by Candace Camp
So the next morning he bade Rachel farewell, raising her hand to his lips for a formal kiss, then turned and quickly walked away. Outside, a groom waited with his horse. He mounted, not turning back to look at the house and therefore not seeing Rachel standing at the window in the front drawing room, watching him. Giving a nod to the groom, he rode off down the street. Two blocks down, out of sight of the house, he turned and headed for a different section of London and the house of another woman.
* * *
Rachel wandered back upstairs to her sitting room after Michael left, feeling at loose ends and faintly sad. She knew that she ought to visit Michael’s sister Araminta. Etiquette required it, since she had just returned to Town after a long absence and Araminta was Michael’s closest kin. By the same token, she ought to visit her own mother, who was happily enjoying life in London, free from the isolation of Darkwater as well as the constraints of a lack of money. Neither one of the women, she suspected, really cared whether they saw Rachel, but they would doubtless be affronted at the slight if she did not come by.
But she frankly did not feel like going to see them. Instead she sank down on a reclining sofa and gave herself over to the same thoughts that had been plaguing her for the past few days. It seemed peculiar to her that Michael had had to leave for home so quickly. Was he that anxious to get away from her? There had been something about his face yesterday when he was explaining why he had to go so quickly, something—Well, perhaps not exactly uneasy, but not precisely comfortable, either. It reminded her a little of the way he had looked when she had questioned him about the man who had stopped her carriage. She told herself that it was absurd to think that Michael was not telling her the truth. Michael was the epitome of honesty.
She stood up, disliking herself for sitting there thinking such thoughts. She would go to visit her friend Sylvia, she thought, and her spirits immediately brightened. Lady Sylvia Montgomery was one of the glittering lights of London Society. Short and plumply voluptuous, she was possessed of a silvery, infectious laugh and an entertaining, neverending supply of gossip. She was adored by her husband, Sir Ian, twenty years older than she and constantly amazed at his good fortune in landing such a wife. And she was exactly the sort of friend who could pull anyone out of despondency.
Rachel rang for her maid. An hour later, dressed in a fetching sea-green dress and matching pelisse, she set off for Lady Montgomery’s house.
It was still early in the afternoon, and Sylvia had as yet no visitors. When Rachel was announced to her, she jumped up from her chair with a cry of delight and hurried forward.
“Rachel, my love!” She enveloped her in a hug. “It has been ages since I’ve seen you. You must have spent all winter in the wilds.”
“Yes, I did. We were snowbound at Castle Cleybourne at Christmas and—” she smiled at her friend “—I have a veritable treasure trove of information for you.”
“About the duke?” Sylvia’s eyes lit up. “I heard from Lady Aspwich that he had married, but I could scarcely believe it. Is it true? And is it true that the new duchess left London years ago under a cloud?”
“I shall tell you all about it,” Rachel promised, and they sat down to a cozy conversation regarding the events of the past winter at Castle Cleybourne and the startling past of the duke’s new bride.
When she finished, there were a few moments of silence as Sylvia turned over in her head the complicated story Rachel had just told her. Then, somewhat hesitantly, Rachel began, “Sylvia…”
Her friend looked at her, her attention caught by Rachel’s tone. “Yes?”
“I was wondering…” Rachel began slowly. “That is, well, have you ever heard anything about Michael?”
“Westhampton?” Lady Sylvia asked, her blue eyes growing rounder. “What do you mean? Heard what?”
“I’m not sure.” Now that she had started, Rachel realized how vague her concerns sounded. “About, say, his being involved in something?”
“Something?” Her friend’s finely arched brows rose. “What kind of something?”
“Something dangerous.”
For a long moment Sylvia stared back at her blankly. Then she began to laugh. “Oh, I see—you are making some kind of joke!”
“No! No, I’m not. Sylvia…do stop laughing.”
The silvery tinkles of her friend’s laughter died away. “But, Rachel, dearest—that’s nonsensical. Why would Michael be involved in something dangerous? What could it be?”
“I don’t know. And I know it sounds as if I have run mad. But, well—” Rachel drew a breath and launched into the story of the highwayman who had stopped her carriage.
Lady Sylvia’s eyes grew wider and wider as Rachel talked, and by the time she came to a halt, Sylvia was staring at her, openmouthed.
“Well?” Rachel asked. “Do you see now why I asked?”
“Yes. But what does it mean? What was the man talking about? Who was he?”
“You know as much as I do. Nothing.”
“Did you tell Westhampton? What did he say?”
“He said it was nothing, that the man was probably a lunatic.”
“Yes, well, he rather sounds like one.”
“But you didn’t see him. He did not seem at all mad. He seemed perfectly serious, as if he really knew Michael and thought that he was in trouble. Michael suggested that perhaps it was one of his friends playing an elaborate jest on him.”
“I must say, he has rather bizarre sorts of friends, then.”
“Yes, well, I must admit that some of the men with whom he corresponds are a trifle odd. But it’s more that they talk about things that no one else would ever even consider, let alone talk about, and they forget to wear a hat in the rain or something like that but can remember what some philosopher hundreds of years ago said.”
“Oh. Like Lady Wendhaven’s uncle, you mean?”
“Well, no, not the kind who run about town in their nightgowns. More like Naomi Armistead, say.”
“The one with pencils stuck in her hair, but then she’s always looking everywhere for one?”
“And pulls them out to jot down bits of poetry. Exactly.”
“Yes, well, the Armisteads are all a bit odd. All of them have peculiar names.”
“Biblical.”
“Well, I suppose one can hardly blame them for that, but it does seem to me that their parents could have had a bit more consideration. I mean, Matthew is all right, and Ruth, but it seems to me that to name a boy Job is asking for trouble, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I guess so, but that isn’t the point. What I’m trying to say is that Michael’s friends and correspondents are eccentric in that way, but I wouldn’t expect them to hire someone to pretend to be a highwayman and warn Michael of some danger or other. Even if they are pranksters, what would be the jest of it?” Rachel leaned forward earnestly, all the doubts that had been simmering in the back of her mind spilling out.
“I don’t know,” Sylvia replied doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem particularly funny, does it?”
“And if the man is a lunatic, why did he choose Michael to trouble with his lunacy? It was not random. He spoke of him by name. He recognized the crest on the side of the carriage. He acted as if he knew him. But wouldn’t you think if Michael had met someone as mad as that, he would have recognized him by my description? By what the man said? He even told me that his name was Red Geordie. Don’t you think you would remember someone named Red Geordie?”
“He sounds rather unforgettable,” Sylvia agreed. “Do you think that Michael really knew who he was and that he lied to you about it?”
Her friend’s words brought Rachel up short. “No,” she admitted, frowning. “I would not think that Michael would lie to anyone, much less his wife.” She hesitated, then added, “But when he said he didn’t know who the man was, he—he looked away from me. And suddenly I just felt that something was wrong. That he was…maybe not lying, but that he was not telling me the entire truth.” She looked at
her friend, troubled. “Do you think he is hiding something from me?”
Sylvia shrugged. “Sir Ian hides things from me all the time.”
“Really?” Rachel stared. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
“No, not especially. Sometimes it is because he fears I will scold him. The doctor told him to stop drinking port—the gout, you know—and sometimes, when he comes home from his club, I know he has been drinking it, but he pretends he hasn’t. And sometimes he thinks I wouldn’t understand something. Men think we are silly creatures, with nothing but clothes in our heads.”
“Michael is not like that,” Rachel said positively. “He has talked to me about philosophy and science—and sometimes, frankly, it was too complicated for me, but Michael didn’t treat me as if I were stupid.”
“Then I would warrant that he is doing it to protect you,” Sylvia answered promptly.
“Protect me? From what?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the fact that he is in danger, that the man was telling the truth, no matter how unlikely it seems. Maybe he doesn’t want you to worry.”
“Well, I would worry, but it would hardly be fair of him to hide it from me. And, besides, that means he’s been doing something that would get him into danger, and that would have to be something else I know nothing about.”
“Probably something from his past,” Sylvia said with a wise look. “Before he met you. Men always get involved in some sort of pecadillo or other when they are young, even someone like Michael. He would be embarrassed to admit his youthful folly to you.”
“You really think so?”
Her friend nodded her head emphatically, sending her golden ringlets bouncing. “Oh, yes. And if you want to find out what it is, I know just the thing to do. Come with me to Lady Tarleton’s soiree tonight.”
Rachel raised her brows skeptically. “And how will that help me?”
“Lady Belmartin is sure to be there. She is great friends with Harriet Tarleton. And Lady Belmartin knows all the gossip there is to know about everyone. If anyone knows whether Michael was involved in something shady in the past, it will be she.”
“I can’t go about asking people if they know anything bad about my husband!” Rachel protested. “Honestly, Sylvia, how would that look? Nothing would be surer to set everyone gossiping.”
“We won’t ask her outright, silly! One doesn’t have to prod Lady Belmartin to gossip. Indeed, it’s hard to get her to stop. We’ll just start talking to her, let her get warmed up a little, and I shall say something, oh, something like there being nothing bad that one could say about Westhampton.”
“Won’t she think it’s odd?”
“Heavens, no! She will just take it as a challenge. If there is anything bad to be said about Michael, she will do it.”
“With me standing right there in front of her?”
“You obviously don’t know Lady Belmartin well. She would be eager to see how you would react. It would be more grist for her gossip mill.”
“How horrid!”
“She is, rather. She is bosom friends with Ian’s mother—there is another one with a tongue like a serpent—so I have had a lot of experience at dealing with her. I ply her with flattery and let her think I am the silliest thing ever, and I feed her bits of gossip. Just look awestruck at her knowledge of every on-dit for the last twenty years and she will be pleased with you.”
Rachel had not really planned on going out that evening; she had felt tired and listless all day. But she thought of spending the long night alone in the Westhampton mansion, and the prospect was immensely unappealing.
Smiling at her friend, she said, “Very well. I am sure that she will have no gossip to spread about Michael: I am simply being foolish. But it will be nice to confirm that. And perhaps a night out is precisely what I need.”
“Of course. It is always what one needs.”
CHAPTER 8
Lady Sylvia arrived in her carriage to take Rachel to Lady Tarleton’s soiree at a little before eleven o’clock, only an hour later than she had said she would arrive. Rachel, who knew her friend well, had timed her own toilette so as to be ready thirty minutes late and therefore did not have to wait too long. Sylvia was sparkling in a silver tissue gown and the diamonds that Sir Ian had given her upon the arrival of their first son and heir. Rachel had opted for a more subdued gown of blue velvet that went admirably with her pale skin and dark hair. A matching blue ribbon wound through the curls of her hair, and discreet sapphires glowed at her ears and throat.
Tarleton House was lit up both outside and in, and the line of carriages leading to its front door stretched well over a block back. Once they reached the door, there was another long wait in the receiving line, which snaked through the entryway and up the stairs to the grand ballroom. Lady Sylvia kept them both entertained by commenting behind her fan on the dresses worn by the other female guests.
Rachel gave up any hope of even finding Lady Belmartin in the crush, let alone talking to her, and she decided it was just as well. But Sylvia assured her that she knew exactly where to find her, and once they were through the receiving line, she linked arms with Rachel and guided her through the crowd to a row of chairs lining the wall at the opposite end of the large room from where the group of musicians played.
“Lady Belmartin and Mother Montgomery always sit, and they hate to be near the music, as it makes gossiping more difficult,” Sylvia explained as they approached the spot where, as she had predicted, her mother-in-law sat with her friend.
Lady Belmartin was as small and spare as Lady Montgomery was tall and rounded, so they formed an interesting contrast. Both widows, they dressed in black, though it had been many years since their husbands’ demises. Lady Belmartin reminded Rachel forcibly of a crow, with her widow’s weeds and bright dark eyes, an image furthered by the hair decoration of glossy green-black feathers that rose out of the carefully coiffed twist of hair at the back of her head.
“Sylvia, child,” Lady Montgomery said, regally holding out her hand to her daughter-in-law. “And Lady Westhampton. When did you return to London?”
“Only yesterday, Lady Montgomery,” Rachel answered, dutifully curtseying to the older woman. Sir Ian’s mother had the ability to make her feel like an awkward child at her first party, so she generally tried to avoid the woman if she could.
“Not that many people back in Town yet,” Lady Montgomery went on, adding with a disdainful sniff, “Though one could not tell it from the crush here tonight. Harriet never has been able to separate the wheat from the chaff. I see she even invited that dreadful Blackheath woman.”
She proceeded to rip the poor woman to shreds, starting with her accent, which hinted of an upbringing in Northern Britain, and continuing through her hair, dress and manners. She was aided ably in this endeavor by her companion, who added that the woman’s father was country gentry, at least, but her mother was merely the granddaughter of a Yorkshire sheep farmer.
“Of course, they never speak of it. Well, one wouldn’t, would one? But I have it from Lady Featherstone, who grew up not twenty miles from there.”
“And there is Lady Vesey!” Lady Montgomery went on disgruntedly. “I cannot imagine what she is doing here. Surely even Harriet would not be foolish enough to invite her.”
Rachel swung around to search the room with her eyes. Leona Vesey! She would have to be careful not to run into her tonight! There were not many people whom Rachel could truthfully say she hated, but Lady Vesey was one of them. Leona had seduced Dev when he was a young man first in London, even though she was both older and married. She had introduced him to bad companions and widened the split between Dev and their father and—the worst thing in Rachel’s opinion—had separated him from his art. Until Miranda appeared and changed Dev’s life, Rachel had begun to fear that Leona had destroyed her brother’s future. It had given Rachel a great deal of pleasure when Miranda had vanquished Leona, but still, she could hardly stand to see the woman.
“The V
eseys are a step away from debtor’s prison—everyone knows that,” Lady Belmartin added. “Of course, I have heard that Leona has a new admirer—a wealthy one, I would judge by that bauble she’s wearing tonight.”
“My, Lady Belmartin,” Sylvia said admiringly, with a sidelong glance at Rachel, “you know everyone.”
“Oh, yes,” the older woman agreed with pride. “I have been privy to some of the best-kept secrets of the Ton.”
“But I must imagine that there are some people who haven’t any secrets, aren’t there?” Rachel offered mildly.
Her words earned a hard stare from Lady Belmartin. “Nonsense. Everyone has secrets. It is simply that some of them haven’t been found out yet.”
“Well, but you must admit that some people lead exemplary lives,” Sylvia persisted. “Sir Ian, I’m sure has—”
Lady Belmartin let out a hoot. “Sir Ian is no better than he should be, as I am sure Lady Montgomery will tell you. But, of course, I do not gossip about my friends.”
“Well, perhaps Ian was not a good choice. Then let’s say Rachel’s husband. I’ll warrant you have nothing bad to say about Lord Westhampton.”
Rachel looked at Lady Belmartin, aware that her hands were suddenly damp inside her evening gloves and her heart was beating faster than a mere conversation would warrant.
Lady Belmartin sent her a piercing look. “You are married to Michael Trent, are you? Well, I can tell you that his father was an utter roue. A libertine.” She nodded sharply. “Gave his poor wife nothing but grief, that one. She died years ago, poor thing, and I am sure his escapades did quite a bit to shorten her days. I have heard that he fathered several children on the wrong side of the blanket. Well, men do, of course, but he never honored his responsibilities. If a man is going to behave in that fashion, the least he can do is support the poor benighted babes.” She paused, then added judiciously, “Never knew a better horseman, though. Always threw his heart over a fence.”
“But that is nothing about Michael,” Rachel said stiffly.
