His Mysterious Lady, A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 2)

by G. G. Vandagriff

  The man on the stallion seemed to be inspecting her from head to toe. Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Forgive my rudeness. I’m certain my wife would like to further her acquaintance,” he said. “Perhaps she could call on you?”

  “I would like that,” said Virginia, her heart pounding. “I live at Shipley House on Half Moon Street with my Aunt Ogletree.”

  As he tipped his hat and moved off, she wondered if now she was obligated to spy on the Wellingham household. Her insides writhed.

  Blast Mr. Sagethorn! I am not going to spy on these people.

  “I apologize for my friend’s abrupt manner,” said the viscount. “The war is much on his mind.”

  Virginia unclenched her fists. She managed to act interested in the other people she met, but she could not have remembered their names at any price. Lord Wellingham had spoiled her outing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aware that Miss Livingstone had been distracted and tense since the encounter with Beau, Tony wondered why. She had seemed almost afraid of his friend. Was it simply the mention of the war?

  As he drew up at Shipley House, he endeavored to put her at her ease.

  “Miss Livingstone, I believe you have impressed the ton today! I shall be besieged with questions about my charming companion.”

  The lady blushed. “Thank you for taking me out and for asking me to tea. It was very kind of you.”

  “Are you still feeling the effects of your fall?”

  “A bit,” she said. “But I realize it could have been much worse.”

  Her eyes had a hunted look and refused to meet his. What was amiss?

  “Have you an engagement this evening?” he asked.

  “I doubt it very much. Aunt likes to keep me close to home. She is embarrassed, I think.”

  “Embarrassed?”

  “Of having an American niece. But perhaps I will be fortunate and she will allow me to go out, if I agree to be escorted by her nephew.”

  He couldn’t restrain himself from asking, “She is hoping for a connection there?”

  Her eyes flew to his. “It will never be,” she said flatly.

  “Good,” he said. “You are not suited.”

  She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “You think not?”

  He covered his emphatic response with a smile. “Definitely not. He is too short.”

  Tony was loath to part company with her, but at her brilliant smile his wits had gone begging. He could not think of an excuse to see her again. Then, suddenly, it flew into his head. “Would you like to visit Mr. Hale tomorrow? You must be anxious to discover how he does.”

  She was puzzled. “Mr. Hale?”

  “The dog you rescued, remember? We talked about him at Southbrooke. Are you ever going to tell me who the fellow is you named him for?”

  Her strange mood fled, and she smiled brightly. “A thorn in the side of the British before the War for Independence. He is most famous for his slogan, ‘Give me liberty or give me death.’”

  He grinned. “Apt for a dog who was under the rule of such a terrible taskmaster. That is how you view Britain?”

  A shadow crossed her face. “It is something we will never agree on. Perhaps it is better if we don’t discuss it.”

  “Undoubtedly,” he agreed. How had he come to have such inconvenient feelings for this woman? Putting the thought aside, he said, “The little firebrand is living with Lady Clarice Manton and her companion. You remember Miss Braithwaite?”

  “I don’t think I could forget her. She was very kind to me at Southbrooke. A bit of a character, if I read her right.”

  “I shall call for you tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “and we shall visit Blossom House. Perhaps seeing the dog will jog your memory.”

  A look of distress crossed her face, lowering her brows. She clutched the seat of the curricle with both hands and closed her eyes.

  “My dear! Are you unwell?” he asked.

  “A bit dizzy,” she said. “It has been a long afternoon.”

  “And here I am prattling away. We must get you inside.”

  He leapt down from the curricle, went about to the other side, and helped the lady to descend. She tottered, and he put an arm about her waist to steady her. He had an inopportune desire to take her into his arms, there in the middle of her aunt’s walkway. Only the knowledge that the action would compromise her thoroughly prevented him.

  “Can you walk?” he asked. “Or do you need me to carry you?”

  “Give me a moment,” she said, leaning heavily into him.

  He was an idiot, taking her out into the chaos of the park when she was scarcely recovered. “This is all my fault,” he said. “Do we need to send a footman for a physician?”

  “No. I just need some rest. If you will steady me, I think I can walk now.”

  Keeping his arm about her waist, he walked her up the short pathway to the front door. All his senses were alert at the feel of her form next to him. Although he desired her, at the moment he wanted nothing more than to protect her from harm.

  When the butler opened the door, he said, “Miss Livingstone has been taken ill. I am going to carry her up to her room.”

  The little bald man’s eyebrows rose in alarm. “I will fetch Lady Ogletree.”

  “Please don’t bother her, Stevens,” said Miss Livingstone. “Once I am in my room, I will be perfectly fine.”

  Tony lifted her light figure into his arms and held her close as he mounted the stairs. “Second floor?” he asked.

  “Yes. You are very kind.”

  He relished holding her so close even as he worried about her condition. When at last they reached her room, he settled her on the bed.

  “Shall I send for your maid?”

  “I shall be all right now. Thank you so much. You had better leave before I am thoroughly compromised. My aunt may catch you and make you marry me,” she said with a wan smile.

  “I will call tomorrow to see how you do,” he said. Unable to resist, he leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  He hastened back down the stairs and out the door before he could be detained by Lady Ogletree, whom he was coming to dislike exceedingly.

  * * *

  “You have an express letter awaiting you in your library, my lord,” Daniels greeted him.

  Ah! Reams. He had requested that the man answer his inquiry through the services of his footman, whom he had sent to Southbrooke. Striding to the library, Tony picked up the letter. Now that it was here, he felt almost as though he were betraying Miss Livingstone by spying on her callers. He was loath to open it.

  Setting it down on the desk, he poured himself a short whiskey and paced as he sipped it. Everything in him revolted at the idea that the American lady could be a spy. What right had he to inquire into the details of her personal life?

  Had he not known that Beau would question Reams himself if he did not deliver his friend an answer about the visitor, he would have cast the letter on the fire.

  Finally, his whiskey finished, he sat down at his desk and slit open the note.

  Southbrooke Hall

  My lord,

  The visitor you are inquiring about was a Mr. Sagethorn, an American. I hesitate to say gentleman, for I do not believe he conforms to that title. He called to see Miss Livingstone.

  I hope this information will be of use to you.

  Most sincerely,

  Reams

  His heart misgave him. Was Beau right, then? Was this Mr. Sagethorn calling on Miss Livingstone as her intermediary with the Americans? Had he read in the newspaper of her memory loss and wanted to make certain she remembered her duty?

  Tony recalled that when he had returned to the house that morning, Miss Livingstone had suddenly decided upon leaving for London, and she had acted unnaturally withdrawn from him. A sharp sense of betrayal sliced through him. He strode to the fire and collapsed on the sofa, holding his head in his hands.

  Was there any other interpretation? Try as he would, he could not come up w
ith one. How would an acquaintance from “home” come to call upon her at someone else’s estate in the country? And wouldn’t he be a gentleman, if that were the case?

  Not necessarily. She was an American. As far as he knew, she could have friends of all classes.

  Nevertheless, coldness encased his heart, and he stood and poured himself another drink. The penalty for spying was hanging. The alcohol burned like acid going down.

  He was jumping way ahead of himself. Would these thoughts even have occurred to him had Beau not put them in his head? He certainly could not be condemning the girl to hang, even theoretically, upon the evidence of an American caller she had not mentioned to him.

  Perhaps he was merely a hanger-on. There were many explanations for Sagethorn’s visit that had nothing to do with Miss Livingstone being a spy.

  His mother entered the library.

  “Tony dear, the girl is a delight. So beautiful and sweet. Poor thing. I have never liked her aunt. I would not like to be at that woman’s mercy.”

  “I think Miss Livingstone can hold her own,” he said. Remembering the intimate moment on the stairs when she had been in his arms, he said, “She got a bit worn out today. I’m afraid the park was too much for her.”

  He remembered how nervous Beau had made her. What was the explanation for that, if she was not a spy? Had she thought he had seen straight through her?

  “Oh, dear,” his mother said. “You look a bit pulled yourself. Are you not feeling the thing?”

  He straightened and looked at her with a forced smile. “I am perfectly well, Mama. I find I need to go out. Will you mind taking dinner with Howie tonight?”

  “I will be surprised if he makes it home for dinner. He went to the club at lunch and has been out ever since.”

  “I am sorry, but this business will not wait.”

  “Go, dear. Will you be on hand later for the theater?”

  He considered. Yes, that could probably be managed. “Of course. Sheridan, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. School for Scandal. One of my favorites.”

  * * *

  He could not force himself to go to Beau with an account of Sagethorn’s visit until he had checked his facts. A hansom cab drove him to Bow Street.

  The office he wanted was tucked away at the end of the street. There, he encountered a short, round individual with a red waistcoat and one sleepy eye sitting at a desk in the front office.

  “Sandby at your service,” the man said, standing.

  Tony passed him his card.

  “What can Oi do for your lordship?”

  “I need someone found,” he said. “I am fairly certain he is in London.”

  The Bow Street runner removed a small book from his pocket and took up a pencil stub from the scarred desk in front of him.

  “Name?” he asked.

  “A Mr. Sagethorn. He is an American. I believe him to be a spy. Not what you would call a gentleman. Last seen wearing a worn brown suit and a squashed hat.”

  “An American should be roight easy to locate,” the red-breasted Sandby said, strains of his Cockney origins emerging despite his obvious pains to appear genteel.

  “He could be posing as an Englishman. He’s the type to be staying in a boardinghouse,” Tony said.

  “Pardon me, your lordship, but ain’t you the balloon bloke?” the runner asked.

  “I am,” he said with half a smile. “Just find him for me, if you please. Learn his business if you can, but don’t speak to him about me.”

  “Shouldn’t take more ’n a couple of days. Less, if I’m lucky. It’ll cost you a guinea plus expenses.”

  Tony removed the gold coin from his pocket, placed it on the desk, and bid Sandby good evening.

  Next, he stopped at his club for dinner. Neither Bertie nor Beau were in evidence, which was a relief. He took a solo table in the corner, ordered his mutton and a bottle of claret. While awaiting his food, he perused the Times.

  No news from the Peninsula, but a small notice inside the paper caught his eye. The Intrepid had docked at Southampton. Wasn’t that the ship that belonged to Ernest, Beau’s brother? The brothers hadn’t seen each other in years. Last Tony heard, Ernest was fighting in America with the Royal Navy.

  It would be a good thing to get Ernest’s perspective on the war. The hard kernel of Miss Livingstone’s possible betrayal lodged in his breast. The initial shock had passed, however, and he still wondered how he could suspect anyone as candid as that lady was of being a spy. Obviously his reading of the female species had not improved.

  * * *

  School for Scandal did not hold his interest that night, but he was happy to see his mother enjoying herself. At the interval Lady Clarice and Miss Sukey visited their box.

  “It is so good to see you out and about, my dear Lady Strangeways,” said Lady Clarice. Tony thought she looked a bit underdressed without her cat at her bosom.

  “I am a great fan of Sheridan,” said his mother. They began discussing the play.

  Miss Braithwaite asked him, “Lord Strangeways, do you know? Has Miss Livingstone recovered her memory yet?”

  “Sadly, no,” he said. “She has not.”

  “I have an idea I would like to broach. I have a good friend, a Miss Delilah Andrews, who is a hypnotist. Do you not think she might be of service in this situation?”

  Sukey Braithwaite was just the sort of person to know a hypnotist! Tony almost laughed. Instead he said, “I think this is outside the expertise of a hypnotist. Her memories are not repressed. There is an injury, hopefully temporary, to the part of her brain that holds recent memories.”

  “Oh. Of course, you are right. I just wish there was some way I could help that poor girl.”

  “Perhaps she would appreciate a visit. She was doing poorly earlier today—a bit of a relapse.”

  It was difficult talking about Virginia Livingstone with his present uneasiness. On the one hand, he saw a delightful companion for whom he felt a great tenderness. On the other hand, he saw a clever deceiver. Memories of Pamela’s betrayal were all too fresh. His emotions felt as though they had been thrown together and shaken like dice in a cup.

  To add to his discomfiture, Sutton appeared in his box, Pamela on his arm.

  “We saw you in the park with such an ill-dressed lady today,” said his former love. “Is she a visiting relative of some sort?”

  Annoyance sharpened his temper. “No. She is a friend,” he said.

  Pamela’s haughty expression grew sharper. “Pray, who is her dressmaker?”

  Pamela’s smallness of mind should come as no surprise to him, he supposed. “I never guessed you to be so unkind, Miss Longhurst. My friend is the victim of an unfortunate circumstance. Her home and all her possessions have burned. She also lost her parents. She has not yet replaced her wardrobe.”

  The lady bit her lower lip. “How unfortunate.”

  Lord Sutton fingered his cravat. “Who is the lady? I do not think I have heard of such a happening.”

  “Miss Virginia Livingstone. Lady Ogletree’s niece,” Tony said. “Ah, there is the gong. Perhaps you should return to your box.”

  “Oh!” said Pamela. “She is the lady who was in the balloon accident with Lord Freddie! She lost her memory.”

  “The very one,” said Tony.

  “I thought that business quite odd,” said Sutton. “She is an American, is she not?”

  “That explains the clothing,” said Pamela. “A London lady would stay at home before venturing out in such a gown.”

  “The gong,” Tony reminded them, his jaw set.

  Chapter Twelve

  Virginia was so ill that her head pounded and the room spun around her. She had done too much, and she was not yet recovered. However, those things did not stop her from remembering Lord Strangeways’s kiss, though it had only been on her forehead. The spot burned, and she put her hand up to gently touch it. Too ill to think of all its ramifications, she simply took pleasure in the moment and let it wa
rm her soul.

  She pulled the bell rope. When Sarah answered, she helped Virginia out of her stays. Soon she was lying on the day bed in her small sitting room, clothed in her modest dressing gown. Sarah puffed up the pillows behind her so she was semireclining.

  “May I bring you a nice cup of tea?” Sarah offered.

  “No, thank you. No more tea. I have drunk oceans of it.”

  “Shall I have the mistress call her physician?”

  “No, thank you so much. I will be fine if I just get some rest. It has been a full day.”

  “Shall I bring up your dinner on a tray when it is time?”

  “Yes. Maybe that would be best.”

  Virginia drifted off to sleep, but her dreams were not restful. Mr. Sagethorn taunted and leered at her. Lord Strangeways was cold and left her alone with the man. “This is what you deserve,” he said. “This is what you have chosen. You shall be hanged.”

  She awoke covered in perspiration, her mind made up. She would not spy. If she had been among enemies who were intent upon some evil, circumstances would be different. Lord Strangeways and his friends were not waging war. They were not soldiers or seamen.

  The war seemed very far away, almost abstract. As she lay there, she remembered Mr. Sagethorn’s card. She had his address. She struggled out of bed to find it and sat at her small cramped desk to write him a note:

  Shipley House

  London

  Mr. Sagethorn:

  I consider those people around me to be my friends, not my enemies. I don’t know that I ever consented to spy, but if I did, I have changed my mind. I will not do it.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Virginia Livingstone

  When Sarah brought her dinner up later, she gave her the letter. “Perhaps Stevens could see that this is delivered?” she asked.

  “I will see to it directly, miss.”

  Virginia found that she was hungry. She drank the broth and ate the small guinea hen, cutting it up with difficulty. The clock in the hall was striking nine o’clock when her aunt came into the room. Surprised, Virginia greeted her.

  “How are you feeling, Virginia? Sarah tells me you are not well.”