“It was an act that has certainly caught the attention of many,” Hartley said, all too aware of the many curious glances sent his way. Such interest was not something a man in his position wanted.
“Ah. ’Tis a grave faux pas for my uncle to dance with your mistress, is it?”
Hartley frowned even more in an effort to hide his surprise over her blunt statement. In truth, many people suspected that Claudette was his mistress, but he had not taken that final step to make her so yet. The dance of seduction between him and the lovely blonde had only just begun. He was not a man to rush things, if only because too much eagerness could look suspicious. But just where, he wondered, and how, had this woman come by such information? He was confident now that she mixed with society even less than the reclusive Iago did. It was unusual, even shocking, for a woman to speak so openly of such things as well.
“And why would you think the woman is my mistress?” he asked.
“She smells strongly of roses.”
“Ah, well, yes, she does.” Hartley began to consider the possibility that Iago’s niece had been kept out of society’s eye because she was not quite right in the head.
Alethea grimaced when she saw the expression Redgrave tried to hide. It was one she was painfully familiar with, the one that said she was undoubtedly one step away from a place in Bedlam. What had seemed so simple before—come to London and warn the man—was not looking so simple now. She should have heeded Iago’s words. How did one tell a man that he ought to avoid a beautiful lady who smelled of roses, because, by the next full moon, she would be sending him to a long, torturous death?
“My lord, I am sure you have heard a tale or two about my family, about the Vaughns,” she began.
“I pay little heed to rumors.” Hartley suddenly realized that this woman was making no attempt to flirt with him and then wondered why that irritated him just a little. His duty at the moment was to seduce Claudette, not become interested in some raven-haired widow from the country.
“How very commendable of you, but that is not exactly what I asked, is it? We Vaughns, and our close relations the Wherlockes, have long been considered somewhat unusual, shall we say. Unusual in ways that cost several of our ancestors their lives, for they were tried, convicted, and executed for the practice of witchcraft.”
“Ah, of course.” Hartley relaxed. Now he knew what he was dealing with. Iago’s niece was just a young woman who had come to believe the whispers about her family, might even think that she herself possessed some magical skill. Foolish, but not alarming.
Alethea did not like the heavy condescension she heard behind those words. The tone of his voice set her teeth on edge. “I can readily accept the disbelief of others, my lord, but condescension has a tendency to irritate me.”
“My pardon, m’lady.”
“Fine. I accept your apology even though there was not a dollop of sincerity behind it.” She ignored his slightly raised brows. “Come now, m’lord, you would not question a man’s intuition about something, would you? If that soldier at your side in battle suddenly told you he felt as if a trap lay ahead, you would at least heed him, would you not?”
“A telling point,” he murmured.
“Thank you.”
“So, you have had some intuition concerning me? How could that be possible? We have never met.”
“’Tis true that you have never met me.” She almost smiled at the confusion that entered his expression, but then her attention was firmly grabbed by her uncle. “Oh, no. Oh, damn and damn again.”
Iago looked alarmingly ill as he strode past her. She reached out for him, but he only muttered something about the gardens and kept on moving. There had been a look in his eyes that chilled her, made her fear for his state of mind. Something far worse than a visitation by some spectre had put that look there. Alethea inwardly cursed. They did not need any more trouble.
“I must see to my uncle, m’lord,” Alethea said.
“He did not look well,” Hartley agreed.
“Ah, no. No, he did not. Please, m’lord, I have heard that you do not remain at these social events for very long, but I would beg of you to wait for me. I truly must speak with you.”
Before Hartley could make any promise, Lady Alethea left him. She paused in her pursuit of her uncle only once, relieving a wide-eyed footman of a tray full of drinks. Alethea prayed that Lord Redgrave would wait for her return, that curiosity would hold him at the ball, if only to discover what odd thing she would say next. If he left, she would find him again, however, she promised herself, but now her concern was all for her uncle.
Hartley frowned after the Vaughn woman, torn between staying to discover what was going on and fleeing the odd female before he caught himself in some snare he had been too confused to see coming. Then he saw Claudette making her way through the crowd straight toward him, the gleam of a huntress in her eyes. His brief attendance at his cousin’s ball was turning out to be very complicated. He was supposed to be seducing Claudette. The fact that she had twice tried to approach him tonight was a very good sign, one he should take swift advantage of. Yet his inclination at that precise moment was to chase after two people named Vaughn. When he abruptly realized he could not think of the Lady Alethea as a Channing, his curiosity grew. Anyone who had such an odd effect upon him definitely merited more investigation.
A flirtatious young man distracted Claudette in her aim to reach his side. Hartley cursed over his own indecisiveness and then gave in to a surprisingly strong urge to go after the Vaughns. It took great effort not to stride right past his friends when they hailed him. He paused to look at Aldus and Gifford, men who understood the lies and secrets he lived with, for they shared them.
“Who was the little dark beauty with Vaughn?” asked Aldus, the glint of curiosity in his dark blue eyes.
“Vaughn’s niece, Lady Alethea Vaughn-Channing,” Hartley replied, hastily hyphenating her last name when he began to leave off the husband’s name yet again, and he had to smile at the looks of surprise and doubt on his friends’ faces. “His eldest brother’s child. Widow of the late, unlamented Edward Channing of Coulthurst.” And why saying the man’s name left a bad taste in his mouth, he had no idea.
“Damn,” muttered Gifford, scowling in the direction the Vaughns had gone. “There was a man who should never have married anyone, let alone a woman as young and pretty as that one.”
“Why not?” Hartley was aware of some information tickling at the edges of his mind, something he should have recalled when he had heard the name of Channing of Coulthurst, but that information was still proving elusive.
“Not one for the ladies. Never was. Never had been. Not sure he ever could be, although not certain of the why of that. No sign that he favored men or anything else, either.”
“Such a waste.”
“Quite so. Your current prey appears to have turned the tables and is now pursuing you, my friend,” whispered Aldus as he watched Claudette extract herself from one man only to be halted in her renewed advance on Hartley by yet another. “She now makes your job easy.”
“Suspiciously so,” said Hartley. “Duty bids me stay and let her ensnare me, but every instinct I have is urging me to follow those Vaughns.”
“Then follow them. Your instincts are usually right. I have heard that the Vaughns are an odd lot, but that they are honorable and that one can always trust the word of a Vaughn. We will wait here and keep the fair Claudette from following you, if needed.”
That was comforting, Hartley thought as he made his way out to the gardens. He was curious about how Aldus would know such things about the reclusive Vaughns, however. In truth, Aldus and Gifford often astonished him with the vast amount of knowledge they had concerning the members of society. He had no doubt that, if they had not already known his secrets, they would soon have ferreted them out. If the pair ever decided to turn their hands to blackmail, they would become very rich men.
After searching his cousin’s garden f
or several moments, Hartley began to fear that the Vaughns had fled the ball. He followed the sound of the fountain and finally saw the pair. The light from the moon and the torches encircling the area around the fountain clearly illuminated the couple. Lord Uppington was seated on a stone bench, his elbows on his knees, and his head held in his hands. Lady Channing sat by his side, lightly rubbing his shoulders. He felt his shoulders warm at the thought of her doing the same to him and quickly shook the thought out of his head.
When Lord Uppington slowly sat up straight, Hartley frowned. The man looked truly ill, and Hartley wondered if Claudette had anything to do with Vaughn’s shaken condition. Although he could think of nothing the woman could have said or done in a crowded ballroom to leave the man so overset, Hartley could not ignore the fact that Lord Uppington had been with the woman when he took this strange turn. Lingering in the shelter of the shadows, Hartley hoped the couple would say something that would absolve him from turning his back on his duty and walking away from Claudette, if only for a little while.
“Here. Drink,” ordered Alethea, handing Iago some wine. “You look like death warmed over.”
“An apt description,” Iago murmured and then sipped at the drink. “You did not have to bring so much drink. I think this one will serve.”
“The rest is for me. One look at your face, and I thought I would need it.”
Alethea was pleased to see him smile at her small jest. Seeing Iago so unsettled had alarmed her. He had been able to see into the shadows all his life and was, more or less, accustomed to sights she suspected would make her swoon. For Iago to flee, to look so sick and shaken, he had to have seen something truly horrifying. She was not sure she wanted to know what it was, but then told herself not to be such a coward. Iago needed a steady, calm presence and a willing ear right now. He needed someone he could speak to openly, honestly, without fearing that listener would run screaming into the night. That need for someone who could understand, who could accept such gifts without scorn or fear, was one thing that kept the Vaughns and Wherlockes so united as a clan. Sometimes each other were all they had.
She felt an old pain stir and beat it down. It was not her fault her mother had fled, she told herself for what had to be the millionth time, and wondered if that desertion was something she would never fully get over. Her father had tried to hide his heritage, and, though doubtful of his success, the rest of the family had dutifully played along. A small child did not know how to hide such things, however. The look upon her mother’s face when she had heard of a neighbor’s death, a death that had occurred exactly how, when, and where Alethea had told her it would only two days earlier, still had the power to break Alethea’s heart fourteen years later. Her mother had feared her then, just as she would soon fear her eldest son. When Gethin’s gift had appeared, Henrietta Vaughn had not waited to see what, if any, gifts her other two sons might have, but thrust her still nursing youngest son into his father’s arms and walked away. Her father had never really recovered from the desertion, either.
Forcing aside those sad memories, Alethea noticed that Iago’s color was a little improved and asked, “Lady Bartleby’s house is not clean?”
“Oh, no, not as ours is,” replied Iago. “Nothing horrifying or dangerous, however. I often see the others at such events. I swear, I think the music and the crowd draw them.”
“Yes, I think it would me if I were lingering about some place.”
“You will not pass for many, many years and will have no regrets or unfinished business. You will not linger.”
That sounded very much like a command, so Alethea nodded. “It was not a normal sighting that made you get so upset, was it?”
“No.” Iago shuddered and tossed back the last of his drink.
“If you would rather not speak of it,” she began.
“I would rather forget it all, if that were even possible. I cannot. It is all tied up with the reason you have come to London, I think.”
“Madame Claudette, who smells strongly of roses?”
“And death,” whispered Iago.
Alethea shivered. “She is to die soon? Not before the next full moon, surely? I still believe she is there when he dies.”
“No. It was not her death I saw, though retribution for her crimes must be drawing nigh.” Iago shook his head slowly. “I fear I have just discovered a new twist to my gift. Madame tows about a rather large group of the others. Enraged ones, ones who want revenge, justice. She seems completely oblivious to them,” he said in wonder.
“Ones whose deaths she has caused, do you think?”
Iago frowned in thought. “Mayhap, mayhap not. She is an émigré, one who fled the horrific bloodbath that has become the Revolution. These may just be sad souls who died when she was near them. Mayhap she was caught in some frenzied massacre but survived.”
“Then you would have seen such sad souls before. You know several men who were soldiers, who were in battle. They would have been near death, abrupt and brutal death. Yet you say you have never seen the like of this before.”
“No, I have not, not truly. Certainly not of this ilk. Not this writhing mass of fury and hate. One or two sad, confused souls. Knew who they were, too, for had heard the tale of the boyhood friend or beloved comrade dying in his arms. Even saw a Frenchman, but he was just as sad and confused as the others.”
“Because it was war, a death in battle, soldier against soldier, not murder or deceit or treachery. And they died quickly, without even knowing who fired the fatal shot or swung the sword that cut them down.”
“Oh, bloody hell, you are right. There lies the cause of all that anger and loathing, the whispered demands for retribution. She had something to do with their deaths. I did not see them at first. They appeared half the way through the dance, which was alarming, I might say.”
“They sensed that you could see them, understand them perhaps. One can only wonder how long they have waited for just such an opportunity. That might explain why it was such a strong, violent, even upsetting visitation. They were desperately hungry for someone, anyone, to hear their pleas and so rushed at you too fast, too overwhelmingly.”
“You seem to understand these things better than I do.”
“’Tis not my gift. I can calmly sit back and study it.” Alethea sipped at her drink. “And you are right. This is all connected to what I saw. She is the one who threatens him.”
“If what I just saw is the gathering of those whose deaths she has caused, she is a bloody, dangerous bitch,” Iago snapped, “and you will not have any more to do with her.”
“How forceful you sound,” Alethea murmured. “I am devastated that I cannot heed and obey.”
“No, you are not.” Iago cursed and dragged a hand through his hair, disordering his neat queue. “If I tried to send you back to Coulthurst, you would probably just turn around and come back here the first chance you got. On foot if you had to.”
“I can be stubborn.”
“Why? You do not know this man, have never even met Lord Redgrave before this eve. This is not your danger or your responsibility. You could leave me all I need to properly warn him and go home.”
“Uncle, we have already stomped down that path,” she said gently. “In a rather strange way, I have known the man since I was a small child. He is in danger. The moment I knew that, all of this did become my responsibility. After what you have seen, I believe we can assume Madame Claudette is not some honest émigré, one fleeing for her life. Recall what else we thought about her, about her choice of lovers, and you must see that our responsibility grows even stronger. Not just to the man, but, perhaps, to England herself.”
“What the bloody hell do you two know?!”
Alethea looked at Lord Redgrave, startled by his abrupt intrusion into what she had thought was a private conversation. He looked a little pale, and his hands were clenched into tight fists at his side. He had followed them, something she had not anticipated, and had obviously overheard at l
east some of what she and Iago had been discussing. The look of angry suspicion he was giving them was probably justified. When she opened her mouth to reply, the sound of laughter warned her that someone was approaching and there would soon be far too many ears close by to hear what the three of them might say to each other.
Redgrave scowled toward the sound. “Later. Meet me at my house in one hour.” He glared at Iago. “If I do not see you there, rest assured, I will hunt you down.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Alethea as she watched Lord Redgrave stride away. “Do we obey?”
“I think we must,” replied Iago. “He did not ask what the devil we were talking about or what we meant, did he?”
“Ah, me, no. He asked what we knew. Perhaps the danger I must warn him about will come as no surprise to him. It will just be a matter of making him believe me.”
“My dear niece, if that man overheard everything we have discussed here, either he will have a few burly men waiting for us to take us off to Bedlam or he will see what you have to say as positively reasonable.”
Chapter 3
“I want to know everything you two know about the Vaughns,” Hartley demanded of Aldus and Gifford as he poured them each a brandy. “Everything and quickly. They will be here soon.”
Hartley sat down on a plush settee facing his two friends. They had said little as he had dragged them away from his cousin’s ball, brought them to his house, and ordered them into his best parlor. They had not even commented on the nearly rude way he had dismissed Madame Claudette, a woman he was supposed to be seducing for the sake of king and country. He also knew they would continue to play the game by his rules for a while longer, confident that he would eventually explain everything. Hartley was just not sure he could explain, that his friends would even understand if he tried, or that the Vaughns would clarify much when they did arrive.
He took a deep drink of his brandy to still his agitation but was not completely successful. Everything he had overheard in the garden churned in his mind despite his attempts to dismiss all but one thing—they knew about Claudette. He had considered himself a man of logic and fact, blissfully clean of superstitions, but the things the Vaughns had said had roused a few from wherever he had buried them. Worse, he had found himself listening as if they were not talking utter nonsense.
If He's Wild Page 3
