by Kruger, Mary
Alex permitted himself a small smile. “So it would seem. I rather hesitate to tell you, sir, that I’m a nob. I am St. Clair.” He sat down facing the man, his legs crossed, apparently at ease. One would never suspect from his countenance how important the next few moments were to him. “You’ve been questioned already, have you?”
“Have I,” Worley replied, bitterly. “They’ve got a way of making you answer in this place.”
“Indeed. Then you don’t deny that your rôle in the plot was to finance it.”
“No, sir, I don’t deny it. Not if you understand that it was the marquess who asked me to do the financing.”
“Which he wouldn’t have done if you didn’t already have revolutionary leanings. So you knew he was the leader?”
“Course I knew. The others, they were all fooled, but then, they never met the marquess face to face, you might say. Wasn’t any way that man would let anyone tell him what to do.”
“Indeed. And what part, may I ask, did Cecily Randall play in all this?”
Worley looked blank. “Who?”
“Come, come, man, we haven’t all night.” Alex leaned forward. “We know she’s involved, so if you’re trying to protect her, you may as well forget it. What did she do? Was she go-between for you and Edgewater?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, my lord.”
“Mr. Worley—”
“‘Struth. I don’t know no Cecily Randall.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” Alex said, his voice deadly quiet, “that you deny having met her at all?”
“‘Struth, my lord, I’d tell you if I knew what you was talking about. Weren’t no woman involved in this at all.”
“Small, golden brown curls, amber eyes, long eyelashes,” Alex shot at him. “She came to your office two days ago with her maid.”
Worley continued to look blank, and then his face cleared. “Oh, her! The little do-gooder.”
“What?”
“That’s right, now I recollect, she said she was Lady Cecily something-or-other. Tell you the truth, my lord, I didn’t really listen, because she said she’d seen me with the marquess, and that had me proper worried.”
None of Alex’s excitement showed on his face. “When did she see you with him?”
“They was out walking one day, and I made the mistake of greeting him. He gave me a proper dressing down, I’ll tell you that. The marquess must have told her who I am.”
“So she came to see you—”
“To ask for donations to some charity or other. Some orphanage. A do-gooder, like I said.”
“Indeed.” Alex sat back, feeling dizzy. She was innocent. Cecily was innocent. Suddenly, none of the night’s events mattered, not that he was bruised and battered, not that Edgewater had escaped. Cecily was innocent. “You have been a great help, Mr. Worley,” he said, rising.
“That’s it?” Worley blinked at him. “That’s all you want to ask?”
“That’s all.” Alex crossed to the door, opening it, and the turnkey nearly fell in. “You may return him to his cell.”
“My lord. What’s going to happen to me?”
“I can’t say, Mr. Worley. It’s not up to me to decide.”
“But you’ll tell them I helped, won’t you? Tell them I’ll do anything to help them get the marquess.”
“Indeed. Good evening, sir.” Alex inclined his head, and only after he was walking out did he allow his distaste for this whole business to show on his face. God’s teeth, he would be glad when the whole sorry affair was over. One forgot, in the world of spying, that another world existed, where people went about their daily business and actually trusted other people. It was perhaps no wonder, then, that he had been so quick to suspect Cecily. No more, though. As soon as he could he would go to her and make some explanation, so that they could begin planning their lives together. And never, ever, would he let her suspect what he had once thought of her.
Alex grinned, though it made his jaw ache. No matter that he was still in Newgate, awaiting the return of the turnkey, to escort him through the locked gate and doors. For the first time in a very long time, he was free.
Chapter Eighteen
Cecily took two steps into the Gold Drawing room and stopped. “Oh! I didn’t realize you were alone.”
Alex rose rather stiffly from the sofa, a bunch of violets in his hands. He was feeling the effects of last night’s brawl, but he could not have waited any longer to see Cecily. “Good morning, Lady Cecily,” he said, without a hint of a smile. “Did your father not tell you I was here?”
“Yes, but he said you would tell me what it was all about.” Cecily sank gracefully into a chair, her back straight, her head erect, watching Alex warily. “What in the world happened to your face?”
Alex grimaced. “I ran into a spot of bother last night. Looks worse than it is.”
“It looks very bad indeed.” She studied him. “Is your business over, then?”
“Yes. You may have heard what happened at Carlton House last evening.”
Cecily’s eyes widened. “Good heavens! The attempt to kill Lord Liverpool?”
“Yes. We had word, some time back, of a plot to overthrow the government. Most of the conspirators have been arrested.”
“But not all?”
“No, Edge—no, but we’re certain we’ll catch them soon. Alex shifted uneasily in his chair. He didn’t want to discuss this just now. Already he’d spent an uncomfortable hour with Marlow, explaining how Cecily had been implicated in the plot and what he had been assigned to do. They knew, now, that any mention of her name had been brought in deliberately by Edgewater; he had told his valet, Simpkins, to use the name Randall and had, apparently, considered it something of a joke. To say that the duke was displeased was an understatement. However, he had soon come to a grudging acceptance of the matter, and he was grateful for Alex’s efforts to prove Cecily innocent. Alex wanted never to face another such interview. “Here. These are for you,” he said, with none of his usual charm, and crossed the room to hand her the violets.
“Thank you. They are lovely.” Cecily buried her face in the bouquet and then raised her face to him. “Alex, why are you here? Yesterday you said you wanted nothing more to do with me. Until after I’m married.”
“Hell, Cecily, I’m sorry. That was inexcusable of me. But I had just learned something that upset me and I’m afraid I took it out on you. Can you forgive me?”
“I don’t know,” she said, softly, gazing down at the violets. “It hurt, Alex, that you lied to me. Oh, don’t deny it, I know you did. Do you trust me so little, then?”
“Trust has nothing to do with it.” He shifted uneasily again. Trust had everything to do with it.
“Trust has everything to do with it,” she said, echoing his thoughts. “Alex, why are you here?”
“Your father has given me permission to pay my addresses to you.”
“What!” For a moment she stared, and then a smile crept upon her face. “You’ve reformed so thoroughly, then?”
“Completely. I swear.”
“I thought you’d be interested in me only when I’m older.”
“Well, yes, of course. And now, too.” Suddenly he smiled, the smile she loved so well, the one that transformed his face and made him look young again. No wonder he had been able to charm so many women. In spite of herself, Cecily could feel herself responding. “Cecily, marry me.” He leaned forward, his voice urgent. “I’ll make you happy, I promise.”
Cecily beamed. At last she was hearing the words she had thought never to hear. Everything in her urged her forward, to go into his arms and answer that of course she would marry him, yet something held her back. Something still bothered her. “Alex. What happened yesterday?”
“I can’t tell you about that, Cecily. You’ll have to trust me.”
“How can I, when you won’t trust me?”
“It has nothing to do with that, Cecily!” Restlessly he paced the room.
“Then tell me! I need to know.”
“Oh, hell.” He stroked his upper lip as he stared out the window, and then turned. “I didn’t know what would happen last night. If something happened to me I wanted you to be able to forget me and go on with your life.”
“Fustian,” she said, crisply. “You’re lying.”
“Cecily, I swear—”
“Listen to me, Alex! If it has something to do with what happened last night and you can’t tell me, I’ll understand. But I had the feeling yesterday there was something more personal to it than that. Let’s not start with a lie.”
Alex looked at her measuringly. He was not used to dealing with women in a straightforward manner; in his experience, most women wished to hear sweet lies, rather than the brutal truth. No matter that she seemed to be able to see into his soul; in the past, his charm had always worked for him.
And so Alex smiled, and made his fatal mistake. “It does have something to do with last night,” he said, “and that is all I can tell you. Cecily.” He pulled a footstool over and sat before her, taking her hands in his. “Can’t we just put this all behind us? It’s over. Once Edgewater is arrested—”
“Edgewater!” Cecily looked startled. “Was he involved in the plot?”
“Hell.” He rose again, striding across the room. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that.”
“Was he?”
“He was its leader.”
“Good heavens! Why?”
“How do I know, Cecily? Power, I suppose. I don’t know what motivates a man like that, who already seems to have everything, money, position, a beautiful fiancée.”
“You thought I was involved,” Cecily said, so quickly that Alex had no chance to guard his expression. For a moment, the truth was in his eyes. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Hell.” Alex sank down onto the footstool, his head in his hands. “Oh, hell. I didn’t want you to know, Cecily.”
“You really thought that?” she said, stunned. “Simply because I was engaged to Edgewater?”
“No, not just that.” He straightened, looking her in the eye. “We had received information that you were involved somehow. We just didn’t know how. And you didn’t make it easier, Cecily,” he accused. “Going into Whitechapel.”
“But I explained that!”
“And then being seen with one of the conspirators.”
“Who?”
“Josiah Worley.”
“What?” She stared at him. “Alex, how do you know all this? No, don’t answer. You investigated me, didn’t you?”
“Cecily, I had to. Don’t you see—”
Cecily rose and went to stand behind her chair. “Then it was a lie, from the very beginning.”
“No, not all of it. I was attracted to you.”
“Of course you were, you’re a rake. Oh, Alex!” It was a cry of pain. “Oh, how could you do this?”
“Cecily, I never meant to hurt you, I swear—”
“It was a lie, all of it,” she said, her hands over her face. “Even now, how do I know that you’re not using me to catch Edgewater?”
“Because I wouldn’t do such a thing! God’s teeth, Cecily!” He took a few angry paces about the room and stopped, staring at her. “Do you really think I’d do that to you? Do you trust me so little?”
Cecily lowered her hands and gazed at him, the anger dropping away, leaving behind only an immense sadness. She would not cry. She would not give this man, who had made a career of breaking hearts, the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “How can I possibly trust you, Alex, when you so obviously don’t trust me? You don’t, do you?”
Alex took a deep breath. “Cecily, I don’t trust anyone,” he said, finally.
“I see.” Cecily reached for the bunch of flowers, and then dropped them. “Poor rake,” she said, and walked out, leaving behind her the fragrance of crushed violets.
“Cecily!” he called, but she was gone. “Oh, hell!” No woman had ever walked out on him before, never. He had always been the one to do the leaving. Ironic, wasn’t it, that the one woman he wanted to marry, was the one woman who was unimpressed by his charm. Unfortunately, he was in no humor to enjoy the jest. He had botched it this time.
Alex sank into the chair Cecily had vacated, his feet propped on the footstool. He was tired, so tired, in his soul more than his body. What did his life hold for him? For a moment he’d thought he had seen his future, shining and bright, had nearly been able to reach out and grasp it. Now it was gone, and the years stretched ahead of him, endless and grey. He had no hope of ever reconciling with Cecily; her parting words had had a terrible ring of finality. And all because, when it had been necessary, he had not been able to put his trust in anyone but himself.
He raised his hand to rub his eyes, remembering, just in time, to avoid his bruises. A necessary habit, that, of trusting no one, when he had been a spy. Of course he’d always had a certain reticence, but his life over the past years had only reinforced it. And during that time, he had found himself feeling increasingly lonely, had entered into relationships that were increasingly empty, wondering just what life was about, and never knowing why. Now he did. Now he knew, too late, that the essential connection to life was trust, and love, of another. When he had needed, at last, to let down his barriers and open himself to another, he hadn’t been able to do it. Because of that, he had lost Cecily.
The door to the drawing room opened. “Oh, excuse me, my lord, I didn’t know you were still here,” a footman said.
Alex rose. “I was just leaving. If I may have my hat and my stick?”
The footman bowed. “Of course, my lord. If you’ll just follow me.”
Alex inclined his head and followed the footman down the stairs. Life wasn’t over for him, of course. He’d find something to do, though what did a spy do in peacetime? He’d gone on alone all these years; he would continue to go on alone, and no one would ever suspect the terrible loneliness inside him. Except Cecily. Poor rake, indeed.
At the bottom of the stairs Alex took his hat and walking stick, and then paused, glancing around the hall. In all likelihood this was the last time he would ever come here. “Thank you,” he said briskly to the footman, handing him a vail as a tip, and walked out. He couldn’t help glancing up at the window he thought might be Cecily’s as he passed the house. Several times in the past he had thought that his association with her was finished, only to be proven wrong. There would be no second chance for him this time. Cecily had made that quite clear. He would never see her again.
From her window Cecily watched as Alex walked stiffly away, drawing back when he looked up, though she knew he probably couldn’t see her through the sheer muslin of the drape. He was gone. Cecily sank down onto the window seat, at last letting her tears fall. Yesterday, when he had implied he had used her, she hadn’t believed him. Today, she did, and it hurt. Oh, it hurt. It hadn’t come easily to her, giving her heart; she had done so only when she had realized that she could trust him. What she had learned today destroyed only the trust, not the love. That would take a very long time to die.
Sniffling a little, she went to her dressing table for a handkerchief. No use crying about it, she admonished herself. Crying did nothing for her but give her a headache and red, swollen eyes. It would not bring Alex back, nor change the fact that he had used her. Even now, he would have used her if she had allowed it, she thought, anger beginning to replace her grief. The only reason he had ever paid any attention to her was because he had thought her in league with Edgewater.
How could he have ever believed such a thing of her? She could understand it, barely, in the beginning of their friendship, but not once he had known her. Not yesterday! He had never really cared about her, never trusted her. How lucky she was to have found out the truth now, or she might actually have married him. She had had a very narrow escape. Why, then, didn’t she feel happier about it?
Her handkerchief crumpled into a ball in her hand, she sat on the windo
w seat again and leaned her forehead against the cool glass, unconsciously looking for Alex, though he was long gone. Gone, and this time it would be forever. She would have to accustom herself to that fact. She would never see him again.
Few took any notice of the man who stepped down the stairs of the tall, narrow house in Chelsea. On the surface there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. His dress was sober, of decent quality but not the best, in common with that of the other men’s in this quiet neighborhood, too far from the center of town to be fashionable. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. Were his former acquaintances to see him, they would not have believed the transformation. The Marquess of Edgewater was determined to do what he had to, to complete what he had come to see as a holy mission.
Several days had passed since he had taken sanctuary here, and the furor over the attempted assassination of the Prime Minister was beginning to fade. When Edgewater first had learned of the failure of his plot, he had been so furious that he had wanted to kill the man who had told him. Fools! He was surrounded by fools and incompetents. Who would ever have thought that the man he had recruited to perform the assassination would have needed to stoke his courage with a large quantity of gin, thus making him miss his shot? And who would ever have suspected that the government would send a substitute for Lord Liverpool, a man who had worn a breastplate of armor under his evening clothes to deflect the assassin’s shot? Someone had let the secret of the conspiracy out. Edgewater would give much to know who that had been.
He strode along the King’s Road, muttering to himself as he thought of the fiasco, so intent on his thoughts that he walked, full-force, into a man coming the other way. Instead of demanding an apology, however, the man scurried on his way, glancing back over his shoulder as he went and congratulating himself on a narrow escape. The light of fanaticism shone in Edgewater’s eyes. Liverpool would have to die. Until he did, the government would remain as it was, reactionary, inept, caring more for the protection of property than for the lives of people. Perhaps then they would appreciate a man like Edgewater; perhaps then they would see him as their savior, a visionary with a clear idea of how the country should be run. By himself, of course. He would come to power yet.
