by Kruger, Mary
And then Edgewater accompanied her to the drawing room, and kissed her again.
The duchess, reclining on a chaise longue in her sitting room, smiled when Cecily shyly poked her head around the door. “Come in, child, and give your Mama a kiss,” she said, waving her hand.
Cecily crossed the deep pile, cream and rose rug hesitantly, feeling, as always, a little inadequate in this atmosphere of overwhelming femininity with its frills and furbelows. “I’m not disturbing you, am I, Mama?”
“Gracious, no, I hope I always have time for my daughters! I was just reading a novel. That nasty Caroline Lamb, imagine writing a book such as this, and about people she calls friends! Most vulgar of her. But, there, you won’t want to hear about that,” she said, hastily pushing the volume down beside her, and settling her hands in her lap. “Oh, dear, Cecily, you’ve been biting your nails again.”
Cecily quickly tucked her fingers against her palms. “I do try, Mama,” she said, dropping into a graceful heap on the floor, her back to the chaise longue. She longed to lean her head back and feel her mother’s comforting fingers touch her hair, but she knew better.
“Gracious, Cecily, I begin to despair of you! To sit on the floor when there are perfectly good chairs—”
“Please, Mama, don’t scold me.”
The duchess’s brow furrowed. “Very well, child, but you know I’m only thinking of you. What the marquess would think, were he to see you like this!”
“My lord doesn’t approve much of what I do these days.”
Cecily’s confusion and unhappiness at last penetrated the duchess’s self-absorption. “Is something wrong, child?” she asked, in a voice more gentle than Cecily had ever heard her use before.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” This time she did lean her head back. “Mama.” Cecily twisted around to look at her. “Do you love Papa?”
“Gracious, child, such a question!” The duchess fidgeted with her negligee of soft pink chiffon, arranging it more securely over her knees, and then sent Cecily a glance that was unexpectedly keen. “What is it, child? What is troubling you?”
Cecily turned away. “Edgewater kissed me.”
“Ah. I see.”
“And I didn’t like it.” But she did like it when another man kissed her, she thought, and went hastily on. “Is it always so unpleasant?”
“Kissing? Why, no, I never found it so. But it isn’t exactly as the books would have you believe, is it?”
“No.” Not with her fiancé, anyway. “But I didn’t mean just kissing,” she stammered, her face red. “I meant—”
“Child, you’ll be expected to do your duty as a wife. You must produce heirs, you know.”
“I know.” With Edgewater, duty it would be. But with St. Clair—now that was an ineligible thought! “Is it so unpleasant?”
The duchess fidgeted with her negligee again. “This is a most improper conversation, Cecily. When the time comes, you may be certain I’ll tell you what you need to know.”
“But, Mama,” she protested, and then fell silent. How could she explain that that time was now? She was horrified by her reactions to her future husband; baffled by what she felt for another man. Kissing him had been more than just pleasant. It had been—well, she couldn’t exactly describe the feeling. All she knew was that she was confused. “Mama, I don’t think I want to marry Edgewater.”
“Not want to marry him?” The duchess stared at her. “But he is a perfectly proper husband for you, child. Besides, the settlements have been signed, I’m sure. It’s much too late for you to change your mind.” Looking at Cecily’s bent head, the duchess reached out a hand, as if to touch her, and then withdrew it. “I suppose I should rise. I have been lazy quite long enough. Please ring for Quimby.”
Cecily rose and crossed the room, tugging on the bellpull to summon her mother’s dresser. “Mama.” She raised her chin. “I mean it. I really don’t want to marry him.”
“Nonsense, child.” The duchess sat at her dressing table and began pulling pins out of her hair. “Of course you’ll marry him. We’ll have no more of this foolishness, now.”
“But, Mama—”
“This is quite normal, Cecily,” she went on, brushing her hair, “though I’d expect it more of your sister than of you. You have so little sensibility.”
“I don’t understand.”
The duchess laid down the brush and looked at Cecily in the mirror. “Child, all girls feel this way before they marry. Nervous, and frightened. I know I did.”
“You did, Mama? But you were marrying Papa.”
“A man I didn’t know very well, child. A man my parents chose for me. Thank heavens we do things better in these days! At least you have a chance to become familiar with your husband. I never did,” she added, with so much resentment that Cecily could only stare.
“I think—Mama, I think it’s more than nervousness.”
“Don’t be silly, Cecily. Ah, Quimby, here you are. Draw my bath for me. Now, enough of this.” The duchess rose and put her arm around Cecily’s shoulders. “Of course you’re nervous. Marriage is a frightening step. But I assure you it will work out well. And we’ll have no more talk of breaking the engagement.” She paused. “Will we?
Cecily’s head was bent. “No, Mama.”
“Good. Now, you must hurry, child, and start preparing if you wish to be ready for the theatre tonight.”
“Yes, Mama.” Cecily left the room, no more comforted than she had been earlier, and vastly more confused. The view of marriage that had briefly opened up to her was frightening. She had always thought her parents dealt well together; never would she have guessed at her mother’s unhappiness. Would she herself feel the same in twenty years’ time?
It was just all so confusing! Cecily paced back and forth in her room, gnawing at her thumbnail. The kiss of one man caused her nothing but revulsion, while the touch, even the very gaze, of another man was enough to set her pulse to racing. He was totally unsuitable for her, and yet, with him somehow she felt complete. Why, then, was she marrying someone else?
Cecily stopped, staring at her reflection. She didn’t have to marry Edgewater. If she were, indeed, the proper, practical Lady Cecily everyone believed her to be, she would go through with the marriage, but she wasn’t. The adventurous side of her that had so recently surfaced, that she had tried to stifle, would not be denied. What did it matter what people would say, should she break the engagement? It was her life! She was the one who would have to live with Edgewater, and she was the one who would be unhappy should the marriage fail. It was her life. She had control of it.
Cecily gazed at herself, and then nodded, at the decision she had made. One more chance. That was all she would allow Edgewater. And then she would be free, to live her life as she saw fit. The future was hers.
Alex was in a foul temper as he strode into Joseph Manton’s gun shop. Not that he needed a new set of pistols, but the exercise of loading, aiming, firing, precisely suited him today. If he did nothing else to work off his mood, he might very well end by killing someone.
Several days had passed since he had caught Cecily in Whitechapel, several days which, to his surprise, had turned out to be lonely and bleak. His solitary rides in the park were no longer enlivened by the company of a girl ridiculously attired, riding a most ridiculous horse. Nor did he spend his evenings in her presence, frequenting the ton events he had, in the past, found so stifling, but which, recently, he had anticipated. He had, instead, gone back to his old routine. With Parsons, displeased at this turn of events, to keep an eye on Cecily, Alex had returned to his gambling and drinking, though he wondered how, in the past, he had managed to survive the way he felt in the mornings. Last evening, he had even visited his former mistress, who had not yet found a new protector, only to leave after a few moments. What he had ever seen in her overblown charms perplexed him; why he had no desire for her perplexed him even more.
On the advice of the gunsmith, Alex chose a pair of pis
tols with mahogany grips, sighting down the barrels of each and nodding in approval. “I’ll try these,” he said, and walked into the back of the shop, where Manton had set up a shooting gallery. Today the gallery was empty, save for Alex, and so he was able to shoot in peace, with Manton himself giving advice, until the tinkle of the bell on the shop door announced that another customer had come in.
Alex raised his pistol again and fired, coming close enough to the center of the target to both satisfy and frustrate him. His months of living for pleasure had dulled his skills; once he would have been able to hit the center every time, with lightning quick reflexes. Now that he had reentered the dangerous world of espionage, he might very well need those skills. He was not going to be caught off-guard again, as he so nearly had been by the unexpectedly seductive Lady Cecily.
His lips were set in a grim line, his arm raised to fire, when another man came to stand at his side, his coat removed for the exercise of shooting. “St. Clair,” Edgewater said coolly, loading his pistol.
“Edgewater.” Alex nodded in acknowledgement, and fired. The shot went wide.
Edgewater peered at the target in apparent perplexity. “I thought you were said to be a dead shot, dear boy.”
“This pistol pulls to the right,” Alex said, curtly.
Edgewater nodded. “Of course. When wrong, always blame the instrument, not yourself,” he said, and raised his pistol. Without even seeming to aim, he fired a shot dead center into the target. “There. That is how it is done, dear boy.”
Alex calmly reloaded his pistol. He would not allow Edgewater to annoy him, though he had never liked the man, or his cool air of arrogant superiority. What Cecily saw in him—but he wouldn’t think of that now. “Fine shooting.” He sighted down the barrel and, this time, correcting for the pistol’s slight tendency to aim right, hit the target in the center. “And so, I believe, is that.”
Edgewater shrugged. “A mere trifle, dear boy.” His second shot was placed precisely an inch above the first; his third, an inch below. “Ah, I see I haven’t lost my touch. A shame you’ve let your skills grow rusty, dear boy.”
Alex sent him a brilliant, cold-eyed smile. “And what skills are those, dear boy?” he said, laying ironic stress on the last two words and having the immense satisfaction of seeing Edgewater’s nostrils flare with sudden anger.
“Shooting, of course,” Edgewater said after a moment. “What else?”
“Shooting. I see. But I must tell you, Edgewater,” he raised the pistol, aiming, “that I am as good a swordsman as ever.” He fired, and the hole in the center of his target grew larger. “Ah, capital. Which, I believe, you never were.”
“Come fence me a time and find out.”
“Fencing? Who is speaking of fencing?” Alex’s smile was friendly, pleasant, but also mocking. “Your little fiancée never looks happy with you.” Edgewater’s shot went wide. “An unfortunate shot, sir.”
“I have some words of warning for you, St. Clair,” Edgewater said, the drawl gone from his voice. “Cecily Randall is mine. Keep away from her.”
“Tch, tch, bad ton to bandy a lady’s name about in such a way.” Alex reloaded the pistol, hiding his grin. He was hugely enjoying this encounter, although until this moment he hadn’t realized how much he disliked Edgewater. “Is she displeased with your performance?”
Edgewater’s face had grown very red, and the lid of his left eye twitched. “Just what are you implying, St. Clair?”
“Why, nothing, sir. I’ll take this one,” he said, turning to the gunsmith. “The other one does pull to the right.”
“Yes, my lord,” Manton said.
“I demand satisfaction for that,” Edgewater said, as if the gunsmith weren’t present.
“Gentlemen, please—”
“A duel?” Alex pretended to yawn, though an alarm bell was jangling in his head. “How tedious. You might spoil your clothes, sir.”
“Not a duel.” The look Edgewater shot him was contemptuous. “A shooting match. Right here, right now. Or have you gotten too soft, playing with the ladies?”
“At least they allow me—”
“Right here, right now.” Edgewater’s voice was low and intense, and the tic in his eyelid was more pronounced. “Or I will meet you in the field.”
“Indeed?” Alex turned again to the gunsmith, who still looked alarmed. “Will you referee, sir? Best three out of five, Edgewater. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Manton, set up new targets.”
“Very well. But you may want to relax. I don’t know how you’ll be able to shoot with your eyelid twitching.” As he spoke, the ghost of a memory came to him. Something important, but as he tried to grasp at it, it faded away. Whatever it was, it made him look sharply at his opponent. Edgewater wasn’t looking at him, but was instead studying the new target Manton had set up, his arm extended. The hand that held the gun looked strong and capable, for all its whiteness; the muscles of his arm stood out hard and corded. No idle dandy, he, though he cultivated the pose of it. Alex wondered why. “We wouldn’t want your pistol to pull to the side.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Edgewater said, curly. “Worry about yourself.”
“Oh, I am, sir.” Alex’s voice was grim. It had somehow become essential that he best this man, if only at shooting. Edgewater had won Cecily; damned if Alex were going to allow him to win this, as well.
So it was with great annoyance that, a few moments later, he found himself congratulating Edgewater on five perfect shots. His own shooting had been respectable; four of the five had hit the center, with only the last going wide. The worst part of it was that it was his own fault. Though he had tried to keep his temper under control, something about his opponent bothered him, so much that it had affected his shooting. It surely couldn’t have anything to do with Lady Cecily. Of course not.
“Congratulations.” Alex’s face was expressionless as he held out his hand to the other man.
“Thank you.” With the aid of the gunsmith’s assistant, Edgewater struggled into his morning coat of swallowtail blue, a color that nearly made Alex’s lips curl in disdain. “Must go along, you know,” he said, his voice a drawl again. “I’m promised to Lady Cecily for the afternoon.”
“Are you.” Alex’s voice was as expressionless as his face.
“Yes.” Edgewater paused by the doorway. “I need hardly remind you, dear boy, to keep away from her, do I?”
Alex glanced up from straightening his cuffs, having shrugged himself into his own coat, and his eyes met Edgewater’s, cool, hard, watchful. Again the alarm bells went off in his head. There was danger here, though he didn’t know why. Edgewater was a useless fribble, a man-milliner. For a moment that elusive memory returned to haunt him, and then was gone.
Curtly Alex nodded, and Edgewater left, looking smug. Alex followed a little later, after completing the purchase of one of the pistols, returning to his lodgings in as foul a mood as he had left them. Parsons took one look at his face and retreated into the kitchen, there to prepare his lordship’s luncheon.
Moodily Alex sank into an armchair drawn up before the empty fireplace, stretching his legs out and stroking his upper lip. A most unprofitable morning, and it had nothing to do with the lost shooting match. He had allowed Edgewater to get to him, and all because the man was engaged to Cecily.
“Hell,” he muttered. Why should that matter to him? He had no desire to marry Cecily, or anyone. In fact, in keeping with his reputation, it would be better if Cecily were married. He did not seduce young innocents.
The thought of Cecily married left a sour taste in his mouth; the thought that it would be to Edgewater made his stomach turn. Hell, of all the men she could have chosen, why him? He was nothing, a dandy concerned only about his appearance and his place in society, and yet— Alex frowned, remembering the disquieting impression he’d received that there was more to Edgewater than appeared on the surface, something hard, something possibly even cruel. He had learned to judge men
quickly, and his instincts were telling him that he was right about this. Edgewater very carefully kept his real self hidden from the world. The question was, why?
Frowning, he stroked his upper lip again, staring sightlessly into the fireplace. The frustrating part about this situation was that he could do nothing about it. Cecily meant nothing to him; she couldn’t. His only concern with her was investigating her link to the conspiracy. He could not allow himself to be concerned about her, or her forthcoming marriage. Nor could he allow himself to waste time, or energy, on Edgewater. He’d dismiss him from his thoughts. Still, Alex grinned, Edgewater hadn’t had it all his own way that morning. Alex had managed to annoy him enough that his left eyelid had started twitching.
Of a sudden, the memory that had been haunting him came back, the Duke of Bainbridge’s voice repeating words Alf Barnes had said. “The only other thing Barnes mentioned about the leader is that his left eyelid twitches when he’s angry.”
“God’s teeth!” Alex sat bolt upright, stunned by the memory, and the startling conclusion he had reached. God’s teeth, was Edgewater the leader of the conspiracy?
Chapter Nine
Parsons appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. "My lord?” he said, frowning as he watched Alex stride back and forth. "Is something amiss?"
"What? No.” Alex stopped, resting his hands on the back of the armchair. "You have someone watching Lady Cecily."
"Yes, sir, I—"
"Good. Keep him there. I want you to find out everything you can about the Marquess of Edgewater."
"A marquess? Sir, surely he wouldn't be involved—"
"I don't know, Parsons. Call it a hunch, but I think he may be. And I think,” he added, softly, "that he's bigger game than we expected to find."
