry?”
She hadn’t thought about it, but the moment he mentioned it, she realized she was famished. Ravenwood took her expression for an affirmative reply and tugged the bell cord. When Betty entered some moments later, he ordered that their dinner be served in half an hour in the sitting room.
Cicely protested as soon as the maid had gone. “I could have waited an hour, sir, and then we might have sat down to it properly in the dining room.”
“There is no point in dressing, my dear. You are going straight to bed once you have had your dinner.”
Deciding by the look of him that it was a measure of his extreme generosity that she was being allowed to eat dinner at all, Cicely subsided, sitting meekly in the dressing chair with her back to the cheerfully crackling fire while he brushed her hair. Silence fell between them, but after some moments of the rhythmic brushing, she could sense the angry tension easing from him again. She became aware just then of noises from the next room, where the servants were setting a table for their dinner. Some ten minutes later Betty stepped into the bedchamber to tell them their dinner was served.
Ravenwood put his hand to her head, gently grasping and squeezing first one hank of the fine hair, then another. The long, smooth tresses gleamed almost silvery in the dancing firelight. “’Tis still a trifle damp,” he said quietly, “but not dangerously so, I think.”
“I’m quite warm, my lord,” she told him, her own voice quite low, “and there is a fire in the other room as well, you know.”
Indeed, the table had been placed near-the sitting-room hearth. A white cloth covered it, and four candles glowed softly around a low floral centerpiece. Covered dishes sat upon a side table, and Michael stood waiting to serve them.
He stepped quickly to hold Cicely’s chair, then turned back to the side table to begin serving. After presenting the last dish, he stood back to await their pleasure. Ravenwood glanced up.
“You may go, Michael. We’ll serve ourselves now, and I’ll ring when I want you to clear.”
“There is another course, my lord,” he said deferentially.
“This will do,” Ravenwood replied, thus in three words dismissing a day’s work by the minions in the kitchen. Michael, however, knew better than to point this fact out to him, and Cicely, though she might have expostulated at any other time, thought it best to hold her tongue. Michael turned toward the door to the corridor. “Ah …” The single syllable made him pause and glance back at his master. “You may bring my port when I ring and also a small glass of cognac for her ladyship.”
“Very good, my lord.” He shut the door softly.
Cicely stared at her husband. “Ravenwood, I don’t want brandy.”
“It will keep off the chill and help you sleep,” he returned briefly.
The tone kept her from arguing with him, and silence reigned until they had finished eating. Ravenwood rang for the servants to clear, and a few moments later the food was gone and the table back in its customary place against the back of the sofa. Their chairs had been turned to face the fire, and Cicely held a brandy glass between her hands, swirling the contents gently and watching the effects of the firelight reflected in the amber liquid. Ravenwood’s port decanter and glass rested upon a small table at his right hand. The silence continued, but there was no longer any tension in it. It was a companionable silence now, and Cicely felt no wish to break it, although she did glance obliquely at him from time to time. Ravenwood stared into the fire, seemingly unaware of her glances, but the earlier intensity of that stare had diminished, and it now seemed only sleepy and relaxed.
A feeling of contentment crept over Cicely as she watched him more overtly. He lifted his glass to drink, and she watched the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed. He had tucked in his shirt before sitting down to eat, but he had not bothered with his neckcloth or waistcoat, and the shirt was unlaced at the top, so the collar splayed open in a V almost to the center of his chest.
A sort of melting sensation stirred deep within her, and instinct seemed to draw her to him. Impulsively she stood up and moved to sit upon the carpet beside his chair, her legs curled beneath her. Hesitantly she touched his knee. He looked down at her and she was glad to see tenderness in his expression where there had been anger before.
“Gilbert, I’m sorry I was so foolhardy. I’m sorry if I made you worry.”
He placed his left hand gently on her hair, stroking idly. “You frightened me witless, Princess.”
The words were simple and brief, but she could not doubt his sincerity. He might not love her, but he certainly had a care for her safety. Again the glowing warmth spread through her. Saying nothing further, for fear she would break the spell, she leaned her head against his knee and sipped her brandy, relaxing and beginning to feel languorously sleepy as a result of its influence. When she had finished it, she glanced up at him and, at his silent gesture, handed him the empty glass. Without taking his eyes from hers, he set it down and got to his feet, extending a hand to help her up. Still without speaking, but feeling closer to him than she had felt before, Cicely let him lead her into the’ bedchamber, where he gently relieved her of her dressing gown and turned back the quilts for her to climb into bed. A moment later he had shed his own clothing and climbed in beside her.
“You are retiring very early, sir,” she murmured.
“Very true,” he agreed, speaking softly against her ear, “but I do not intend to sleep yet awhile.”
She sighed again and snuggled closer, lett
ing him draw her into his arms. He was true to his word, and it was long before they slept. Before that time came, she remembered that she still had not told him about her stolen pearls. But she wanted to do nothing that would spoil the intimacy they shared. She would tell him in the morning.
When she awoke, however, he had gone, and Betty was opening the curtains to let in brilliant sunshine. The skies were clear, and it was as though there had never been a raincloud over London. Cicely stretched, remembering the evening before. Who would have thought that what had begun so disastrously could end so well?
Once more she remembered the lost pearls. If she told him, his anger would very likely be stirred again. She certainly couldn’t blame him if it was. The pearls were especially fine and had no doubt cost him a deal of money. It would certainly be better if she could get them back without his ever knowing they had been gone.
The notion came suddenly, and she sat up a little straighter, absently taking her chocolate tray from Betty. Her pearls had that very distinctive ruby-and-diamond clasp in the shape of her initials. Like Lady Uffington’s rubies, they could be described easily to someone who might arrange for their recovery.
She remembered then that she had also neglected to mention her suspicions of George Vaughan to Ravenwood. For a moment she thought perhaps she ought to tell him, but then it occurred to her that, since Vaughan himself had no cause to think she suspected him of anything, he might be the very man to recover her pearls for her. The more she thought about it, the better she liked the idea. But she could not arrange to meet the man by herself; so, much as Ravenwood seemed to dislike the association and much as she wanted to please him at the moment, she would have to speak with Sir Conrad.
That posed another problem. She could not very well warn her cousin about Alfpuddle without bringing Vaughan into the matter, and Sir Conrad would scarcely agree to do business with a man she suspected of being in league with thieves, so she decided to say nothing until she had recovered her pearls. That meant that she must not tell him about seeing the sneak thief either, lest he somehow suspect more than she meant to tell him. She would simply have to concoct some Banbury tale or other to account for being in Gray’s Inn Lane that would also account for not wishing Ravenwood to know about the loss of her pearls.
“Is his lordship in the house, Betty?”
“I think he is still dressing, m’lady. ’Tis early still.”
“Well, I wish to ride in the park, but I daresay he’s not dressed for it, so I shall go alone. Will you order my horse brought round, and fetch out my habit, please?”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
Fifteen minutes later she was ready. Hastening to the library, she dashed off a brief note to her cousin, claiming urgency and asking that he contrive to meet her in Rotten Row. Then she waited impatiently until her horse was at the door.
She didn’t see anyone to serve her purpose until they were several streets away, when she saw two urchins fighting a mock battle with wooden swords. Hailing the nearer one, and ignoring her groom’s muttered comments, she leaned over so that her voice would not carry and asked the boy if he wished to earn two shillings.
“Depends,” he said, observing her warily.
“I shall give you one if you will take this note to the big grey house in Mount Street, the one with the double green doors in front. You are to give this note to Sir Conrad Uffington and to no one else. You may then tell him that I said to give you another shilling and he will do so.”
“’N’ if ’e don’t?” sneered the boy rudely, but with his eye on the sealed missive.
“Well, he will. You may be sure of it,” she replied, smiling, “for I have asked him to do so in this note. Will you take it?”
“Aye. Wot if ’e ain’t t’ ’ome?”
“Then you shall have only one shilling, I’m afraid. But it is still more than you have now, you know.”
He digested this information briefly, then held out his hand. She pressed both note and shilling into it. “Thank you.”
“Ta,” he replied cryptically, before taking himself off.
She saw thankfully that he was actually headed toward Mount Street and hoped he could be trusted to deliver the note. She had not wanted to send one of the Ravenwood footmen, for fear the viscount would discover what she was about. Now was certainly not the moment for him to suspect her of a clandestine relationship with her cousin.
She had been riding in the park for over half an hour before she saw Sir Conrad riding toward her. “What news, sweet coz?” he asked, drawing up beside her. “Expected to see you at Lady Holland’s last night.”
“Ravenwood preferred to stay at home,” she replied glibly. “Conrad, the most dreadful thing! The pearls he gave me have been stolen, and I dare not tell him. I must get them back!”
“Well, I expect something might be contrived,” he answered, smiling, “but why can’t you tell the estimable viscount your troubles, luv?”
17
CICELY HAD THOUGHT A good deal about how she would answer that question. She looked at Sir Conrad now, wide-eyed. “He would be angry with me,” she said simply. “You see, a cutpurse stole my reticule in Gray’s Inn Lane.”
“What on earth were you doing there?” he demanded. “That’s no place for a gently nurtured female.”
“No, I know that now.” She lowered her gaze meekly. “I should never have gone there. But one of the maids knew of a fascinating shop there that sells all manner of buttons and dress trims. She has talked of it forever, and I decided to have my coachman take me there when I had nothing else to do yesterday. Of course he objected, and I soon saw why, when I saw what manner of place it was. Not at all genteel, as Meg would say.” She glanced up at him from under her lashes, willing him to be amused.
He was. “And when you saw what manner of place it was, minx, why did you not order your coachman to drive you home again?”
“Well, of course, I wouldn’t do anything so silly. The shop was right there, and with my coachman just outside, I didn’t think anything would happen to me, so I went right in. Only I didn’t find anything that I truly wanted, so I came away again. And that’s when it happened. A boy—well, a youth, really—just ran up and cut my reticule right off my arm.”
“And your pearls were in the reticule?”
She nodded. “The ones that Ravenwood gave me for a bride gift.”
“Why were you not wearing them, coz?”
“Well,” she said with a wry smile, “it didn’t seem to be precisely the sort of place to be puffing off my consequence, you know. Still, I must get them back. Do you think your Mr. Vaughan might be able to help me?”
“Don’t see why not.” He looked at her speculatively. “You will have to pay him a fee, of course, plus a reward upon the successful conclusion of his efforts. Have you got any money of your own, coz?”
“Yes, of course. Ravenwood makes me a very generous allowance,” she said firmly, hoping she would have enough. “How much will be required?”
“For the fee, not very much, since he will not be expected to leave Town. Only his expenses, I think. But for the reward …” He named a figure that made her blink.
“But that’s outrageous, sir!”
“Nevertheless, my dear, he must be empowered to offer the thief more than a fence will offer him. You would not wish to take the risk of losing all, simply for the lack of a little generosity.”
“N-no, of course not,” she replied, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “And it will not have to be paid unless he is successful, of course.”
“Very true.” He looked at her again, searchingly. “Shall I speak to him for you?”
“Yes, please. I would rather not have to deal with him directly.”
“Of course. ’Tis not the business of a lady of Quality to deal with such men as that. I shall engage to speak with him and then present you with the reckoning. Fair enough?”
“Indeed, yes,” she replied sincerely. “I cannot tell you
how much this relieves my mind, sir. It would have been most uncomfortable to have to explain this business to Ravenwood.”
“A harsh husband, coz? I shouldn’t have thought it.”
“No, of course not. But the pearls were expensive, I’m sure, and it was through my own stupidity that they came to be stolen. Confessing the whole would not be pleasant.”
“Well, you may still have to confess the whole, dear cousin, if George Vaughan fails to recover the goods. In any case, I hope you have learned a lesson from this and will not go to such a neighborhood again.”
“Oh, indeed I have,” she answered with a shudder. “If I had not been so worried about Meg, I doubt any of this would have happened.”
“Must say, ’tis a mystery what became of her,” he said. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard a whisper?”
“Not one word, and ’tis that which has me in such a worry, for despite the fact that Ravenwood and the Runners all have men looking for her, no one has seen her, and I’m sure she would communicate with me if only she were able to do so.”
“Well, she may turn up yet with some tale or other.” He stopped speaking suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he looked straight ahead. “I believe our tête-à-tête is about to end, coz.”
She followed the direction of his gaze and saw her husband approaching in company with two of his friends. He was mounted on a magnificent young black, whose skittish action testified to his lack of company manners. As they drew nearer she recognized Philip Wensley-Drew and Roger Carrisbrooke.
Ravenwood smiled, nodding a greeting to Sir Conrad. “Good morning, my dear,” he said to his wife. “I’d no notion you were out and about so early this morning.”
“’Tis the beautiful weather, sir. After the dismal time we had of it yesterday, this brilliant sunshine seemed to suggest exercise. Good morning, Mr. Wensley-Drew, Mr. Carrisbrooke. Do you know my cousin?”
The three men acknowledged an acquaintance, though the acknowledgment did not appear to afford Mr. Wensley-Drew, at least, any particular gratification. He looked as morose as ever. Sir Conrad and Cicely turned to join the others, and somehow Cicely found herself separated from her cousin and riding beside her husband behind the others.
