by Amanda Scott
“Why, I saw him, of course. Don’t stand there discussing the matter. We must stop him.”
“’Tis my duty t’ stop ’im, ma’am, and no place for you t’ be, I assure you,” he added gravely. “You would be much better occupied in discovering the whereabouts of Mr. Townsend, who will be wishful to know what is what.”
Assuming that he must know his business best, Cicely agreed, taking time only to give him directions to her grace’s bedchamber before setting off herself to find the Bow Street Runner. As it happened, however, she found her husband first.
“Cicely! I was just coming for you. Faringdon says—”
“Never mind that now, Ravenwood. I discovered a sneak thief abovestairs, and we must inform Mr. Townsend.”
“What? Where?”
“In Mama’s bedchamber. But Mr. Vaughan has gone to intercept him, so we must find Mr. Townsend at once.”
“Nonsense, you’ll do no such thing. You’ll let me handle this, and you will find a quiet corner in which to await my return. Here, Uffington!” he called when Sir Conrad entered the anteroom at that moment. “Take her ladyship to a place where she may sit quietly, then find Townsend. There’s a thief upstairs. I must alert the servants.”
Sir Conrad asked no questions, merely accompanying Cicely to a nearby sitting room, where she might await her husband. He smiled down at her as she wearily took a seat. “You look as though you ought to be in bed, sweet coz.”
She smiled wanly. “I daresay I shall be quite soon, sir, but you mustn’t stay to bear me company, you know. Ravenwood will expect you to find Mr. Townsend.”
“There is truly a thief in the house?”
“Yes, indeed. I saw him myself, pawing about through Mama’s trinkets. I told Mr. Vaughan.”
He looked relieved. “Ah, then there is little need to worry, you know. Vaughan is as shrewd as can hold together. He’ll have the villain in a trice.”
But that was not to be the case. Although the servants quickly manned all the obvious exits from the huge mansion, and a general search was made, it was Mr. Townsend’s expressed opinion an hour later that the villain had made good his escape. His presence did not become a matter of general knowledge, however, so the dancing went blithely on. But the duchess, informed that her bedchamber had been invaded, insisted, albeit in fainting accents, that Cicely take her upstairs at once that she might discover for herself what had been taken.
Once candles were lit, a quick search of the dressing table revealed that a number of trinkets were missing, but this fact did not alarm the duchess particularly, since most were of little value. What did set off a crisis of nerves was the discovery that her jewel case was also missing from its customary place of concealment. The duchess moaned and immediately demanded that someone ring for the estimable Fortescue to support her through this tragedy. Cicely moved quickly to obey, putting an involuntary hand to her head when it protested the sudden movement. No sooner had she given the requisite number of tugs to the cord, however, than she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder and turned to find her husband gazing down at her, concern clearly imprinted upon his countenance.
“Let me take you home, Cilly.”
His tone was so gentle that she felt an odd urge to cry. “I must stay with Mama,” she said, looking away from him.
“She does not need you,” he said quietly. “Her woman will soon be here, and she has others to support her as well if necessary. But you, my dear, are in no shape to be of much assistance to anyone. We will collect your wrap and be on our way. I ordered the carriage when I spoke to the servants earlier. It will be waiting for us.”
There seemed to be nothing further to say, so without another word, she let him take her away. It was blissful to sink back against the plush squabs, to rest her head against his shoulder and, a moment later, to feel his arm around her, drawing her closer. With a sigh, she snuggled against him, and despite the briefness of their journey, she was sound asleep before they reached Charles Street.
She scarcely stirred when he lifted her from the carriage and carried her effortlessly up the steps and into the house. Nor did she hear him, a few moments later, when he dismissed Meg Hardy with the simple explanation that he would tend her ladyship himself and that she was to be left alone to rest undisturbed until either she rang or he gave orders to the contrary the following day. She did open her eyes briefly when, having discarded her cloak, he began the more difficult task of disrobing her, but if she noticed any difference between his dimly outlined shape and that of the much shorter, plumper Meg, she was too sleepy to make comment upon it, merely shutting her eyes again with a tiny sigh. Ravenwood made no attempt to coax her into a nightdress, simply laying her naked upon her bed and drawing the heavy quilts gently over her. Then he stripped himself of his own clothes and slipped in beside her. When he drew her protectively into his arms, she made a sound low in her throat, much like a purring kitten, stretched a bit, then snuggled closer, her head comfortably nestled in the curve of his shoulder.
When she awoke late the following morning, her first thought was that the room was very dark. She was used to being wakened by Betty when she opened the curtains to admit the morning light, and at first she supposed it must still be early. But there was sufficient light to see by the little jeweled clock on the night table that it was nearly eleven o’clock.
Memory of the previous night’s events began floating back, and her next thought was to wonder why she was in bed without her nightdress. Not that it really mattered much, she thought. With a smile to think how wickedly idle she had been to sleep so late, she stretched her legs languidly, then tensed when her big toe came into contact with another human leg.
“Good morning, my dear. I trust you are well rested.”
“Gilbert!” She turned over to find him smiling lazily at her. “What on earth, sir? I know you rarely appear in public before noon, but you are generally up and about long before this.”
“I was afraid I might disturb you,” he answered. Then, with a rueful grimace, he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “I’m afraid I didn’t brush your hair out last night. It will be most dreadfully tangled.”
She chuckled. “One of the very few advantages of having fine hair, sir, is that nothing can tangle it. Generally that is a disadvantage, mind you, since it will lend itself to no fashionable hairstyle. If I were to have it cropped, it would merely hang straight, regardless of the most ruthless attempts with a curling iron.”
“You must never have it cropped, Cilly. I like it long.” His voice deepened, and he raised himself up to rest upon one elbow, his expression growing tender as he gazed down into her eyes. His free hand moved to stroke her, and she gasped at the sensations coursing suddenly through her body. It was not long, however, before she was moving sensuously against him, using her own hands to stir him as he stirred her. His mouth came down against hers suddenly, almost brutally, as though he would devour her. But her response was nearly as passionate, and it seemed to become almost a contest between them to see who could stir the other more, to determine who would be subdued first. At last, however, she fell away from him, gasping, ready to beg him for release if he did not possess her soon. But as though he had known instinctively when that moment would come, Ravenwood moved over her, claiming her once again as his bride, his wife, his cherished possession.
13
THEY WERE DISCUSSING A light nuncheon in the breakfast parlor when Lady Brittany entered, smiling brilliantly. She wore a deep green sarcenet walking dress with a matching bonnet, which she promptly removed, automatically sweeping wisps of golden hair back into place even as she spoke.
“What a cozy scene you present,” she said. “Wigan said he didn’t think you’d mind if I came straight on in.”
Cicely looked up, glad to see her. “Is Mama in better twig today, Tani?”
Brittany laughed, taking a seat. “Well, she is in a bit of a pelter yet over the fact that a strange man actually invaded the privacy of her bedchamber and t
ouched her things. But since it turned out to be not so bad, after all, she is in prime—”
“Tani!” Cicely interrupted. “What do you mean, ‘turned out to be not so bad’? Did they find Mama’s jewels, then?”
“Why, didn’t you know? I thought you did, although no one thought to inform me that anything exciting was happening at the time. Mama said you were there until Fortescue came to support her spirits.”
“No, we departed before she actually arrived,” Cicely explained, glancing at her husband. He smiled, and she turned back to Brittany. “What had Fortescue to do with anything, anyway?”
“Fortescue had Mama’s jewel case with her,” Brittany said simply.
“Had it with—”
“Of course. You know the woman is a very dragon where Mama is concerned. She said she’d never have dreamed of leaving her duchess’s precious jewels at risk, and couldn’t imagine why we had made such a fuss.”
“Oh, dear,” Cicely chuckled, “I can almost hear her saying the words. And she must have been more upset than Mama at the thought of a strange man in the bedchamber!”
“Not a bit of it,” retorted Brittany, straight-faced. “She said she had expected as much, what with all the ‘sorts’ Mama had invited to her ball. Looking very down-the-nose when she said it, too, as you might think. You know she thinks anyone of lower rank than an earl is of no account, begging your pardon, Ravenwood.”
“Oh, never mind Gilbert,” Cicely advised kindly. “He will come about. Just as soon as poor Papa … What was the charming phrase Lissa used that day? Ah, yes, just as soon as he cocks up his toes.”
Brittany giggled, but Ravenwood merely recommended that his wife try for a little more conduct.
“Yes, you must,” Brittany agreed, “for you will be a duchess one day, Cicely, and your Meg Hardy will grow to be just as high in the instep as Fortescue is now.”
“Grow to be! You cannot have seen her of late,” Cicely laughed. “She will have none of Sir Conrad’s man, Alfpuddle, because she thinks she is too good for him. Not that I can blame her for resisting a man with such a name as that. Only imagine her as Margaret Alfpuddle! Now, mind you,” she added wickedly through the others’ chuckles, “if he were in service to a marquess, it would no doubt be a different matter altogether.”
“Not by comparison to a duke’s man,” Ravenwood murmured, irresistibly drawn into the foolishness.
“A duke’s man?” Cicely regarded him quizzically. “Who—” Then her brow cleared. “Then she has got a case. You’ve seen it, too.”
“Offhand, I’d say the case is mutual,” he returned. “Pavenham actually forgot to warn me to have a care for my boots this morning. It must be the first time since he came to me. But I think you underestimate your Meg. I believe if she truly cared about a man, she wouldn’t care a jot about his station in life.”
“How noble you make her sound,” Cicely said, grinning. “But if she will not even speak to a man she thinks to be beneath her touch, how could she ever fall in love with one?”
“Pavenham is your valet, is he not?” Brittany asked Ravenwood. He nodded. “Well, I think that’s sweet,” she said. Then she turned back to her sister. “Have you got plans for this afternoon, Cicely?”
“Yes, I must call upon Lady Jersey,” Cicely said, making a small face. “I never know what to say to her. When one knows one’s every word will be repeated everywhere her ladyship goes, it rather stifles conversation. But she procured my vouchers to Almack’s, so I am obliged to her.”
“She procured mine as well,” Brittany admitted. “Shall I go with you?”
“Oh, if you would! We can walk over from here, you know. She lives just across Berkeley Square.”
“You shall certainly not walk,” Ravenwood interposed with mock sternness. “Sally Jersey is the very one who makes such a fuss over ordering out her carriage to take her to pay a call three doors down the square. She says it would be easier to walk, but it would look so common. No, no, my dears, you must order up the carriage.”
“Pray, Ravenwood, do not be absurd. ’Tis only a step.”
“Nonetheless,” Brittany put in, “we may as well take the carriage. Oh, no, sir,” she said quickly when Ravenwood put a hand to the bell. “I have my mama’s. The coachman is walking the horses, but he will come by presently, and we shall signal him to stop.” She smiled at her sister, who had opened her mouth to insist upon walking. “I shall have to go home afterward, Cicely, and ’twould be easier to go on from there. Though, of course,” she added as an afterthought, “we shall be pleased to bring you back here first.”
“No need of that. I can walk.”
“I shall send the landaulet in half an hour to fetch you,” Ravenwood said, smiling. “If Tani brings you back, you’ll very likely sit chattering until she is so late getting home as to bring your father’s wrath down about all our ears. And as for walking, my girl, you may put that notion straight out of your head. Not only does it not suit my consequence, but I countenance this visit at all only because you promised Sally Jersey you would pay her a call. Otherwise I should tuck you up with one of your romances to read. You were meant to rest today, you will recall.”
“Yes, my lord,” said his wife in a tone that was meant to sound meek but succeeded only in sounding long-suffering.
He chuckled. “And you will take Meg Hardy to bear you escort on the return journey.”
“Yes, my lord.” She raised appealing eyes to the ceiling.
A few moments later, in the duchess’s carriage, sitting opposite Meg Hardy and Sarah Basehart, Brittany looked her over closely.
“Are you in better frame today, Cicely? Mama was distressed by your illness last evening.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I am in prime twig today, Tani. I was merely tired last night, I have been going it a trifle strong, I’m afraid.”
“But does Ravenwood fuss over you like this often?”
“Fuss? No, of course he doesn’t.” She considered a moment. He did seem to be very concerned about her well-being. The thought gave her a warm glow. “He persuaded me to cancel my engagements for the evening,” she mused aloud. “We are to dine together and have an early night for once.”
“Well, I expect that’s an excellent notion,” Brittany said approvingly. “From the sound of it, you’re well nigh burnt to the socket.”
Cicely gave her a look but made no reply, for they had arrived at Lady Jersey’s town house. Brittany’s footman opened the carriage door and let down the steps. He held out a hand, first to his mistress, then to Cicely, and escorted them up the steps to the front door, where he manipulated the heavy brass knocker to good purpose before returning to the coach.
Sarah Basehart and Meg Hardy were left to sit in the front hall of the elegant house while a footman guided Cicely and Brittany to her ladyship’s sitting room. Lady Jersey was in an excellent mood, and she, whom the beau monde referred to as Silence, entertained her two visitors with a running monologue of anecdotes, making it almost unnecessary for either to say a word. Thus the visit passed harmlessly, and when the requisite half hour had passed, they rose to their feet to make their adieus.
Out in the hall, they found Meg Hardy alone. “That Sarah says she has a cousin working here, if you please,” she said tartly. “No sooner did that footman return than she asked to be taken to some Polly or other. Said I wouldn’t mind waiting alone. Such manners!”
Cicely knew that Meg assumed Sarah had been taken off to enjoy a cup of tea and was merely jealous. The same obliging footman was sent to fetch her, however, and the party soon separated on the flagway outside.
Cicely settled back in the landaulet, glad now that Ravenwood had insisted upon it. She yawned delicately behind her hand and saw Meg give her a sharp look.
“Yes, Meg, I’m still a little tired. You needn’t scold, however. Ravenwood and I are staying at home tonight. I shall be in bed at quite an early hour, I expect.”
“And a good thing, too,” muttered Meg, st
ill out of sorts over her treatment in Berkeley Square.
When they returned, Cicely decided to take Ravenwood’s advice and curl up with a good book. Consequently she sent Meg on upstairs with her cloak and went to have a look in the library.
It was not the first time she had been in the room, of course, but it was the first time she had entered it to find a book. She thought about how often she had read down at Malmesbury, and it seemed impossible to realize that she hadn’t read a single book since coming to London. Doing the pace too fast and furious, my girl, she scolded herself.
The shelves had been arranged in order of subject matter, so it was not long before she found what she sought. From there it was but a step to a large, overstuffed chair near the south window, and within moments she had seated herself, slipped off her sandals, and curled up with her toes tucked warmly under her in the large chair. Both the duchess and Meg Hardy would have roundly condemned such a posture, but neither was present, and she did not think Ravenwood would mind in the slightest.
The story was lurid enough to hold her attention easily, and the hours slipped away unnoticed. So engrossed was she that she did not hear the click of the latch when the door opened, but she sensed Ravenwood’s presence and looked up before he spoke. The expression on his face warned her, and her smile of welcome faded into a worried frown. “What is it, sir?”
“You must come with me, Cicely.”
“But why, sir? What has happened?”
“I can say nothing, my dear. But I ask you to trust me.”
“Of course.” She put her hand in his and let him assist her from the chair, then paused, shooting a guilty look in his direction as she slipped her sandals on. He did not smile.
Her curiosity well aroused, she followed him to the small saloon just off the main hall, where unknown or unworthy visitors were often kept waiting while the servants ascertained whether or not the master or mistress was “at home.” The first person she saw there, however, was none other than Meg Hardy, white-faced and clearly furious, wringing anxious hands one moment and dashing angry tears from her eyes the next. Two men were with her, one wearing the red vest of the Bow Street Patrol and the other dressed in near-gentleman’s clothes and carrying the tiny baton with the gilt crown on top that proclaimed him to be a Runner. Both men peered searchingly at Cicely, then glanced at Ravenwood. He shook his head, and the Runner seemed to relax.
