“Coffee, sir?”
“Yes, coffee.” For once, it was too early to start drinking. And too damned important.
Edwards bowed and closed the door behind him with a mercifully soft click.
Andrew dried his face on the soft cotton towel and regarded his reflection with disgust. No time to shave. He ran a comb through his hair and stepped into the trousers that Edwards had laid out for him the night before. He was dressed in record time and hurried to the library.
“Tell me you’re jesting, Dash.” He crossed the room to the coffeepot that Edwards had just delivered and poured them both a cup. Disdaining cream or sugar, he took his cup to his desk and sat, looking for a sheet of paper and a pen.
Dash brought his cup to sit across from Andrew. “Not jesting, Drew. And I believe I’ve already notified all our mutual friends,” he said in a quiet voice.
Andrew stilled and sat back in his chair. “What happened?”
“After you left us last night, Jamie and Charlie decided to go to Thackery’s and see what ladybirds might be available. McPherson and I went looking for friends down by the docks. You know McPherson’s fondness for opium dens.”
“I thought he’d given that up.”
“Aye, well, not entirely, it seems. Or at least not last night. He wanted to go to one of his old cribs and have a pipe. I watched over him, let him sleep some of it off, then took him home. I managed to get him to his room, then stopped on my way out to help myself to a brandy in his parlor. And then…then, when I was at the door, I heard the shot.”
“But how do you know it was suicide? It could have been someone breaking in. Could have been an accident.”
Dash gave a sad smile and looked down into his coffee. “He left a note, Drew. And his pistol was by his side.”
Andrew’s mind refused to grasp the notion. Dead? Conrad McPherson? They’d been friends since Eton. They’d played on the same cricket team. They’d joined the Light Dragoons together, though they hadn’t been assigned the same unit. They’d been in and out of difficult situations and covered each other’s indiscretions. And, until Lady Lace came on the scene, they’d scarce passed a cross word.
“Why?” he said, more to himself than to Dash.
“Some nonsense about being weary of this life, and of not being able to have the things he most desires.”
“That’s twaddle. None of us get everything we want. McPherson knew that.”
Dash reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out a sealed page. He tossed it across the desk to Drew. “You will see her before I will,” he said.
Addressed in McPherson’s handwriting was a letter to “She Who Has Bewitched My Heart.” He raised an eyebrow at that. “And you think this is meant for…?”
“Lady Lace,” Dash confirmed with a nod. “He was obsessed with her. Said he could think of nothing but her day and night. That he looked for her every time he left his house. From the time she kissed him, he was besotted.”
“I…didn’t know it was that bad.”
“I thought not. And I doubt it would have mattered. You have your own plan for the lady.”
“Had I known…”
“What? You’d have given her up to McPherson?”
A red haze clouded Andrew’s vision for a moment. Given her up? No, to his shame, he wouldn’t have given her up no matter what the cost, and that realization was jarring. When had she become more than a passing interest? How had she captivated his interest so thoroughly? How had she become his obsession?
“What are you saying, Dash?”
“Read the letter. I have, and I will not apologize.”
Andrew looked down at the paper in his hand. “She Who Has Bewitched My Heart” was scrawled in a barely decipherable script. McPherson must have been barely conscious. He had no wish to violate his friend’s privacy, and yet he had to know if there was something he should have seen. Something he could have done to avert this awful consequence. He lifted the broken seal and scanned the few brief lines wherein McPherson confessed his undying love, begged forgiveness for his thuggish behavior and swore that he would love her better in the next world than he had in this one.
He looked up and met Dash’s dark study. “You think…”
“He could not have her, so he did not want to live.”
“Because of her?”
Dash leaned forward in his chair. “Perhaps it was not entirely her fault, but she surely had a hand in it.”
“What did the watch report to them?”
Dash glanced down at the floor and shook his head. “I…I lied to them. They did not see the note. I told them Conrad was falling down drunk, and the pistol must have discharged by accident when he was putting it away. The damned note cannot make a difference now. What she did is not punishable by law.”
Andrew’s head began to pound. “This whole…event is inconceivable. I cannot fathom McPherson falling so hard for her with so little encouragement.” The picture of her pushing McPherson away in the sitting room at Marlborough House flashed across his mind. “Indeed, she never encouraged him that I could see.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Drew. She kissed him. How many women do you know who simply walk up to a man and kiss him?”
And there was no answer to that. Little though it was, it had been enough to besot Conrad McPherson. “I will deliver this letter, Dash. Count on it.”
Bella went back to Belmonde’s with a little prayer that she would not encounter Andrew Hunter. Despite last night’s disaster, she knew she had entrée there. She would have to find a way into the more notorious gambling houses, but until then, she would have to content herself here.
Biddle gave her a small smile and a nod, and she was again struck by the surface gentility of the establishment. A footman took her cloak and she entered the main salon. She was looking for a place to exchange currency for counters when a familiar voice spoke behind her.
“Good evening, madam.”
She turned to find Lord Humphries regarding her with an odd expression. Speculative? Challenging? “Lord Humphries. How nice to see you again this evening.”
“Is it?”
A mocking smile curved his narrow lips and she suddenly realized she had never kissed him. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed. Perhaps she could eliminate him as a suspect tonight. “Why, yes. Despite the unpleasantness last night, I would not shun you for the boorish behavior of your friends.”
His face cleared. “Ah, then you have not spoken with Mr. Hunter this evening?”
“I have not encountered him. Why?”
“Oh, no particular reason, madam.” He took her elbow and led her deeper into the salon. “What is your game of preference?”
“I have only played rouge et noir, though Mr. Hunter instructed me in vingte et un.”
He handed her several counters, and she wondered if women were not supposed to buy their own, or if this was a courtesy. “I wish to pay my own way, Lord Humphries. What are these counters worth, so that I may pay you back?”
“Five pounds each, though you needn’t worry about paying me back. I can bear the cost of a few counters.”
Such high stakes? She was not certain she could bear the cost. One would have to be very wealthy to gamble at Belmonde’s. Four counters would mean she owed Lord Humphries twenty pounds, and Andrew Hunter another five. She could never account for such a sum in her allowance. Instead, she would have to ask their factor to increase the household budget. Mama had left the accounts to her, so there would be no questions.
Still, she did not like the idea of being indebted to Lord Humphries. She opened her reticule and saw in dismay that she had only brought ten pounds with her, and that would mean she would have to walk home. She handed Lord Humphries her ten pounds and two of his counters back.
“You gamble on a budget, madam?”
“I…I am certain I will engage in deeper play once I am familiar with the games. As a novice—”
“Caution would be advised,” he fi
nished with a nod of agreement. “It has occurred to me, madam, that you have me at a disadvantage. We have not had a formal introduction and I am ignorant of your correct form of address.”
She smiled. “Madam will do.” She wondered if she could simply lure him into an alcove, kiss him and then be on her way. “I would not be averse to a glass of wine, Lord Humphries.”
“Yes, I think you should have a glass of wine, m’dear. You will be needing it.”
What an odd statement. She walked with him toward a punch bowl on a sideboard near the alcoves. He filled a cup while she studied their surroundings. The crowd was larger tonight, and louder. Even the play seemed faster, with money exchanging hands quickly. Would she be able to keep pace when she went to the tables?
Lord Humphries came back to her side and handed her a cup. “I did not see any wine, but the rum punch is quite good here. Drink up, m’dear.”
He was right. The punch was delicious if just a bit stout. After her second swallow, she glanced toward the alcoves. Would now be a good time to eliminate Lord Humphries as a suspect? He seemed to read her mind when he took her arm and led her toward one with an open curtain. “You look weary, m’dear. Shall we sit whilst we wait?”
Wait? For what? “You are being most mysterious, Lord Humphries. This is not the first time you have alluded to something imminent.”
“Drew Hunter should be here any moment. Were you not meeting him?”
The rum punch, stronger than she’d thought, hit her stomach just as she started to sit. “Mr. Hunter…no. We had no plans to meet. In fact, I’d prefer not to see him this evening.”
“Indeed?” Humphries seemed amused by her answer. He sat beside her and gave her a wink. “I do not think Drew will let your preferences stop him.”
In the few days she’d known him, she had concluded that Andrew Hunter was a man who would do as he pleased in all things. She would not want to cheat him of whatever he desired. Thus she would finish here quickly and be gone before he arrived.
She looked up at Lord Humphries, laid her hand on his sleeve and gave him a coquettish smile. “I think you could stop him, My Lord.”
He laughed. “For another smile that pretty, I’d be tempted. But are you trying to set me against my friend? It will not work, madam. The last man who went against Drew committed suicide in despair.”
She placed her hand on his arm and leaned toward him. “I am certain you are strong enough to withstand Mr. Hunter’s formidable will.”
Lord Humphries looked tempted but undecided. “Oh, strong enough, no doubt, madam, but I would not care to make an enemy of him.”
She tilted her face upward and smiled her most beguiling smile. If the man did not kiss her now, she would have to take matters into her own hands.
He blinked. His lips parted. He leaned closer.
“And here he comes, madam,” he said in a confidential tone. He stood and gave her a polite bow before nodding to Mr. Hunter and departing in the direction of the tables.
She offered Mr. Hunter a faint smile, a frisson of foreboding making her shiver. “Good evening, Mr. Hunter,” she said, rising to offer her hand.
He spun her back to the alcove with a hand on her shoulder. “Until now, perhaps, but it will not get any better, madam.”
“Is something amiss?”
“Something? Aye. You could say that.”
“Is there…anything I can do?”
“You can go back to whatever demon spawned you.”
Her eyebrows shot up and she blinked. “What?”
“You heard me, madam. I have finally taken your measure.” He could scarcely believe her duplicity. How could she look so innocent and yet be a siren, luring men to their deaths?
“What…what wrong have I done you, Mr. Hunter?”
“The same wrong you’ve done dozens of other men, madam. Teasing, flirting, leading them astray from good sense and propriety.” God! He couldn’t believe he was lecturing on propriety, and yet this chit had surpassed him for flagrant violation of the rules of polite society.
“I? Did I lead you somewhere you did not want to go, Mr. Hunter? For I could have sworn ’twas you who—”
He glanced around, aware for the first time that they were drawing attention. He gave her a little push that sat her on the banquette and then drew the heavy curtains across the alcove. “If you think you are going to make a fool of me, too, you are woefully mistaken. In fact, madam, I intend to expose you.”
“A fool? Expose me? Explain yourself, Mr. Hunter.” Her eyes had grown wide and she looked alarmed for the first time.
“Who are you really, Bella, that you masquerade as Lady Lace? What is your game, if it is not to make a fool of every man in London?”
She replied quickly, almost as angry as he now. “They hardly need my help, Mr. Hunter. Most of them manage to be fools all by themselves.”
“Was McPherson one of those, madam? Do you count yourself a winner in that skirmish? Had you set your sights on me to be next?”
“Mr. McPherson? What has he got to do with all this?”
He pulled the note from the inside of his jacket and thrust it at her. “Read it, madam, and see if you can decipher it.”
He held himself in check as she unfolded the note and read the few lines. Her hand began to shake and her complexion paled by several shades.
“What…what has he done, Mr. Hunter?”
“Killed himself. Over want of you.”
Quick tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked them back. Oh, she was a hard little chit if she could master her emotions so quickly. He snatched the note back and replaced it in his waistcoat pocket.
“I am sorry for his death, but I did nothing to encourage him. You know I tried on several occasions—”
“You kissed him, madam. And not a sisterly peck on the cheek, from what I’m told. If you do not call that encouragement, then what is? If you spread your legs for a man? Would that qualify?”
She blanched and closed her eyes for a moment. “What can I do, save say I am sorry?”
“I shall have recompense, madam. In my own way.”
“And that is—”
“To expose you and your game. Whoever you are, wherever you came from, whatever your purpose is, I shall lay it bare for London to see. When I am finished, you will be unwelcome in every drawing room, every parlor, every business in London, excepting whatever brothel you came from. Women who play fast and loose with men have a name, and you wear it well.”
“’Tis war,” she murmured. Then she looked up at him and gave him an invitation that nearly choked him. “Kiss me, then. A proper kiss. Just once, by way of farewell. Then go with my blessings.”
“You want a kiss?” Blast the wench! He’d been right. She was no better than a bloody whore! He leaned close to her and she lifted her lips to him, half closing her eyes in anticipation, waiting for him to meet her demand. Mere inches from her lips, he whispered, “Whistle for it, Bella. You’ll have none from me.”
Chapter Seven
The afternoon was wearing on when Bella stared at herself in her dressing-table mirror. She was still in her chemise. Dark circles made her eyes look sunken and her hair hung loose over her shoulders. Gina had brought her tea and toast and continued to check on her every quarter of an hour.
She was a mess. There was no way around that. Her stomach had ached ever since last night, and she couldn’t think straight. She went to her clothes press and tried on one gown after another. Nothing fit. They all looked like rags draped on a sapling. But the new gowns from Madame Marie would arrive tomorrow and there’d be something to fit her. Finally settling on a dull dark gray, she rang for Nancy to help her dress.
The woman came in a rush of excitement. “Thank the Lord that you’re comin’ down, Miss Bella. Lady Vandecamp has arrived, all fuss and fury. She’s been shut up with your mum since she arrived, sayin’ she’ll be wantin’ to see you girls next. I wouldn’t put it past her to drag you out of bed if you’re not
down.”
Blast! That was the last thing she needed—more interference with her plans.
“And just look at you! What is happenin’to you, Miss Bella? All skin and bones. We cannot put you in a corset, or you’ll look like a stick. Here…”
She stood still while Nancy dropped the gown over her head and fastened the hooks in the back, then sat down so the maid could brush her hair into a little twist at her nape. She barely attended Nancy’s chatter as she wrestled with her own problems.
And the greatest of those was that extraordinary scene at Belmonde’s last night. Andrew Hunter had gone from persuasive suitor to adversary in the blink of an eye. He held her responsible for Mr. McPherson’s suicide. Was he right? Was it her fault? She’d lain awake half the night, trying to think of what she’d said or done that could have incited such a reaction. The kiss? Such a silly, insignificant thing?
And yet a kiss had snared Cora and had been so significant that, as she lay dying, it had been the only thing she could think of to identify her killer. God forgive her—had her kiss proved as lethal as the killer’s? And if that were so, had she become the very thing she hunted?
Oh, but just as dreadful was Mr. Hunter’s promise to expose her to all of London. She’d thought she did not care. She’d believed it would not matter. But now, faced with imminent unmasking, she realized too late that she did care. The shame she would bring on her mother and sisters would be monumental—perhaps impossible to live down. And she would be doomed to listen to Mama berating her, reminding her of her shortcomings and inadequacies, for all eternity.
Well, she had to do something about it. She had to prevent Mr. Hunter from discovering who she was. Obviously, the best way to accomplish that was to disappear completely from the London social scene. He could not find her if she did not leave her house or go where he could follow her. London was teeming with people. It would take a miracle to find a small family visiting from Belfast.
She would simply have to find a way to balance the scales—Cora’s justice on one side, her sisters’ futures on the other. And that would mean finding a way to avoid Mr. Hunter at all costs, and his friends and brothers as well.
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