“Not malicious, Mr. Morgan, just thoughtless. Men are rarely careful of a woman’s name, future and well-being, especially when they believe her worth to be diminished.”
“I pity you, Lady Annica, if this is any indication of your experience with men. What high, thick walls Auberville must have had to breach to find that withered suspicious heart of yours.”
She could not apologize for her instinct to protect her friend, but she winced at those well-deserved words. “Sarah has friends who are prepared to deal with any wrong done her.”
“I am one of those friends.” The handsome man gave her a cold smile. “You had better accustom yourself to me, Lady Annica, because I do not intend to abandon Constance Bennington or Sarah Hunter.”
“I shall count upon that.”
The recipient of occasional snubs from pious society matrons, Annica was not used to dealing them out. She’d never given anyone the cut direct in her life. But when the audacious Roger Wilkes stood in her path on her way to the ladies’ retiring room, it did not seem enough. She opted for the cut sublime.
“I must talk to you, Lady Annica,” he said.
Though aware of him, Annica kept her eyes directly ahead, as if looking through him. Her face remained impassive and she did not falter so much as a fraction of a second.
“You cannot—” Wilkes’s voice broke as he began to understand what she was about to do.
She slapped her open fan across her left palm, closing it in a bored gesture of disdain. The toe of her slipper nearly touched Wilkes’s shoe as he moved to block her way. Her back was stiff and straight and her chin lifted imperceptibly, but she did not break her stride. Her gaze met that of Lady Winters, who was coming down the corridor from the retiring room.
“You will be sorry if you do not listen,” Wilkes hissed. “There is more to this than you know. I—”
With a little twitch of her shoulder, Annica cleared the human obstacle without ever acknowledging him. Her actions said that, as far as Lady Auberville was concerned, Roger Wilkes did not exist. She noted the desperation in his stance, and she knew how society would judge this tableau.
The hiss of whispers behind her indicated that the gossip had already begun. The cut sublime was sufficiently rare and severe as to be remarked upon.
She inclined her head to Lady Winters in passing and said clearly, “Brace yourself, Eloise. There is an unaccountable stench ahead.”
More than one gasp met this denouncement. Lady Winters blinked and looked away from Wilkes. “Thank you for the warning, my dear.”
“I will remember this,” Wilkes snarled in a low undertone.
Annica shivered at this threat as she closed the retiring room door behind her. The cut sublime was little enough punishment for the cad, but it was a beginning.
Grace was sitting before a mirror tucking stray wisps of chestnut hair back into her artfully arranged coiffure, while Charity and Constance watched. They looked up when she entered.
“Here you are!” Charity smiled. “Connie was just telling us how very entertaining you are finding Lord Tristan.”
Annica laughed. “Entertaining. Now there’s an interesting description if ever I heard one.”
“Where have you been, ’Nica?” Grace asked, finishing the final repairs on her hairdo.
“Giving Roger Wilkes the cut sublime. And before that, speaking with Geoffrey Morgan.”
“The cut sublime? Heavens! How did he react?” Constance’s eyes widened with surprise.
“He was furious, but as we were public, he could do nothing. We cannot destroy him yet, but we can make it uncomfortable for him to mingle in society.”
Grace nodded somberly. “That is a good idea, ’Nica.”
“What did Geoff have to say?” Constance asked, changing the subject. She stood and shook the folds of her emerald evening dress into a graceful drape.
Annica glanced around the room. “Where is Sarah?”
“She went to Oxford for her grandmother’s birthday. She should be back tomorrow in time for our meeting,” Charity told her. “Is something amiss?”
“I wanted to be certain she would not overhear us.”
“Well?” Constance prodded. “What about Geoffrey?”
“I meant to ask him if he would keep Sarah’s secret, but somehow the conversation got out of hand. We ended with an argument, and he threatened to remain in Sarah’s life.”
“I would not call that a threat, Annica,” Constance snapped.
“As hard as I try, I cannot rid myself of the suspicion that he is engaged in some secret purpose.”
“You did not always have such a bad opinion of him,” Charity reminded her.
“I did not always feel as if he were up to something.”
“Oh, for pity sake! Let it alone, can you not?” Constance gave Annica an exasperated look and raised her eyes heavenward, as if looking for help from that direction. “I find Auberville as suspicious as you find Geoffrey. He was in town when Sarah was attacked, and left soon after. And he returned about the same time as Geoff. Furthermore, you and Sarah witnessed at the masquerade that he is capable of violence. According to your criteria, that is more than enough to cast suspicion.”
“’Nica has her reasons,” Charity stated, jumping to her defense.
“I shall explain tomorrow,” Annica promised. “There are a good many things we must sort through, and some decisions we must make.”
Annica’s first inkling that Tristan had arrived was the hush that fell over the ballroom. She turned to see him scan the crowd in search of…her? Society was ready to judge their match based on what they witnessed tonight. For the first time in her life, she cared very much what society might think.
He caught sight of her and cut through the crowd, heading straight in her direction. Her heart pounded madly. She had no idea what to expect, considering that he hadn’t come to her last night—or their wedding night.
“My dear.” He gave her that lazy, crooked grin, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. This time he lingered over the kiss to a scandalous degree, and heat swept over her. “I am pleased to find you so well. Chauncy informed me of your devastating headache again last night. I trust you are fully recovered?”
Hope washed over her. Perhaps he had not snubbed her, after all. Perhaps he had been considerate. She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Lord Auberville. How…how pleasant that you could join us.”
“I would not have missed it, Lady Auberville. I certainly did not want to wait until…later.”
Annica knew beyond doubt that she was blushing. The heat was unbearable. She snapped her fan open and waved it rapidly. She did not realize how revealing their little exchange had been until the ladies began giggling behind their hands. Everyone would now assume that their wedding night had been a monumental success. Annica wanted to both slap him for embarrassing her and thank him for saving her pride. Society would now conclude that theirs was a love match.
He swept her into a graceful waltz that made matrons sigh with envy. “You must forgive me, my dear. I came home as soon as I could break away from my appointments tonight, only to find that you had given up waiting and gone on without me. I hope you will not think that I will be a neglectful husband.”
“N-no,” she said. In truth, she was so new to the concept of marriage that it hadn’t even occurred to her that Tristan might want to escort her to the nightly festivities of the social season. Most husbands did not escort their wives. “You were gone when I woke this morning, and I thought you would not…that is to say, that you did not care if…” She gave up. “I do not know what you expect of me, Tristan. I thought I was to go on with my life as usual, except that—”
“That you now sleep at Clarendon Place?” He grinned, and his hand tightened around her waist. “Well, that is a start, Annica. But perhaps you would consider going home with me?”
His roguish grin made her blush and his teasing references to going home made her tremble with antic
ipation—facts, she noted, that were not lost on observers. But his invitation reminded her that she had waited for him on their wedding night, and he had not come. What—or who—had been more important than her? And he still had not confessed his trap.
“I cannot, my lord. I have promised my friends that I will accompany them to the Morton crush.” A flicker of hurt passed through the compelling blue eyes and she could not bear that she had caused it. “I shall cancel and they will go on without me.”
“No.”
“They will understand, Auberville.”
“I will not have you break your word on my account. And there are promises I should be keeping, as well,” he said.
She wondered if he was simply being gracious. “Are you certain?”
“As certain as I am of anything, my dear.”
The dance ended and he escorted her back to the sidelines. Again he bent over her hand. “I shall count the minutes,” he said in a voice loud enough to be heard by those nearby.
She adored him for that gesture. To be so openly attentive to one’s wife was a sure sign of defeat for a man, and victory for a woman. Tristan had made her look victorious. How could he have known how much that would salve her pride?
Grace was waiting with her wrap, and Annica smiled at her husband over her shoulder as her friend led her to the door. She wanted to make some gesture that would restore Tristan’s esteem in the eyes of his peers, but she couldn’t think how. She would have to ask Aunt Lucy.
The balance of their group had shifted, with Ellen continuing on to another party with a group of her friends and Gilbert departing for a gaming hell. Constance and Charity were waiting at the curb as they summoned Grace’s coach.
“I cannot wait to see if the news of your cut to Wilkes has been told as far as the Mortons’ crush, ’Nica,” Charity whispered, a satisfied smile on her lips.
Before Annica could reply, a raised voice near the street corner drew their attention. Roger Wilkes was deep in conversation with the foreign-looking man with the scar. She stepped closer to her group and inclined her head in Wilkes’s direction.
Constance gasped, gripped Annica’s arm and said in a low voice, “That odd little man has shown up several times since I have been investigating Frederika’s disappearance. I have been referring to him as ‘Mr. X.’ If he has a connection to Frederika and Wilkes…”
“Wilkes might be involved with Frederika’s disappearance.” Annica finished the half-formed thought for her friend. Wilkes? Or Morgan? Cold dread filled her. What was afoot?
“But Wilkes is such a swine!” Charity said. “How could he ever persuade a woman to run off with him?”
“He may have help. When he attacked Sarah, he had three other companions, and there was another man in the garden with Wilkes the night I heard him confess to raping Sarah. And I’ve seen Mr. X act as a liaison between Wilkes and someone else.” Annica stopped. She did not have the heart to battle Constance again. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Constance took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I will inquire of one of my sources. If there is a connection, we shall know it by tomorrow.”
“Who is your source? Who have you been using, Constance?”
She merely pressed her lips together and shook her head.
Chapter Fourteen
Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park lay on a corner of Tristan’s desk, the bloodied note left pinned to Mr. Bouldin’s chest safely tucked inside. Annica had a new scheme and she wanted to present it to the Wednesday League at their usual Wednesday meeting this afternoon.
She pushed Tristan’s chair back and tried to open the middle drawer in search of a pen. Locked. How odd, for a man who trusted his servants implicitly. Did he have something to hide? Was it she that he didn’t trust? Was something of great importance hidden in the drawer? Or in the library?
She gazed around. Unlike most dark and somber libraries, this one was awash with light and color. No dark paneling and stingy oil lamps here, but tall, wide windows separating the bookshelves, letting bright natural light stream in. Tristan’s massive desk was placed in one corner near the fireplace so he could enjoy both light and warmth. Deep Oriental carpets warmed the polished wood floors, and vases of multihued flowers provided bright splashes of color. Chairs and a sofa were grouped near the fireplace, inviting lazy afternoons and cozy evenings.
She could discern no hidden panels, no false walls, nothing sinister or that signaled a hiding place. She tugged at the drawer again, thinking she might not have been forceful enough.
Feminine laughter echoed in the foyer, announcing the arrival of Charity and Sarah. Annica gave a guilty start. She stood and hurried to gaze innocently at a row of books on one shelf, then felt foolish for the deception. This was her home now. She had a perfect right to look for a pen. What had got into her? The locked drawer?
When Chauncy opened the door for Charity and Sarah, his scarred face was relaxed in a pleasant smile. “If you do not mind my saying so, Lady Auberville, ’tis nice to have females about the place. Mrs. Eberhart is seeing to your tea and pastries, though Hodgeson is set upon bringing them to you. Shall I say you are ready?”
“Thank you, Chauncy.” Annica smiled. “But Miss Bennington and Mrs. Forbush will be arriving soon. We shall wait for them.”
Charity and Sarah arranged themselves on the sofa while Annica took one of the chairs facing them.
“That sky-blue frock is quite lovely on you, ’Nica,” Sarah exclaimed.
Annica groaned and adjusted the ribbon beneath her breasts. “I am growing so weary of blues—from robin’s egg to midnight—that I could scream, but Tristan simply will not confess. He is either more stubborn or more tolerant than I suspected.”
“How are you liking married life, ’Nica?” Sarah sighed dreamily.
“Once Auberville and I have settled accounts and adjusted to considering another person, instead of just our own plans, I believe we will be compatible.”
“Of course you will.” Charity leaned forward and patted her hand. “Why, it is not as if you and he are still in nappies.”
The door swung open and Grace strode in, Constance in her wake. “Nappies?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. “That was quick work, even for you, ’Nica. Are you carrying the Auberville heir?”
Hodgeson, following Constance with the tea service, faltered for a moment, but managed to keep the teapot and cream upright. Annica realized that he had been harboring that particular fear. Torn between chagrin and annoyance, she shook her head. “You need not gift me with rattles and blankets just yet. Thank you, Hodgeson. Put the tray on the table, please. Shut the door on your way out and, if you will, see that we are not disturbed.”
“Yes, milady,” Hodgeson said, bowing and closing the double doors behind him, a look of utter relief on his wrinkled face.
Annica poured the tea and passed the cups. “We have much ground to cover today,” she sighed. “We had best begin, but I hardly know where. Wilkes? Morgan? Mr. X? Frederika?” She sat back and sipped her tea. “Madame Marie’s seamstress?”
“Constance, what was the result of your errand last night?” Grace asked.
“My source has met with an accident. A coach ran him over three days ago. I cannot help but wonder if his accident is connected to the questions he was asking.”
“What does all this mean?” Grace asked, rubbing one temple.
“It means,” Charity said, “that yet another man has died, and the information to destroy Wilkes is just beyond our grasp.”
Annica’s heart twisted. Her inability to help Sarah made her feel as impotent as she had as a child, unable to help her mother. Sarah had a fine spirit and a brave heart, and she deserved better than what the Fates had given her.
“I believe Mr. Morgan was next on our agenda,” Sarah prompted.
Annica chose her words with care, painfully aware that Sarah, as well as Constance, would take exception to what she would say next. “The foreign man with
the scar that Constance refers to as ‘Mr. X’ is not unknown to me. In the course of following Mr. Wilkes, I witnessed a meeting between the two. When Wilkes departed, Mr. X relayed a message of some sort to a man waiting in the doorway of a small shop. That man was Geoffrey Morgan.”
She paused for a deep breath and forged ahead. “I am sorry, Constance, but I believe Mr. Morgan may have a connection to this whole affair. Mr. Renquist also believes there may be some connection—if not with a Hellfire Club, then with twenty-eight missing women. Most certainly with Wilkes.”
“Twenty-eight missing women? But what implicates Mr. Morgan?”
“He told me once that he served in the Royal Navy—with Farmingdale and Wilkes, to be specific.”
“For heaven’s sake, ’Nica, would it not stand to reason that an entire regiment served with Wilkes and Farmingdale? I’d venture to say there are several more of the ton who served with them. We were at war with France, if you recall,” Constance said. “Why, your very own husband was in the Royal Navy. I cannot believe that Geoff would—”
“Constance has a blind spot where Geoffrey Morgan is concerned,” Charity snapped.
“Do you think that I would jeopardize women for the sake of a personal prejudice?” Constance huffed. “And what evidence could you possibly have against Geoffrey?” she asked, an angry glint in her eyes.
Annica sidestepped the question in favor of presenting her plan. “There is a way to eliminate him as Mr. Bouldin’s murderer.” She retrieved Mansfield Park from Tristan’s desk, removed the bloodied note and held it up for all to see. “I propose we acquire a sample of each man’s handwriting and compare it to this note.”
“An excellent idea!” Grace exclaimed.
The library doors swung open and Tristan strode in. He flashed his crooked grin and bowed to the group at large. “Ladies. Please excuse my intrusion. I was not aware that we had company. I have need of some papers in my desk. I will only be a moment.”
Annica folded the note with an air of calm unconcern and slipped it back between the pages of her book. She smiled sweetly and nodded. “Of course, Auberville. ’Tis your home, after all.”
A Wild Justice Page 17
