by Tracy Grant
Secrets of a Lady
Tracy Grant
In the glittering world of Regency London, where gossip is exchanged—and reputations ruined—with the tilt of a fan, Mélanie Fraser is the perfect wife. Devoted to her husband, Charles, the grandson of a duke, she is acknowledged as society's most charming hostess. But just as the elegant façade of Regency London hides a dark side, Mélanie is not what she seems. She has a secret: one that could destroy her perfect jewel-box life forever . . . and the cost to keep it is an exquisite heirloom ring surrounded by legend and power. The search for it will pull Mélanie and Charles into a gritty underworld of gin-soaked brothels, elegant gaming hells, and debtors' prisons. In this maze of intrigue, deception is second nature and betrayal can come far too easily . . .
TRACY GRANT
Secrets of a Lady
(Originally published as Daughter of the Game)
For Penny
with thanks for believing in the book and in
me, and not letting me give up on either one
There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out
At every joint and motive of her body.
O, these encounters, so glib of tongue,
That give a coasting welcome ere it comes,
And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts
To every ticklish reader! set them down
For sluttish spoils of opportunity,
And daughters of the game.
—SHAKESPEARE, Troilus and Cressida,
ACT IV, SCENE V
…Truth is truth
To the end of reckoning.
—SHAKESPEARE, Measure for Measure,
ACT V, SCENE I
Prologue
London
November 1819
I t was the sort of night that cloaks a multitude of sins. Clouds drifted across the three-quarter moon. Mist hovered over the cobblestones, like cannon smoke after a battle. Yellow pools of lamplight glowed with murky radiance. Even in the classical expanse of Berkeley Square, with its pedimented houses and stately trees and decorous gravel walks, damp and soot choked the air.
Two passersby in sturdy wool cloaks stuck close to the shade of the plane trees by the square railing. They could have passed for a pair of manservants returning home from their evening off, the better for a pint or two in a Covent Garden tavern or even a few glasses of blue ruin in a St. Giles gin mill. Which was exactly the impression they intended to give.
The slighter of the two paused to tug her felt cap more firmly over her hair. A long apricot-colored strand slipped loose and swung over her shoulder. The woman, whose name was Meg, muttered a dockside curse and pushed the telltale hair back into its pins. She knew she should have cropped the whole mass short. Vanity had no place in games where one played for life-and-death stakes.
Her companion cast a sidelong glance at her. She could feel the impatience rising off of him, like the stench of damp in the lodging house where she’d been born. That was the problem with Jack. His quick temper had been the ruin of more than one promising job. A knife blade could be right handy, but at the wrong time it was as likely to land you in hot water as to get you out of it.
Music sounded from one of the larger houses across the square. Not the sort of music she and Jack danced to in the taverns of Seven Dials, their blood hot from the exhilaration of a job well done. No, these were the genteel tones of a waltz. A party was in progress. A decorous party. An expensive party.
The jangle of bridles and the clop of hooves echoed through the damp, sticky air. A whiff of pine and pitch came from the torches carried by the linkboys who ran alongside to light the way for the carriages. Perfectly matched horses tossed their glossy heads. Crested door panels glittered in the mist.
Jack turned his head. Curse the man. A glimpse of riches could distract him as easily as a woman’s smile could most men.
The door of the house swung open, and candlelight spilled onto the portico, bright as the glint of gold coins. Two footmen hurried down the steps. Christ, they were perfectly matched, too, from their silver-buckled shoes to their powdered wigs. Neither could be more than an inch under six feet. Perhaps their employers bred them, like the horses.
Dark-coated gentlemen and pastel-gowned ladies stepped down from the carriages. A month’s pickings in gold and gems sparkled on Grecian knots of hair, round white-gloved wrists, in the snowy folds of a cravat, on the ebony head of a walking stick.
Jack’s eyes gleamed with a lust hotter than he’d ever shown for her. Meg gave a quick shake of her head. There’d be riches enough for them tonight, but their work wasn’t here.
A gust of wind came up, sharp with the bite of November. The sweet, flowery smell of expensive scent and fancy soap drifted from the partygoers. Meg clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder and urged him forward. He jerked away. When he looked at her like that she knew she was playing dice with her life.
Jack turned his gaze from the party and strode forward. A knot of tension Meg had barely acknowledged eased in her throat.
They walked on, the branches black overhead, fallen November leaves crunching underfoot. They knew the house they wanted. Four stories of smooth gray stone, a chimney-studded slate roof, and sixteen tall, ivory-framed windows across the front alone. A house whose owners had no need to worry about the window tax, nor the candle tax either, judging by the glow that came from the front hall even at this hour.
Meg and Jack had made a fair study of the building in recent days. Now they moved past the columned portico, with its shiny mahogany door and gilt-tipped fanlight and lacy wrought-iron lampposts, as if it was no different from any other house that lined the square.
They rounded the corner and turned into the mews. The air smelled of dung and saddle soap. A horse whinnied in its stall as they passed. Another stamped its feet. They paused to make sure there was no human disturbance, then moved on.
Jack had promised that the gate to the back garden was well oiled. For once, he was true to his word. It swung open without a sound. The garden was a mass of shadows. Meg paused and let her eyes adjust until she could make out the trees and shrubs, the metal furniture and stone statues.
She started forward. Her soft-soled shoes skidded on the mist-dampened flagstones, and she nearly went crashing into a bench. Jack caught her arm in a rough grip. His fingers had a bite like iron. She was glad, not for the first time, that she’d never been on the receiving end of one of his blows.
The window they wanted was on the second floor, at the right-hand corner. A faint glow shone behind the curtains. They paused for a moment, staring up at the house. A staff of twelve lived behind those stone walls, not counting the coachman and grooms who had quarters in the stable. But the servants would all be snug abed now, save for one footman on duty in the hall, who had a tendency to doze at his post. The master of the house, Charles Fraser, and his lady were out for the evening. It would be near dawn before they returned home.
Charles Fraser was a grand nob indeed. A Member of Parliament. The grandson of a duke. This house, so quiet and still tonight, was the scene of some of Mayfair’s most glittering parties. Fraser’s wife was said to be one of the most beautiful women in London. They’d glimpsed her on the previous day, stepping out of her lacquered sapphire phaeton. A flash mort indeed. Even Jack’s eyes had sparked with an interest that could not be put down wholly to Mrs. Fraser’s pearl earrings and diamond brooch.
Jack unfastened his cloak and swung it off his shoulders. A shaft of moonlight caught the steel handle of the knife in his belt. Meg took off her own cloak and began to unwind the long rope that was wrapped round her waist. Her senses quickened with anticipation. If they played their cards right to
night, they’d end up with enough money to let them live like kings for months.
Provided, of course, that she could keep Jack’s temper in check. Their employer had made it clear that violence might become unavoidable. Meg was prepared for it. But dead bodies could be a damned nuisance.
Colin Fraser peered down at his sister in the tin-shaded blur of her night-light. A red mark spread across her forehead, like a big, ugly inkblot on smooth white paper. Colin’s neck prickled with shame. He wanted to run to the long-case clock in the hall and turn back the hands so that the last eight hours had never happened. But a traitorous part of him also wanted to shake his sister. It had been her idea to play with the new wooden weapons Uncle Edgar had given him. Jessica had grabbed the battle-ax and refused to put it down. To be honest, Colin hadn’t minded. Jessica was the only opponent at hand, even if she was not quite three.
The sword and ax hadn’t made a true clanging, like proper weapons, but the sound had been very satisfactory. Jessica had screamed with delight while their bare feet slithered over the nursery floorboards and the weapons met again and again.
Colin wasn’t sure what had happened next, except that instead of striking the battle-ax, his wooden sword had crashed against Jessica’s head. She’d fallen to the floor, screaming in earnest. Laura, their governess, had thrown open the door and gathered Jessica up. Mummy had come running, in her dressing gown, with her hair in curl papers, and Daddy, without any shirt at all and with shaving lather on his face.
They’d all fussed about Jessica, of course. None of them had seen the truth of what had happened. Finally Jessica had buried her head in Mummy’s sleeve, and Daddy had turned to him, his eyes as hard as the gray marble of the drawing room mantel. “Do you know what you’ve done, lad?” His voice had gone rough, the way it did when he was angry or upset, so that he sounded like the people who lived near their house in Scotland.
The memory gave Colin a sick feeling, like the time the milk in his chocolate had gone sour. It scared him to think that he had hurt Jessica without meaning to at all. He didn’t understand how he could be so sorry she was hurt and at the same time want to scream and jump up and down because everyone saw her side of the story rather than his.
Berowne, the family cat, stirred in his nest of quilt at the foot of the bed and opened one yellow eye. “I’m sorry,” Colin mouthed.
Berowne closed his eye and put a gray paw over his face. Jessica’s head sank deeper into the pillow. Her arm tightened round her stuffed rabbit. Colin bent down, careful not to touch the red mark, and brushed his lips against her forehead. “I’m sorry, Jessy.”
Jessica didn’t open her eyes. Colin watched her a moment longer. Then he scratched Berowne behind the ears, picked up his candle, and slipped out of the room.
The footmen had long since snuffed the candles in the wall sconces, except those in the downstairs hall, which was left lit for Mummy and Daddy. Colin hesitated in the corridor. He’d scarcely touched his supper, because his throat had been tight and his insides had been all twisted up, but now he was suddenly starving.
Michael would be on duty in the hall. Even though he often nodded off, Colin didn’t want to take any risks. Michael was a capital fellow, but he might think it was his duty to send Colin back to bed and Colin didn’t want to get him in trouble. So instead of walking to the big central staircase with the curving rail he liked to slide down, he went to the green baize door that led to the servants’ stairs.
His candle flickered when he opened the door. He shielded the flame with one hand and gripped the pewter candlestick tighter with the other. He made his way down three flights of stairs and pushed open the door to see the comforting glow of the coals in the kitchen range.
But for some reason he paused on the threshold. In the small circle of light from his candle, the room looked just the same as it always did. The big mass of the range against the wall and the smaller stewing stove beneath the window; the long outline of the deal table where he sometimes sat and licked the cake bowl; the blurs on the wall that were copper pans and enamel tins; the bell board with its row of bells for every room in the house.
Maybe it was something about the smell that didn’t feel right. Something he couldn’t put a name to, except that it was different from the scent of yeast and charcoal and the salt and lemon skins the maids used to clean the copper pans. For a moment, his throat went tight and he had the funniest impulse to run back up the stairs.
But that was silly. He was six years old and he wasn’t afraid of shadows or ghosts or ogres under the bed. He stepped into the room and pushed the door shut behind him.
The stone floor felt cold and slithery. He took a step forward. And then he paused, because his eyes had made out something else in the shadows by the doorway to the scullery. It looked like a person.
“Michael?” he said. Michael was the only person up at this hour.
He felt a stir of movement beside him. Something hard shot out and covered his mouth, driving the breath from his lungs. Something else gripped his arms behind his back. His candle fell from his fingers, fizzled, and went out. A scream rose up in his throat, but he couldn’t give voice to it. He kicked out with his feet.
Whoever was holding him gave a strangled yelp of pain. “Christ, you little bastard.” It sounded like a woman. “What the hell were you standing there for, Jack?”
“Didn’t have much choice, did I?” The second voice came from near the range. It was definitely a man’s. “Here’s where I was when I heard the door open. Talk about rotten timing.”
“No time for talk at all. Bloody hell, Jack, shut him up, so we can finish the job.”
The man crossed the room, a swift, shadowy blur. Colin screamed into the hand that was muffling his mouth. The grip on his arms tightened until it felt as though they were being pulled from their sockets.
The man hovered over him for a moment. Colin couldn’t make out his face, but he saw him draw back his arm.
A fist slammed into his jaw. He saw a blaze of light, brighter than all the candles in the drawing room chandelier. Then everything went black.
Chapter 1
“A ll the world may be a stage, but sometimes the dialogue’s too bloody ridiculous for any self-respecting playwright.” Charles Fraser set down his candle and shrugged out of his evening coat, sparing a silent curse for the close-fitting fashions of the day. “What is it about diplomatic receptions that always brings on the most god-awful lapses in tact?”
“Don’t tell me you expect diplomats to be diplomatic, darling.” Mélanie unwound the voluminous cashmere folds of her shawl from her shoulders and began to peel off her gloves. “That would be much too logical.”
Charles tossed his coat over a tapestry chair back, turned up the crystal Agrand lamp that had been left lit in readiness for them, and moved to the fireplace. They never had his valet and Mélanie’s maid wait up, but a fire was laid in the grate. He picked up the poker and stirred the coals.
“What particularly appalling dialogue caught your attention tonight?” Mélanie asked.
Charles turned from the fire to look at his wife. She was sitting at her dressing table, her feet drawn up onto the striped damask chair so she could remove her evening slippers. Her glossy dark ringlets fell about her face, exposing the curve of her neck. The pearl-embroidered skirt of her gown was tucked up as she unwound the ivory satin ribbons that crisscrossed her silk-stockinged ankles. Strange, when he knew every inch of her, that his breath still caught at the sight. “Lady Bury told Ned Ellison that his wife looked charming dancing with Peter Grantham and hadn’t they been dancing to the same waltz at the Cowpers’ only two nights ago?”
Mélanie looked up, one slipper dangling by the ribbons from her fingers. “Oh, dear. That would seem glaringly obvious on any stage. Though if Ellison doesn’t know his wife’s sleeping with Peter Grantham, he’s the last person in London not to be in on the secret.”
Charles moved to the satinwood table that held his great-gra
ndmother’s Irish crystal decanter and glasses. “Poor bastard. One of those mad fools besotted with his own wife.” He shot her a glance. “Not that I’d know anything about that.”
She returned the glance, a glint in her eyes. “Of course not.”
He took the stopper from the decanter. Ellison’s gaze, as he watched his wife circle the floor with her lover, had stirred images of a past Charles would just as soon forget. He paused, the heavy cut-glass stopper in his hand, an uncomfortable weight in his memory.
Mélanie flexed her foot. “I rather think his adoration may be the problem. Too much can be smothering. Literally. Think of Othello.”
Charles jerked himself out of the past. “Ellison doesn’t strike me as the violent sort.” He poured an inch of whisky into two glasses.
“He’s a quiet brooder.” She dropped her slippers to the floor and got to her feet. “They’re the ones who snap.”
Seven years of marriage and her perceptiveness about people could still surprise him. He set down the decanter and replaced the stopper. “Am I the sort who’d snap?”
She turned from lighting the tapers on her dressing table, laughter in her eyes. “Controlled, dispassionate Charles Fraser? Oh, no, darling. Anyone who’s been to bed with you knows you aren’t nearly as cold as you let on.”
He walked over to her, carrying the glasses of whisky. “So I’m the perfect sort of husband to betray?”
“Not quite.” Her gaze was appraising, but her lips trembled with humor. “You’re much too intelligent, dearest. You’d be damnably difficult to deceive.”
He put one of the glasses into her hand. “Sounds as though you’ve considered it.”
She leaned against the dressing table and took a meditative sip of whisky. “Well, I might.” Her eyes, a color between blue agate and the green of Iona marble, gleamed in her pale face. “Except that it would be quite impossible to find anyone who’s your equal, my love.”
