by Thea Devine
All things he'd willingly renounced in favor of life in the
try. Look at him now—prowling around brothels in the name of justice, and girding himself for a Season to root out a killer.
God.
He'd given up the rooms at Cauldwell Gardens. A good thing, because his vanishing vestal could never find him again. Couldn't distract him again, couldn't beg for help and importune him to marry her.
She'd left of her own volition anyway. He'd never see her again. And that was to the good—she was just a cheap whore anyway, and he was just lying to himself if he thought otherwise.
So why was she still in his head and on his mind? Why was he still thinking about her? Why did he still feel there was danger surrounding her and that her innocence was no pretense and she really needed help?
And why did the sex of her still suffuse his senses?
It made no sense. He'd never see her again.
He looked up and disengaged from the thought of her as Cryder entered with his tea.
Claridge's was brimful of people at eleven in the morning. All those trim, tight, beautiful a la mode young heiresses, fresh-faced, glowing-eyed, setting out just a little later than usual for their morning rides.
It was easy to mingle among them, to waltz through the lobby and the dining room where dozens of families were just finishing up brunch and deciding how to spend the rest of the morning.
There was a palpable excitement in the air: the debutantes had been presented, the invitations had been issued for the Queen's Ball for the succeeding Saturday evening, and the formal launch of the Season was about to begin.
No one noticed her—but Angilee had dressed not to be noticed—as she slipped through the dining room from the lobby to the entrance that was accessible from the guest elevators.
This was the trickiest part: someone could recognize her. Someone her father had hired could discover her. The concierge might remember her.
The elevators were so slow, she thought she would scream. They stopped at every floor. God, there were so many guests, all
those fathers, all those families, all those girls who were competing with her.
This was an impossible task. Her father would win.
No, he wouldn't.
She positioned herself at the endmost elevator, with her face averted, and waited impatiently for the lift. Time was flying. She could feel it rushing against her face like the wind. She had accomplished so much, and there was such a long way to go.
It all seemed insurmountable suddenly. She felt as if she had thrown everything away and there was no chance to escape her fate.
She felt like a fool. Except she had no time for that. That could come later. Everything else could come later.
For now, she had a mission, and she would push through. She moved aside as a dozen people emerged from the lift, and she slipped in and urgently pressed the button.
One person dove in before the cage door closed, and she held her breath that it wasn't someone her father had engaged. But no, he got off on the third floor. She let out her breath.
A moment later, she was cautiously easing herself out of the lift into familiar territory: the silent, hushed floor of suites—all corner suites—all as huge and luxurious as her father's.
It had taken fifteen minutes to get up here from the time she entered the lobby. And the reception area was empty. There were no guards. There was no sign anyone occupied any of the suites. No sign that maid service had either come or gone.
And she felt a moment of pure terror that there was nothing else she could do, no other plan to formulate.
There was virtually nowhere to hide, unless she crouched under one of the two console tables, where she could easily be seen by anyone exiting any of the rooms or coming off of the elevator.
Other than that, there was a thick, plush oriental rug on the floor, a gilt-framed mirror hanging over each of the consoles, a small, round parlor table in the center, on which mail and messages were distributed, and two ceiling-height potted palms in glazed pots, one on either side of the two bronze elevator doors.
Her frustration was intense. She should have asked at the
front desk about the maid service. Or the concierge. He probably wouldn't have remembered her. She ought to be grateful there weren't armed guards outside her father's suite.
They could, however, be inside.
Everyone could be inside, just waiting for her to make an egregious mistake.
Except, she'd already made it by coming here and leaving herself so wide open for discovery.
She felt her bones turn to jelly as she heard the rumble of the elevator coming upward and saw the brass pointer above swinging inexorably toward this floor.
Oh, God, now what?
She pressed the button frantically, but that was no help—the second car was at the lobby level, and not moving, and the rumble sounded louder and louder in her ears.
She darted to the opposite door and squeezed herself tight against the palm. After all, what could happen? It could be any one of the occupants of the other suites, at which point she really need make no excuses; it could be the maids, and they hopefully would be intent on their purpose, would, with any luck, start on her father's suite of rooms, and wouldn't even notice her squeezed behind the palm.
Or it might be Zabel, and in that event, her mission would be over right then, right there.
She held her breath and wedged herself even more tightly between the wall and the trunk of the palm, thankful she was wearing drab colors, and closed her eyes tight, as the lift made a noisy halt and the door slid open to the sound of voices.
Zabel? Neighbors? Maids?
Another" sound, as she thought her heart would explode— wheels. Something rolling. A trunk, a handcart? Room service?
God, she couldn't stand this. If by the grace of fate she was not caught, she wasn't coming back. Whatever she meant to accomplish, she must do today and never return.
She opened her eyes, fully expecting to find Zabel standing there, menacing and right.
But no—and she almost dropped to the floor—not Zabel. Not neighbors—luck was with her—it was two women, one of them
at the back end of a handcart with supplies and cleaning implements, and the other unlocking the door to Zabel's suite.
Oh, dear God .. . she felt paralyzed as she watched them pull the handcart over the threshold and park it where it kept the door from swinging shut.
Oh oh oh oh ... the relief pounding in her kept rhythm with the pounding of her heart. A minute to catch her breath, to relax—but she couldn't spare that moment—she couldn't stay here like this—she had to get into the suite.
She heard the chatter of the maids as they descended on Zabel's bedroom to make the bed and dust.
Now...
She clamped down on her fear, eased herself out from behind the palm and darted to the handcart and crouched behind it.
Great—that left her wide open to be seen by anyone coming out from the other suites or the elevator.
Whose stupid plan had this been?
The maids were still in the bedroom. She slipped into the room and made for the sitting room windows where there were thick brocade curtains framing the view.
But—the maids might dust and shake out the curtains. Still they were the safest bet, thick and encompassing like the curtains she'd hidden behind at Bullhead Manor.
She had to trust.. . she had come this far on gut and guile, and what else was there for her to do? Her money was limited, she'd spent too much already on the fees to the agency and on Mrs. Geddes' salary and the flat.
Money didn't last. It was the hardest thing for her to come to grips with after the free-spending life she'd led with her father. Money ran out. It could buy only so much when you were trying to spread it out over so many different expenses and you had to pay them.
It was her only salvation, and she had to do everything she could to conserve it. So there really was n
o choice: she had to be as circumspect as possible and get out of the hotel with a trunk-load of her expensive clothes and that invitation to the Queen's Ball.
She couldn't afford either otherwise, and she had to go to that ball, and she needed those gowns. It was simple as that, and it was the only plan she had, and she meant to carry it through. And the rest she'd think about later.
Kyger rode that morning in the Park. This was a pleasant enough exercise on many levels. All the beautiful aristocrats were out taking the air, with the full influx entering the mill around eleven o'clock. There were carriages and horseback riders; there were those who chose to stroll and some who brought a light repast and stopped to have an impromptu picnic.
They all knew each other, or if they didn't, they knew the right people to introduce them to the right people. It was a fabulous quadrille with its own fancy steps, its own intricate pairings, and all of it done with an ease of manner and deceptively clever maneuvering that fooled no one as to its true purpose.
But then, these people were experts at that.
He had hated those games, hated the insincerity, hated the calculated desperation of the marriage mart.
And here he was, the last place he'd ever thought he'd be, secretly seeking the key to a demagogue's downfall, a vanishing vestal, and a financial fountain that could fund a dead fanatic's future.
And no sevens anywhere ...
He listened in on the snippets of conversation as he cantered past knots of people and slow-moving carriages. It was all the same; wicked gossip about who looked haggard, who looked thin, who was beyond redemption, who was the coming thing.
Derision abounding for the American heiresses, irritation that their turf was being invaded, overrun, penetrated by the enemy. Wagers as to who would wind up with whom. Who was the most eligible, who was the most desirable, who had the most money, who would buy a marriage.
Debutantes did not care about Tony Venable.
Nowhere did he see evidence of the invocation cards. Nowhere did he hear any mention of Venable at all. All the focus was on the coming events of the Season. The Queen's Ball. The exhibit at the Royal Academy. The results at Ascot. The right invitations. The competition. The fashion. With whom to be seen, where to be seen, whom to ignore.
He rather liked being the mysterious stranger among them. He knew they were looking at him. He selectively acknowledged some of them. He heard the whispers: Who is he? Why don't we know him? Oh, I would like to know him . ..
Find out who he is—
The first step toward securing coveted invitations—make everyone want you because they didn't know you and thought perhaps they should.
Just in case. Just in case you were somebody. Just in case you were fabulously wealthy. And you weren't married. And you were looking for a wife.
He was back to the town house two hours later for a light lunch and a change of clothes. Out once again, on horseback, and over to the playing fields at the Crossway for a well-publicized cricket match between the teams from the Eligibles' Club and Heeton's.
Here he was in the company of men of influence and power, avid sportsmen, who were perhaps rabid about politics. Enough to donate that kind of money to Tony Venable's cause? Hard to tell. They were no different from each other than they were from him.
In the stands, there were a dozen or more women, accompanied by their chaperones and their fathers, who had a betting interest in the game.
The rooting was hot-tempered and fierce. There were no conversations, except about who should be on the playing field, and what the batter's chances were against the next pitch.
On the surface, attending a game was a good idea, but in the heat of a game, no one was discussing politics and money over the consequences of a fielder's inability to make a critical catch.
In the end, he left the game early and took a leisurely ride back to Town and through the Park again, where the late afternoon loiterers were taking another turn themselves in the hopes of seeing or meeting someone interesting.
Then they would ready themselves for the evening's events, which now, in advance of the formal opening of the Season, comprised private dinners, or a musicale, attending the theater or the opera.
None of which interested him. He was more interested in trying to sort things out, to lay out the mysteries and make sense of them. He would eat in and spend the evening at home .. .
—the town house, home?—
He wondered if he'd ever had a home. Even when he'd managed Waybury, it had been Lujan's home. This town house was Lujan's home away from home, when he made his now monthly sojourn to Town.
Where was his home?
It was strange to think he'd never had one. And he suddenly felt a strong elastic pull to remedy that. And that maybe the purpose of his journey to demonize a demagogue was to finally bring him home.
An hour seemed like a lifetime when you were hiding behind a thick muffled curtain on a warm spring day.
The maids, chattering, laughing, efficient, went from Zabel's room to Angilee's, which really ought not have needed any straightening at all, spent ten minutes or so in there, and then back into the parlor and sitting room to dust, sweep the carpet, and swipe the mirrors and metal surfaces with a vinegar-and-water cleaner, and then they were gone.
Angilee took a deep breath to calm her thrumming body and shaking hands, and then she pulled back the curtain from the far side.
Empty. Quiet. Except for her incessantly pounding heart which was so loud, she'd been certain the maids would hear it.
There was no sound anywhere. The walls were so thick no noise could penetrate, not from the reception room, not from outside. She wouldn't be able to hear a footstep, even. If Zabel should return, she would hear the key in the lock, and nothing more. And then she'd have perhaps thirty seconds to hide.
Where would she hide?
Oh, hell, did that matter right now? Under the bed, then, she thought, as she darted into the room that had been hers. Would that fool anyone? She didn't want to try. The thing was to get what she needed in the next ten minutes and get out.
Dresses first. Forget the undergarments and accessories. That could come later.
Oh, but her jewelry—maybe her jewelry . . . damn, damn, damn . .. was anything even here? The room was neat. She ripped open a dresser drawer.
Yes! Piles of lingerie. Yes. Yes. Her relief made her knees weak.
No time for that.
She needed a suitcase—or something .. . would Zabel have stored her trunk? The suite was so huge, he really would not have needed to spend that money. There was room enough in the dressing area, which was as large as a bedroom itself.
Let my trunk still be there.
Her clothes were still there, all hung neatly encased in tissue. Oh, thank God. But not the trunk. The trunk was gone.
Now what? Time was flying. Zabel had suitcases. She was certain of it. She hadn't wanted to crush her clothes in that small a space, but the good thing was, she'd be able to manage suitcases, where she might have had to call a bellhop to take her trunk.
All right. Suitcases, then. She went into Zabel's room, into his dressing room. Into the storage cupboard first—yes, there, on the top shelf—everything arranged to give her the most trouble and take the most time—into his bedroom for the chair at the small
desk by his bed ...
Don't look at his bed. Don't smell his scent, which permeated the room. Don't think, just do ... just go . .. get the suitcases .., there—two fairly large canvas suitcases trimmed in brown leather . .. they would do just fine ., . put back the chair, close the cupboard doors, the dressing room door, his bedroom door, make sure no one had entered while she was taking the suitcases.. . couldn't be too cautious ... it was just a little after the noon hour
by her watch ...
What had Zabel done in the midday hour? She couldn't remember anymore. He was probably at some club, probably with his cronies planning the evening's debauchery.
<
br /> Don't think about that either.
Into her room, open the suitcases, which actually were fairly deep. And just pile in the clothes. Fold, push down, crushing the tissue, crushing the delicate fabrics—the satins, the silks, the feathers, the lace—in they went, indiscriminately, haphazardly.
She had no idea which dresses she was taking, just enough to fill two suitcases. And when they were piled up with ber dresses, she threw in handfuls of the spider-web delicate lingerie, and only then did she close the lids and lock them down.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe. And lift the suitcases off the bed.
Oh, dear God, they were heavy. Heavier than you'd think with those thin silk dresses. She staggered out into the parlor with them. How was she ever going to get out of the hotel with them? That would come later.
She needed that invitation, and that would be either in the desk in Zabel's room or ... or—she didn't know where.
Into Zabel's room again. To the desk. Papers on the desk. Nothing that looked like an invitation. Damn. Into the drawer. More papers. It seemed as though there were an inordinate amount of papers for a man who was just visiting.
She didn't care. Just the invitation, that was all she wanted. Nothing in the desk. Back into the parlor, into the sitting room where there was another desk, this one by the window.
Time, time, time ... nothing on the surface. More papers in the drawer—wait—under the papers, a square vellum envelope. Open it, hurry—copperplate script—
The Patronesses of the Royal Philanthropic Society Request the Pleasure of Your Company.,.
There it was—it might even be, it probably was Zabel's invitation, but he could easily secure another. Better still, maybe he wouldn't rake the trouble to attend. All right She could leave. Except—
Wait—her jewelry—
No—Zabel had probably put it in the hotel safe ... A quick look ... Back into her room—
She always kept her most loved pieces that she wore the most in a small leather case that had a mechanism she could attach to the underside of the lowest dresser drawer, so that the case was far back under the drawer so it didn't catch when the drawer was pulled open.
