by Jo Beverley
“It seems to me,” said his uncle severely, “that you approach this with too much levity. Did the records of the previous assaults help you? I suppose you did read them?”
“Certainly I did, but a more pathetic set of documents it is hard to imagine. Place, time, name. That’s about it. There must have been more information to find.”
“Well, the young ladies would be upset, and their families wouldn’t want them bothered. They could hardly be asked for details.”
“How else are we to get those details?” asked Lord Wraybourne with asperity. “Everyone is too busy tiptoeing around. I suggest you ask the latest victim some real questions, such as how tall he was, how strong. She must have noticed something.”
A little gleam came into Mr. Moulton-Scrope’s eyes. “Well now, David. Who better than yourself? A peer of the realm. Miss Hamilton will doubtless be flattered—”
“Who?” Lord Wraybourne jerked to attention.
“A Miss Stella Hamilton. She lives in Clarke Street with a brother who is some kind of poet.”
“I know,” said Lord Wraybourne, wrathfully. “She is a friend. Damnation!”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope watched this transformation with interest. Now, perhaps, his lordship would apply himself to the problem.
“Of course I’ll talk to her. I’ll talk to all the others too. This has got to stop.”
Mr. Moulton-Scrope put on a contented smile as his angry nephew strode out. There’d be action at last.
Lord Wraybourne went straight to Clarke Street, where he found his friend John Hamilton in an angry, frustrated state. They had been friends since their days in Trinity, and Lord Wraybourne knew that his stolid build hid a gentleness that would be bewildered by violence in his family. He suspected that Stella Hamilton would be better able to handle the attack upon her than her brother. But when he asked to see her and John’s wife, Emily, went upstairs, she returned with the message that her sister-in-law thanked him for his visit but did not feel able to see anyone just yet.
However, as he left the house and walked down the road, deep in thought, he was called from one of the gin nels which ran through to the rear of the terraced houses. It was Miss Hamilton. He went to her and expressed his concern.
“Thank you,” she said with a wan smile. She was normally a pretty woman with a smooth complexion and soft brown hair. Now she was pale and strained, and her hair was partially covered with a bandage, inadequately concealed by a ribboned cap. “My sister-in-law refused to let me come down. She said that I was too weak, but it is really that she is ashamed of me. In some way she blames me for this.”
“She cannot possibly,” he protested.
“But she does,” she said, eyes filling. “I am now a fallen woman in her eyes. She will not let the children near me.”
As the tears poured from her eyes, he opened his arms. After a moment’s hesitation, she fell into them and sobbed painfully. Apart from drawing her back into the shade of the passageway so that they would be unobserved, he let her be. Eventually, she drew away and accepted his handkerchief.
“I have drenched your coat,” she said between blows of her nose. “I am sure it was dreadfully expensive.”
“I am delighted to put it to your service. Do you need to leave your home for a while?” he asked directly. “I could find you a place to stay.”
“Oh no,” she said but with gratitude. “Emily is only suffering from shock in her own way. It is not every day that one of the family is found sprawled in the public street with her skirt up high and her bodice half off.” She gave a gallant attempt at a laugh which sounded more like a gulp. “She will soon come about. And John has been nothing but kindness. It is just that he feels he has failed me in some way. Men are very foolish.”
“This man too,” he said, “and with more cause. I too feel that I have failed you, Stella.”
“But why?”
“My uncle sought to interest me in the investigation, and I regarded it as an idle pastime, rather like an acrostic. Now I take it more seriously.”
“You are investigating this, David?”
“Yes, forgive my arrogance. You are not the first lady to be attacked, Stella. The others did not escape so soon. I may be able to do nothing, but I will try. I need to talk to you about the attack as soon as possible. I warn you, I intend to squeeze out every bit of information you have.”
“It all happened so fast,” she said doubtfully. “All I really remember is the hoarse whispering before he struck.” She shuddered at the memory, then continued gallantly, “But it would be better to try now, would it not? It is horrible to think of these attacks continuing, I will get my shawl and tell Emily. She cannot hold me prisoner, after all. Then, maybe we can walk in the park.” In a few moments she exited by the front door and tucked her arm in his.
Jane watched this encounter from the opposite side of the street from the bow window of the rooms which housed Lady Sophie’s old governess. Or her favorite of them, as she had confessed.
“I lost count of them. I was very good at dispatching the undesirables. I let Miss Randolf stay because she let me be. She is sweet, and I usually visit her when I am in Town.”
Jane had been pleased to agree to accompany Sophie and see a little more of London than Mayfair. The governess’s rooms were cozy and situated upon a new terrace of gray brick houses. The area had a comfortable feel. Children played in the street and cheerful servants went busily about their tasks.
Jane was watching the maids come out of the houses to get milk from the goat and cow being led down the street when she saw Lord Wraybourne walking along. He went into a house opposite. She thought that, if he left at the same time she and Sophie did, they might take him up. Such a simple notion to summon up the familiar excitement.
After a brief time, however, he exited. She saw him turn and go towards a passageway between the houses. A young woman fell into his arms, and he drew her back into the shadows. Jane felt a shock so great she had to clench her fingers to stop them trembling. She was grateful that Sophie was chattering away and paying no attention.
It was one thing to be willing to wait for his love to grow, quite another to see him with someone else. How dare he deceive her so? If he wanted to marry some other woman, there had been no one to stop him. But a woman from Clarke Street would have no money—at least, none to compare to the Sandiford fortune. The Kyles, according to Sophie, married money even if they had no need of it. How terribly Jane’s mother had been deceived in her inquiries. Mrs. Danvers, this woman, who knew how many others there might be? Sophie had not exaggerated when she spoke of the hundreds of his victims. The man was nothing more than a mercenary rake, despite his rank and elegant exterior.
Hiding her pain, Jane did her best to take a composed farewell of Miss Randolf and listen calmly to Sophie’s chatter all the way home. Jane also kept her eyes glued to the street, in watch for her perfidious betrothed and his secret love.
10
IT WAS FROM this date that the social career of Jane Sandiford and Lady Sophie Kyle began to turn outrageous. Society watched with disapproval, envy, or admiration as the pair enlivened every occasion, and talk was not lessened by the fact that Lord Wraybourne was conspicuous by his absence. In fact, there were some who said that such a high-stickler must be disgusted by the behavior of his betrothed.
Jane was aware of this. Lady Harroving took delight in telling her. Jane had not seen Lord Wraybourne since that day in Clarke Street and had received only a note explaining that he was called out of Town on business. That he should go off casually with his lover, mistress, or whatever she was and leave Jane to be the butt of such talk; that he should not be nearby to see what a success she was, how many admirers she had, what a beauty she was considered; that he should not be available to be spurned by her—all these were intolerable. She could not deny him her fortune and her pedigree, but she could deny him the rectitude he had supposedly valued.
She was unmoved by his attempt to court h
er at a distance. Every few days a package would arrive for her. Each contained a small gift and a note of further apology. She was at first tempted to smash each one. Instead, she brought them out before guests as evidence of his devotion and put on airs of being desolated by his absence. In fact, there was no acting involved, for her foolish heart did miss him. It had occurred to her, chillingly, that he might be sincerely attached to his latest love and regretting his betrothal. That thought was more intolerable than his absence.
She was bound to him far more than she wished and would be torn to shreds if he abandoned her. There had been some warmth between them. It could not all have been false. Surely, given a chance, she could fan the coals into a warmer flame. If he came back and asked to be released from the engagement, she determined to refuse. To strengthen her resolve she showed Society a devoted face. Her betrothal was not one in which the termination would be accepted with a shrug.
In the meantime, seeking to hurt the one who hurt her, she took great delight in causing talk, not by involvement with other men but by general misbehavior. She knew Lord Wraybourne would hate it, especially when she and Sophie almost caused a riot at Drury Lane during a particularly poor performance of Hamlet which someone had been inspired to sweeten by giving Hamlet and Ophelia a happy relationship.
“I really do not know why we are here,” Sophie giggled as Hamlet danced a cotillion on stage with Ophelia. “This is ridiculous. Shakespeare would be affronted at what they are doing to his play.”
Lord Trenholme smiled. “Certainly more like Beau Brummell than the Gloomy Dane. Do you think he will manage to kill anyone?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” said Jane. “He will marry Ophelia, his uncle will abdicate, and they’ll all live happily forever.”
Lady Harroving hushed them. “People are staring!”
“Good,” said Sophie. “I am sure we are more entertaining than the actors. Oh, look. There is Major Heckleton waving.”
She waved back, and soon half the gentlemen in the pit were blowing kisses and shouting greetings to her.
“Sophie, stop that immediately,” hissed her ladyship. “The actors look very cross. Jane, behave, please. What will David think?”
This was quite the wrong thing to say if Lady Harroving really intended to curb her charges. Jane, who had to this point been only a spectator to Sophie’s mischief, now joined in. As she leaned forward to wave to a handsome captain, a rose worked loose from her posy and fell into the pit. Immediately, a number of gallants struggled for possession. Jane watched in horrified fascination as a fight broke out below. This was going too far. She drew back hastily. Sophie, on the other hand, appeared to have no qualms at all. Bright-eyed, she pulled a bloom from her own bouquet.
Lord Trenholme tried to stop her. “Lady Sophie, you must not.”
“Must I not?” she said, chin very high. “Are you jealous, My Lord? Here, you may have this one.”
She thrust it into his hand, then turned to toss the rest, but he firmly wrenched the flowers from her. Sophie glared at him, and he stared icily back. Jane waited for the explosion, but at that moment they all became aware of pandemonium in the theater.
The Cyprians who used the theater as a place to display their wares had not been pleased to have attention drawn from them by the well-bred part of the audience and could tell a good move when they saw one. Blooms were now showering the pit from all their boxes. Below, noncomba tants were scrambling to safety while young bucks leaped from boxes to join in the fray. More sober people exited as quickly as they could, and the management had lowered the curtain.
In the Harroving box, Lady Harroving was trying to drag her party away, but her husband seemed to think he was at a mill and hung over the edge to cheer on his favor ites. Jane and Sophie were watching too and laughed at the mayhem, while Lord Trenholme, sternly disapproving, incongruously clutched Sophie’s bunch of violets. Mr. Carruthers, the third escort, seemed undecided. He joined Lord Trenholme in disapproval but found that gentleman taciturn and so commiserated with Lady Harroving, who commanded him to convince Sophie and Jane to leave. But when he went to the front of the box, he became caught up in the sport and laid bets with Sir Arthur as to victors.
“I say, Miss Sandiford,” he said. “If you are giving out your roses, you might give one to me.”
Jane smiled without mirth. Her interest in Mr. Carruthers had evaporated when she had faced real problems. Though she permitted his occasional attendance at Lady Harroving’s urging, she now found the young man tedious.
“There is a positive flower garden below, Sir. Go join in the melee.” When he hesitated she laughed out loud. “Pudding heart! Sophie, I really think we have had all the amusement possible. Do let us go.”
“Oh, very well. I’m sure Lord Trenholme longs to leave.” She gave that gentleman a very saucy look as she swept past.
As is often the case with brawls, the origins never became clear to most people. Still, the rumor was put about that Jane and Sophie were in some way concerned, and that added to their reputations . . . as did the day they raced their horses in the park, allowing their court of hussars to place bets on the outcome. All the soldiers had been pledged to secrecy, but somehow the tale got out. Though most people discounted it, it was added to the tally by those inclined to be censorious. At one tedious musical evening, the young ladies organized an impromptu treasure hunt, though in truth Lord Randal had more to do with it than Jane or Sophie. He protested afterwards he had no idea that a number of guests had slipped away for clandestine amorous meetings, but at least one duel was fought as a result of that night’s entertainment.
That was also the occasion upon which the whisperer chose to torment Jane again.
Despite the license she was allowing herself, Jane had been careful not to be alone. She did not desire any true scandal or a reencounter with the whisperer. On this occasion, however, searching with Sophie for a brass monkey supposedly to be found in one of the reception rooms, Jane had become separated from her friend. She gave the matter no thought until the noxiously familiar sibilance drew ragged through the air once more.
“Poor neglected one. Do you need consoling?”
Jane whirled around. Her situation was this time much worse. There was only one door, and the menace must be outside it. Where was Sophie?
“I caught your rose at the theater. Do I not deserve your bud? So sweet and moist . . .”
Jane thrust her hand over her mouth. His words made no sense. He was mad. Still, the touch of spittle in the whisper was disgusting. She could feel nausea beginning to rise and backed as far away from the door as possible.
“Snuff the candle, sweeting, and I’ll come to you. You’ll not be so wild when I have hold of you. But I’m afraid you’ve been naughty, my lovely. So a few strikes of the whip before the pleasure. You and Sophie both. The whip and then the pleasure . . .”
“Jane.”
Sophie’s voice calling cheerily broke into the macabre situation like sunlight into a tomb. Then Jane realized that her friend could be coming into danger and, forgetting her fear, ran forward to warn her. Jane emerged into an empty hall as Sophie walked out of a room opposite.
“I found the monkey. It was tiny. No wonder . . . Why Jane, whatever is the matter?”
Jane pressed fingers to her forehead to summon her thoughts. The violence in the whisperer this time had truly horrified her, and Sophie must be warned.
“Did you see anyone?”
“When? Randal is not far away and Crossley Carruthers searched my room before I did. He didn’t find the monkey. And I just sent Hever off with a flea in his ear after he read me a lecture about my behavior.”
Carruthers again. Had Jane so offended him by her flirtation that she had driven him to this insanity? She quickly told Sophie what had happened, both encounters with the whisperer, but mentioned nothing of her suspicions.
Sophie pulled a face. “Ugh. Nasty. But I don’t see how anyone could hurt you here. You would only have to s
cream, though I can see why you did not.”
“It must be my fault. My behavior is causing this.”
“Don’t be a goose. For all we know, this man is playing his tricks on dozens of women, each one too embarrassed to tell anyone. I shall tell Randal.”
Jane relaxed under her friend’s matter-of-fact tone. Of course. Lord Randal would know what to do; and he would doubtless tell Lord Wraybourne, a task Jane did not relish. The men would handle it, and she would be most careful never to be alone again.
However, she still could not quite convince herself that her unruly behavior was not in some way responsible for the whisperer’s unwanted attentions. She was already uncomfortable with the notoriety she and Sophie were achieving, and Jane’s tender conscience had been afflicted when she learned that one young gallant at the theater had broken his arm in the bataille des fleurs, as the wags had termed it. Furthermore, she shuddered to think of the repercussions when her parents got wind of her doings. The whole point had been to strike back in some way at her betrothed, but in his continued absence that was futile. She resolved to put foolishness behind her and behave more properly in future.
Despite Jane’s good intentions and her resolute adherence to them, real disaster almost struck at the Faverstowe Ball.
Lady Faverstowe’s ball was a very ordinary social occasion. Neither Jane nor Sophie, who was out of spirits, intended mayhem. At supper Jane took care to sit down with the quieter military gentlemen and the Ashby sisters, whom she liked very well. They were known to have a restraining influence on the company they kept. But a dispute broke out among the officers in their escort.
As voices became heated, Jane leaned forward to intervene, anxious to avoid another scene. “Gentlemen! We cannot have this dispute. Explain your altercation to us, and we will attempt to resolve it.”
