by Jane Feather
But he hadn't said that. He'd taken the risk that Gilbraith would go free. And therefore that his secret, whatever it was, might somehow come out. And now he was trying somewhat clumsily to get rid of him. Presumably because he'd reappeared on the public scene. Licking his wounds and buried in shame in the wilderness, Sylvester would have seemed a minimal threat. But he'd come back to life, and the old scandal inevitably reared its head.
Even as a boy, Neil had reacted in blind panic to threatening situations. And it seemed he was doing it again. But was there more to this panic than the fear that Sylvester would come upon his secret? Why hadn't he condemned him at the court-martial? There'd been another witness, his sergeant. What had he said?
Sylvester shook his head impatiently. He could see the man's face; he was an ugly specimen of mankind. But he couldn't remember what he'd said. His testimony was pure formality, anyway.
"What are you doing?"
Theo's drowsy voice shattered his intense reverie. He swung round to the bed. She was sitting up, blinking sleepily, the sheet tangled around her waist, her breasts lifting gently on the narrow rib cage with each breath.
"Watching the dawn," he said. "Go back to sleep."
Theo continued to sit there, however, regarding him gravely. What had he been thinking as he stood there gazing into the gray darkness? He did know the man's identity, she was certain of it. There had been something forbidding, chilling in his face as he turned to answer her. It had disappeared now, but she'd seen it. She wouldn't want to be in the shoes of whoever inspired that look.
She threw aside the covers and padded across the carpet toward him, black hair swirling around her creamy nakedness. "Is it dawn, already?"
"Almost." The bare skin of her arm brushed his own, making him startlingly aware of his own nakedness. Tense, he waited for more questions, but she merely leaned against him, her hair flowing over his shoulder, one hand lightly tracing the scar running down his rib cage and round the narrow waist.
"When did you get this?"
"Oh, some skirmish about ten years ago."
Theo nodded and looked up at him, into his face, where she saw the lingering pain behind the cool gray eyes. Her husband bore more scars than those visible on his body, and if she was ever going to understand him, she had to understand those scars too.
"Come on, back to bed," Sylvester said with sudden briskness. Catching her up, he carried her back to bed and dropped her on the feather mattress. He leaned over and smoothed her hair from her brow, smiling slightly. "What an intrepid, ramshackle gypsy I have for a wife."
"And you'd prefer another kind?" She couldn't prevent the flicker of anxiety in her eyes, but Sylvester shook his head.
"No, I've told you before we suit very well, you and I." He climbed in beside her, slipping an arm beneath her, rolling her into his embrace. "But there'd better be no more of these impetuous excursions, my love, however gratifying the reason for them."
Theo made no answer but lay quietly against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body. There was no point in further discussion. Prohibition or not, she'd have to conduct her own investigation. Maybe Edward would go with her to the Fisherman's Rest, and they could ask their own questions.
As the October sun rose over the Thames, Neil Gerard paced the small bare room in his anonymous lodgings, wondering what had gone wrong the previous afternoon. His men hadn't appeared for payment at the Fisherman's Rest, but Sylvester Gilbraith had come in their stead.
How he'd managed to overpower three armed thugs was a mystery when his only companions were a gaggle of young women, a child, and a one-armed cripple. Neil had only seen them from a distance, but it looked as if Gilbraith were escorting a schoolroom party. That notwithstanding, he'd overpowered his assailants and managed to learn about the rendezvous.
Neil's only comfort was the certainty that Gilbraith hadn't seen him, huddled in his shadowy corner behind a rickety wooden pillar. Gilbraith had been in the place just long enough to order a drink before the girl had arrived, and in the excitement and disturbance of that arrival, he certainly hadn't had a chance either to look around the room or to ask questions.
What a startling creature she was with that scarlet cloak and midnight-dark hair. Young, though. Very young for Sylvester Gilbraith. But her arrival had certainly annoyed and surprised the earl. Despite her confident smiles and the proprietary hand on his sleeve, he'd removed her in very short order.
She was presumably the earl's mistress. A woman not too unfamiliar with taverns like the Fisherman's Rest. Of course, Stoneridge had just married the Belmont chit. Probably he needed a little meat in his diet. A marriage of interest could make a thin meal, and there must have been an ulterior motive for that connection. Something to do with the entail. It was a common enough arrangement.
However, speculating about Gilbraith's marriage and extramarital connections wasn't throwing any light onto what had gone wrong at Astley's. Whatever it was had brought Gilbraith a dangerously close step toward Neil Gerard. It was time to change his tactics.
He glanced round the bare room with its few sticks of furniture and thin curtains. Wind gusted through the ill-fitting panes of the grimy window, and the small fire in the grate spurted.
He'd hoped to leave this miserable lodging with his problem solved and return to his elegant house on Half Moon Street and the life of the carefree bachelor, no longer obliged to pay his weekly visits to Spitalfields to hand over his blackmail.
A scrupulously cautious man, Neil Gerard had ensured that no one knew he was in London while he plotted the downfall of the Earl of Stoneridge. At these rooms on Ludgate Hill he was an anonymous lodger who paid his rent without fuss, and at the Fisherman's Rest he was an anonymous customer who had business other than drinking. As long as he conducted his business in these places, there was little chance he would accidentally run up against someone from his real life. But now his cover had been destroyed, and there was no point suffering this wretched discomfort any longer.
There was a scratch at the door, and a scrawny maidservant came in, her nose pink from the cold, a scuttle of coals in her hand.
"Make up the fire, sir?"
He nodded and stood watching her as she bent to the task, her skinny hips pressing against the rough linen of her skirt. The image of the girl in the Fisherman's Rest flashed through his mind. There was no comparison between that vibrant image and this work-roughened, scrawny creature, but he hadn't had a woman in several weeks, and his present failure-induced annoyance required soothing.
He moved to the dresser, selected a small coin from a pile, and tossed it to the floor beside the kneeling girl.
She looked up, her eyes widening. "Fer me, sir?"
"Are you clean?" He unfastened the tie of his dressing gown.
A flash of fright crossed her eyes, but she nodded dumbly, picking up the coin as she rose to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron.
"If you please, sir -"
"Well?" he said when she seemed unable to go on.
"I ain't never done it before." She dropped her eyes to the floor, twisting her hands in her apron.
Neil raised his eyes heavenward. It was an old trick. Virgins had a higher price, and he knew of several in the houses in Covent Garden who'd had their virginity restored at least half a dozen times. This girl was just trying to improve her own price.
"What kind of a gull d'you think me?" he said. When she still stood staring at the floor, he said impatiently, "If you're willing, get on the bed, girl. If you're not, get out of here."
The girl took a hesitant step to the bed, then lay down, closing her eyes tightly.
Neil threw off his robe and clambered over her. She shuddered as he pushed up her apron and petticoat. She was wearing no undergarments. It took him no more than a minute to realize she'd been telling the truth about her virginity. It increased his pleasure significantly, and when he'd finished with her, he took another coin from the dresser and tossed it to her as she limped from the r
oom, weeping softly.
Considering that he'd been more than generous, he went back to bed, feeling sufficiently relaxed to return to sleep.
Later in the day he would leave this miserable place and resume the life of Captain Neil Gerard of Half Moon Street. An eligible bachelor of good though untitled family, with a respectable fortune and a starred army career.
He'd approach the problem of Sylvester Gilbraith from another angle. With the hand of friendship.
Chapter Twenty
"The Honorable Mrs. Lacey and Mr. Jonathan Lacey, Lady Theo," Foster announced the next morning from the drawing-room door.
"There, Clarry, I told you they would call," Theo said. "Show them up, Foster."
"Oh, this is so embarrassing," Clarissa said, dropping the skein of wool she was holding for Emily to roll. "Can you imagine what Mama would say if she knew what you'd done?"
"She'd say it was vulgar," Theo replied cheerfully. "But she's not going to know, is she?"
"Not unless Rosie lets something slip," Emily observed, bending to pick up the dropped wool.
Theo was on her feet, turned toward the door when Foster opened it and announced their guests.
"Mrs. Lacey, how good of you to call." She crossed the room, her hand outstretched. "And Mr. Lacey. I'm so happy to see you. Such a silly mistake of mine at the Pantheon, but I trust we can turn it to good purpose and become friends."
A strangled sound came from behind her, and Emily swiftly moved in front of the stricken Clarissa.
"Allow me to present my sisters," Theo said with complete composure. "Lady Emily Belmont."
Emily was as composed as her sister as she greeted the visitors, and by the time the courtesies had been exchanged, Clarissa was sufficiently mistress of herself to rise and be introduced.
Jonathan Lacey bowed over her hand. He was a very beautiful young man, Theo reflected, golden and willowy, but lacking steel. For her own tastes she preferred a man with steel to him – which was fortunate, since that was what the fates had given her.
But a Sylvester Gilbraith wouldn't do for Clarissa. She was glowing at the young man, who in his turn was gazing at her as if he'd never seen a woman before.
"You'll take tea, ma'am?" She pulled the bellrope and ushered her visitor to a seat on the sofa beside her. "Have you been in town long?"
The Honorable Mrs. Lacey launched into a long discourse on her recent widowhood, on the excellent Honorable John Lacey, a clergyman and the younger son of Lord Lacey, who'd wished most fervently that his only child would follow him to Balliol and into the ministry. But it seemed that Jonathan had other talents. Artistic talents. He was a very fine painter, and people had shown a great interest in his portraits.
"Indeed," murmured Theo, pouring tea.
Emily took over the conversation with an aptitude for small talk that her sister lacked. "Herefordshire is a very pretty county, I've heard, Mrs. Lacey."
The Honorable Mrs. Lacey began to expatiate on all the glories of the Herefordshire countryside, while lamenting the need to be in London, but it was necessary if dear Jonathan was to move in the circles where he might acquire commissions for his portraits.
Theo glanced across at Clarissa and Jonathan Lacey. They were sitting decorously apart on the chaise longue, but talking earnestly.
Stoneridge should commission a portrait of Clarissa, Theo decided. And then realized that that would look most peculiar. He'd have to commission one of herself, and then Clarissa could keep her company during the sittings… Sittings! The very word filled her with horror. Hours and hours of sitting still while Clarry and her knight courted. No, sisterly love could only go so far. There had to be another way.
The sound of running feet came from the corridor outside the drawing room, and the door burst open to admit a breathless Rosie. "Theo, there is a book on spiders I most particularly wish to purchase in Hatchard's. But I have no pin money left, so could you lend me three shillings, please? Then Flossie and I can buy it immediately."
"Why do you need to buy it immediately?"
"Because it's the only copy, and someone else might snap it up."
"A book on spiders? 1 hadn't realized it was such a popular subject."
"Oh, Theo, please!"
"Rosie, where are your manners?" Emily chided, beckoning the child. "These are Theo's guests. Mrs. Lacey and Mr. Jonathan Lacey."
"How do you do?" Rosie said, offering a creditable bow. And then she frowned, and her sisters saw enlightened memory flash across her face. "Oh, aren't you -"
"Excuse me a minute, Mrs. Lacey." Theo rose swiftly. "I must find Rosie her three shillings." Before the child could say anything else, Theo had hustled her outside. "You mustn't say anything about the Pantheon, Rosie. Do you understand?"
"I wasn't going to. I was just going to ask if he was Clarry's knight."
"Well, he is, so you won't need to ask again."
"Why the whispered conference?" Sylvester appeared on the top stair from the hall.
"Oh, just family business," Theo said. "Could you find Rosie three shillings for Hatchard's, Sylvester? I have visitors."
"I'll pay you back, Stoneridge," Rosie said. "As soon as I have next month's pin money, only I find myself a little short this month."
"Oh, I believe an IOU will be satisfactory," Sylvester said solemnly. "What's the book?"
The question elicited a minute description of the book in question, to which her brother-in-law listened with every appearance of interest. He produced the required sum from his pocket, and Rosie, calling vociferous thanks, hurtled down the stairs to the hall, where her maid was waiting for her.
"Who are the visitors?" Sylvester turned back to Theo.
"Ah," she said, with a smug smile. "My friends from the Pantheon. It's a most lucky coincidence that Clarissa and Emily happen to be here too this afternoon. I think you should meet the Honorable Mrs. Lacey and cast a kind eye upon Mr. Jonathan. Maybe you could put him up for your clubs… or advise him on his coats. You know, the sort of things that men do for each other."
Even as she said it, she realized her mistake. If Sylvester was not accepted in those circles himself, he could hardly help Jonathan. "Well, maybe that would be a dreadful nuisance," she said hastily. "But at least come and meet them so it looks as if you approve of their being here."
Sylvester had read her mind as clearly as if she'd spoken aloud. He didn't know whether her swift retraction was harder to bear than the reason behind it.
Theo's eyes were on him, and he knew the grimness of his thoughts was in his face. He struggled with himself for a minute, then said with an assumption of lightheartedness, "You are a matchmaking hussy."
Relief flickered across her countenance, and she said in mock protest, "But it's for Clarry. It's family. Don't Gilbraiths ever put themselves out for family?"
Not often, Sylvester was obliged to admit. The Belmont clan, however, shared a unique closeness.
"Be a Belmont for once," Theo urged. "Clarry's knight is a portrait painter, and he's going to need introductions if he's to get commissions. We could take him up."
"Dear God!" Sylvester's eyebrows disappeared into his scalp at the ramifications of this, and some of the strain left his eyes. "You want me to be a patron of the arts?"
"Well, only of one little art," she said, slipping her arm into his. "Do come, please."
"Oh, very well."
He followed her into the drawing room, where he listened patiently to the chatter of the Honorable Mrs. Lacey. Jonathan Lacey, he discovered, had not the slightest interest in Corinthian pursuits. He did enjoy riding but considered hunting a savage sport. He had no opinion on the various merits of Stultz versus Weston and considered the clubs of St. James's to be quite above his touch.
Certainly, young Mr. Lacey was no coxcomb, Sylvester thought. But he did seem somewhat distanced from reality.
Clarissa smiled and nodded, hanging on to Mr. Lacey's every soft word, and Sylvester caught himself wondering what it must feel li
ke to have a woman so uncritically admiring of one. He glanced across the room at Theo. He could see the effort it was costing her to conceal her boredom. She winked at him, and he decided he'd rather have a good fight than adoration any day.
But he didn't want her pity either. Pity or contempt, which would be worse? At the moment he seemed to have the former, and it made him want to scream. Never once, since that ghastly "At Home," had she suggested he accompany her to any social function, and she tiptoed around discussions of such events as if she were walking on eggshells. He knew he couldn't tolerate it much longer. But if he was on the right track, then this evening he was going to begin his attempt to unravel the knot.
Neil Gerard had returned to Half Moon Street. Whether he still chose to lurk in the slums of dockland on occasion remained to be seen. But he was back in the London inhabited by the ton. Sylvester had seen him that morning from a distance, sauntering down Piccadilly on his way to St. James's. At some point this evening he was bound to go to one of his clubs. Sylvester would spend his own evening visiting White's, Watier's, and Brooks's until Neil made an appearance. After his experience at Lady Belmont's, he could guess how he would be received by the members of his clubs, but he hadn't been blackballed or forced to resign, so he had every right to be there, and he would simply endure the embarrassment. If Neil cut him again, then he would leave, wait for him outside, and force a meeting.
He became aware of Theo's eyes on him and realized his distraction must have become obvious. He turned to Jonathan Lacey with a polite inquiry as to the kind of backgrounds he preferred for his portraits.
"You must call upon us, Mrs. Lacey," Emily was saying. "I know my mother would be delighted to receive you."
"Oh, you're too kind, Lady Emily. I don't go about much these days but should be most honored to meet Lady Belmont." She smiled fondly at Jonathan and rose to her feet. "We really must be going, Lady Stoneridge."
"Emily, I thought you and Clarissa promised Mama you would be home by four o'clock," Theo improvised. "Perhaps Mr. Lacey could escort you, since you're leaving together."
