Shaking his head at the sound of the man’s voice, both to bring himself back to reality and to rid his mind of the unsettling knowledge that he had been sitting in his high perch phaeton in the middle of the park, seriously considering making an utter fool of himself over an ungrateful, insulting—and not even very pretty—young woman who loathed the very air he breathed, he turned to greet George Brummell with almost unbelievable geniality. “Beau, my good friend! I didn’t know you were back in town. It’s so good to see you again. How is His Royal Highness? Is he with you?”
“Hard-ly, Patrick,” Brummell replied in his usual languid way. “His Royal High-ness is still rus-ti-cating with Mistress Fitzherbert, I believe,” he added, employing his usual derogatory way of referring to the Regent’s long-standing companion, which was rumored to be one of the reasons the Beau had at last fallen out of favor with the royal personage. “But, my dear man, you are being sad-ly remiss. Must I beg?”
Sherbourne frowned a moment, still somewhat caught up in his feelings about the woman sitting so very still beside him, and unable to quickly understand that the Beau was asking for an introduction. “Oh, pardon me, George, I implore you. Please allow me to introduce my companion. Miss Victoria Quinton, may I present Mr. George Brummell?”
Beau, who had been standing in the path beside the halted vehicle, raised his hat and politely inclined his head. “Charmed, I am sure,” he said smoothly, then mused, “Quin-ton, Quin-ton. Patrick I do believe you have been hiding this de-lightful crea-ture from me, for I do not re-call the name.”
Victoria, who had now had ample time to regret her recent unladylike outburst, if not the sentiments she had expressed, could think of nothing but returning to Ablemarle Street as soon as possible and forgetting about the entire afternoon. She would then somehow convince her uncle that she was not suited for Society and, if necessary, invent some exotic illness that would keep her from ever leaving her room until the Season was over.
The man now standing before her, the famous Beau Brummell—and a person she should be trying to impress above all others—now seemed to be nothing more than an impediment to her plans. Therefore, never stopping to think about what she was saying, she merely returned his nod and told him flatly, “There is no reason to apologize for not recognizing my name, Mr. Brummell, as I am nobody at all, and entirely beneath your notice.”
Patrick could only watch in amazement as Brummell’s finely arched left eyebrow climbed ridiculously high on his forehead, signaling his astonishment. Now she’s gone and done it, the Earl thought, wincing. Nothing like insulting the most influential man in all of England to set your toes straight on the path to social ruin, even if the fellow is slightly out of favor at the moment. Rushing into speech before the Beau could deliver one of his blighting snubs, he said hopefully, “Miss Quinton is so endearingly modest, isn’t she, George?”
“Mod-est?” the Beau repeated coldly, seemingly surprised. “I think not, Patrick. I should instead call it immense-ly re-freshing. Of course Miss Quinton is nobody. Af-ter all, my dear boy, she heard me say I did not know her. No-body is any-body until I know them. However, my dear, candid lady, I do believe I shall make it my par-tic-u-lar proj-ect to in-tro-duce you. Will that suit, Patrick?”
Sherbourne smiled knowingly, realizing that Brummell had somehow decided to champion Miss Quinton in some sort of revenge against the Regent. After all, if George could take the unexceptional Victoria Quinton and turn her into the Success of the Season, it would be a sharp slap in the face for his former benefactor, who had openly prophesied that Brummell would soon realize his folly and come crawling back to him to apologize for his recent irreverent behavior.
“If you wish it, George,” Patrick conceded cheerfully, “you could make my sainted great-grandmother into the rage, and the dear woman’s been underground these twenty years.”
“Pre-cisely, my dear boy, pre-cisely,” the Beau confirmed shortly, already bored with the subject and longing to be on his way. “But I must toddle off now, as I am weary un-to death, having spent last eve-ning on the road. The scoun-drel-ly landlord had the au-dac-i-ty to put me in a room with a damp stran-ger. I vow I did not sleep a wink all night.”
As Patrick and Victoria watched the exquisitely dressed man walk away, nodding and bowing to everyone he passed, regally accepting their patronage as his right, Sherbourne muttered under his breath: “That was quite a coup, Miss Quinton. Beau can be quite an ugly customer, you know. If he takes it into his head to destroy somebody, they may as well sell up all their belongings and head for the Colonies, for nothing will save them.”
Victoria was still watching the Beau’s progress, impressed in spite of herself, and just a little bit encouraged about her chances of moving about in Society without making a complete fool of herself. Forgetting for a moment that she was not really speaking to him, she said to Sherbourne, “Mr. Brummell seemed to like me well enough, I believe. Perhaps he was amused by what I said to him. What do you think?”
Patrick once again found himself laughing out loud, causing the slight smile Victoria had been wearing to slowly slide from her face. “You mean that witty repartee you dazzled the Beau with, Miss Quinton? That ‘I am nobody’ drivel? Dear lady, please,” he entreated earnestly as he set his team in motion, “I beg you. Whatever else you may attempt in this Season, please, please, do not entertain any notion of setting yourself up as a wit!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
DROPPING HEAVILY into a leather wing chair at White’s, Patrick gratefully accepted a glass of wine from his friend Pierre Standish and drank its contents down in one long gulp. “I squired Miss Quinton around the park this afternoon,” he then said by way of explanation when he saw the politely curious look on his friend’s face at his action.
“How very enterprising of you, my dearest,” Pierre responded levelly, absently stroking the scar on his left cheekbone. “Was your team unusually fractious, then? You seem quite fatigued.”
“On the contrary, it was Miss Quinton who was being refractory, my friend, as is her custom,” Sherbourne clarified, pouring himself another glassful. “I believed myself to be performing an altruistic act, and she all but boxed my ears for my pains. I tell you, Pierre, I don’t think the woman is fully furnished in her upper rooms.”
Pierre lifted his chin and lightly stroked his neck above his exquisitely crafted cravat, looking at Patrick from beneath his lowered eyelids. “One can only marvel at the fact that you persist in your attentions to the lady. Her looks have improved from unbearable to vaguely tolerable since the uncle’s advent onto the scene—my valet, Duvall, frequents the park she walks in, you know—but really, darling, have you honestly convinced yourself that the monstrous dowry he bestowed on the chit will keep you warm at night—or do you plan a marriage of convenience only?”
Patrick’s head came up like a shot. “Marriage?” he protested, aghast. “Whoever is speaking of marriage? Good God, man, how long have you been sitting here, if you have drunk enough to even consider such a thing? Besides,” he added, narrowing his eyes slightly, “how does it happen that you know so much about Miss Quinton and her uncle? As far as I know, her outing with me this afternoon constituted her first public appearance. And this business about a dowry—really, Pierre, there are times when I actually believe you begin to frighten me.”
Lowering his hand to press it lightly against his waistcoat, Standish dropped his chin slightly and winked at his friend. “Ah, my love, you are not so craven. You know that I have always made it a point to keep myself informed of the activities of those in my orbit. But I am not omnipotent, alas. Tell me, does the lady in question persist in her intention to unmask her departed papa’s murderer, or has she merely been swept up in the social whirl at the insistence of dearest Quentin?”
“You know Quentin Quinton?”
Making a steeple of his slim, straight fingers, Pierre then tapped them lightly against his lips as he directed a long, dispassionate stare at his companion. “It i
s tactless in me to point this out, I know, but you should not answer a question with another question, my dear Patrick. In addition to bordering on the fringes of being rude, you will find that—at least where I am concerned—it is also quite an unfruitful exercise.”
There were times when Sherbourne, usually a most peaceful fellow, longed for nothing more than to square off with Pierre Standish and bang away at him until they both were bloody and spent. This, he realized as he felt his left hand clenching into a fist at his side, was one of those times.
But now, as always, he brought himself up short, remembering that this cold, seemingly deliberately arrogant, heartless man was still the same fiercely loyal Pierre Standish who had stood staunchly at his back all through those incredibly dangerous days on the Peninsula Campaign.
He was also the same caring, compassionate friend who had nursed Sherbourne back to health when his horse was shot out from under him and he had lain unconscious for three days in some vile mountain hut; the same Pierre Standish who had drunk, and wenched, and caroused with him during the rare moments the enemy had been put to rout long enough for them to indulge themselves in some sanity-restoring frolic.
Patrick knew something had happened to change Pierre into the cold, calculating man who now sat across from him; something that had occurred at Standish’s country estate upon their return to England, and even their close friendship had not been strong enough to encourage Pierre to confide in him.
Patrick shifted uncomfortably in his chair, longing to lean across the table and say, “Talk to me, Pierre. Tell me why you have taken on this ruthless exterior. Do you really delight in making all around you uneasy? Who did this to you? What can I do to help?”
But he didn’t, of course, knowing the fragile relationship Pierre still allowed to exist between them would disappear at that instant, leaving him with no hope of ever helping his friend.
“Silence is also considered, I believe, to be rude, my dear sir,” Pierre pointed out at last, as Patrick had gotten himself lost in a brown study. “Perhaps my question was too convoluted? Allow me to simplify and rephrase it: Does Miss Quinton persist in her quest?”
Patrick took a deep breath, then nodded twice in the affirmative. “She does,” he answered grimly. “The inspiration behind launching her socially comes, I believe, mostly from the uncle, although Miss Quinton seems to be swimming from one deep gravy boat to another, considering that she has just this afternoon succeeded in catching Beau’s eye. He means to make her a Success. I tell you, Pierre, I don’t know where this whole business will end.”
“George has taken our little fledgling under his wing? Heavens, how very droll. The girl must be aux anges. Tell me, Patrick—does Beau realize the chit will be using him in order to further her investigation? My goodness, think of it, darling. Beau Brummell in the role of cat’s-paw. But wait! Perhaps he too is a suspect? The mind begins to boggle.”
Patrick allowed a small smile to lighten his solemn expression, as it appeared he had just achieved the impossible. He was about to tell Pierre something! So gratifying was the feeling that he decided to drag out the moment, pausing to call a servant over to order dinner laid for two in the dining room before pouring another glass of wine for his friend.
“I told you I took Miss Quinton out for a ride this afternoon, Pierre,” he began, edging his way into the story slowly. “What I did not tell you is that I had a small, private conversation with Quentin Quinton while the lady went to fetch her bonnet and cloak. He is a delightful man, and most forthcoming.”
Reaching forward to pick up his wineglass, Pierre saluted his friend before taking a sip of the dark red liquid. “Enjoy yourself, darling, you deserve it,” he drawled amicably, leaning back once more.
Patrick felt a slight flush invade his cheeks. “I didn’t realize I was being so transparent, Pierre. Forgive me. At any rate, the uncle was a veritable fountain of information, believing me to be the best of good fellows since I championed him upon his arrival in Ablemarle Street, I imagine.”
“Don’t forget that pretty face of yours, my dearest boy,” Standish slid in gracefully. “As I have told you before, it absolutely invites confidences.”
“From everyone but you,” Patrick, grimacing slightly, said softly before getting back to the subject at hand. “Quinton has entered into the investigation wholeheartedly since last I saw him. It seems that there is a most damning piece of evidence that Miss Quinton has unearthed, a snuffbox discovered lying near the body that fateful morning.”
“Ah, not only one clue to the murderer, but two,” Standish observed quietly, his finger once more going to the crescent-shaped scar. “It would appear that the man was not only violent, but untidy as well. Continue, my dear, as I am breathless to learn more.”
“There were initials engraved into the lid of the snuffbox,” Patrick confided in an undertone, lest someone overhear. “The letters P and S, to be precise, which leaves our dear Beau out of the running but lands both you and me at the topmost spot on Miss Quinton’s list of suspects.”
“Not you, dear boy,” Pierre corrected lightly. “At least, not anymore, as it would seem that you have become quite the fair-haired boy in Quentin’s mind’s eye. A word to the wise, my darling: I do believe I was more right than I thought when I said I scented some matchmaking in the air. Best check with the lady’s modiste first thing tomorrow morning—just to see if the bride clothes have been ordered.”
The room around them was becoming dim as the sunlight faded from the windows, and Patrick was forced into furious silence as a servant stopped nearby to light a brace of candles. While at first he was more than ready to jump into speech, roundly decrying Pierre’s allusion to Quinton’s possibly having plans for him concerning the infuriating Victoria Quinton, the Earl soon realized that he had nearly fallen for one of Pierre’s oldest and best developed ploys—directing the conversation away from himself by introducing another topic that concerned him not at all.
So it was then that—when the servant, who seemed particularly inept with the tinderbox that day, finally moved away—Patrick looked levelly at his friend and said pointedly, “Then it would seem, my friend, that you now stand alone at the head of Miss Quinton’s notorious list. Unless you have some other likely suspect in mind to keep you company, now that I am found to be without sin?”
“Ah, but I do, my darling man, I most assuredly do,” Pierre answered placidly, rising to move off toward the dining room. “Two, as a matter of fact.”
“Two?” Sherbourne repeated, coming to his feet to follow Standish out of the room. “I believe I can come up with one. But can you really be thinking of our friend Mr. Spalding? No, no, my friend, not Philip. The man is a complete popinjay. He hardly has the backbone required to bash in someone’s head—nor the stomach, I might add. Besides, what possible motive could he have? I doubt Philip was even acquainted with the Professor.”
“You’d rather believe I did the old boy in, then? I call that rather poor sporting of you, darling,” Pierre pointed out as they sat themselves down in the dining room.
Patrick held up his hands as if to negate his last statements. “All right, all right, you’ve made your point. Philip Spalding is now officially a suspect. But who is the second man? I’ve searched my brain, but I’m afraid I’ve come up blank on any others with the same initials.”
With a look of disdain on his dark face, Pierre waved away the servant offering the soup course before lifting his knife to slice into the succulent fish that a second hovering servant had placed swiftly before him. Only after sampling the delicacy did he obligingly enlighten his dinner companion. “One Sir Perkin Seldon comes most easily to mind, I think.”
“Sir Perky?” Sherbourne exploded mirthfully. “I’d as lief believe I had done it in my sleep and failed to remember it when I awoke. Now really, Pierre—”
“Both gentlemen,” Pierre answered evenly, although Patrick thought he could see a slight light of mischief lurking in the corners of the
man’s eyes.
“So now we have two more suspects, in addition to yourself, as so far the redoubtable Mr. Quinton hasn’t absolved you by the simpleminded expedient of enlisting you in the marriage stakes. Now what? Do you plan to sit back and watch the circus that is sure to begin once Miss Quinton enters Society, or are you going to step entirely out of character and take an active role in this investigation?”
“You know me, darling. I much prefer to observe from a safe distance. Not,” he added languidly, “that I shouldn’t enjoy pulling some of the strings from behind the curtain.”
“Leaving me to take center stage, I presume,” Patrick pointed out good-naturedly, resigning himself to his fate. “All right, my friend, if needs must. I shall play your little game for you, as I feel I owe you that much.”
“On the contrary, my dear friend,” Standish said in a curiously soft voice. “It is what I owe you.”
If Patrick disliked Pierre’s cold unemotionality since his return to London over six years ago, he now found himself even more uncomfortable with this rare display of affection. “Please don’t, Pierre. After all, he wasn’t such a very large Frenchman,” Patrick said lightly, thinking of the soldier he had shot just as the man was about to sink his saber into Standish’s back. “Now, let us get back to the matter at hand, as I find I am beginning to look forward to Miss Quinton’s come-out. General Standish, your loyal subordinate awaits his first order.”
“Major Standish will do, Corporal,” Pierre corrected smoothly, acknowledging Sherbourne’s compliment with a slight inclination of his head. “As to our plans for our suspects and the lady, why I do believe that I think it to be our duty to introduce Miss Quinton to both of them as soon as possible. Call it your Christian duty, if you will.”
The questioning Miss Quinton Page 10
