With This Ring

by Amanda Quick

  “Nevertheless, I consider myself gravely offended.”

  Her brows rose. “What will you do? Call me out?”

  “I have a more satisfactory solution.”

  “What is that?”

  “Will you attend the theater with me tomorrow evening?”

  “The theater?”

  For some reason, the startled look in her eyes annoyed him even more than her distrust. It was as though she had never even considered the possibility of allowing him to escort her for an evening.

  “I have a box for the Season, although I rarely use it,” he said. “Your aunt and your cousin would accompany us, of course.”

  “That is very kind of you.” Her eyes warmed. “Aunt Winifred and Arabella would be thrilled.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her that he had not issued the invitation solely to thrill her relatives. But a movement at the corner of his eye made him forget what he had been about to say.

  It was only a very small shudder in the trees, the tiniest flutter of leaves. But there was no breeze today. The air was perfectly still.

  “Bloody hell.” He closed his hands around Beatrice’s shoulders and jerked her close. “Kiss me.”

  A strange expression lit her eyes. “I really don’t think this is the time or place, my lord. We had agreed to keep our association on a businesslike footing—umph.”

  Beatrice stiffened as he covered her mouth with his own. And then she melted against him. After the briefest pause, her arms lifted to go around his neck.

  Leo watched the leafy glade as he kissed her. Another tremor went through the branches. Then he caught a glimpse of a dark brown cap and the swish of a shirt-sleeve.

  Leo tore his mouth free. “Bastard.”

  “What on earth?” Beatrice staggered as he thrust her aside.

  Leo plunged past her into the woods. Ahead of him he heard the crackle of broken branches. His quarry had abandoned stealth in favor of a hasty escape.

  If only he had Elf with him, he thought. The hound would have brought down the fleeing watcher in a moment.

  “Leo, what are you doing?” Beatrice demanded. “What is going on?”

  It was, he realized, the first occasion on which she had called him by his given name. Her timing could not have been more unfortunate. He heard her footsteps in the brush behind him.

  Boots pounded through the undergrowth. A muffled curse floated back through the trees.

  “Stand still, ye bloody nag.”

  Leo heard the thud of a horse’s hooves and knew that he had lost his chance. He came to an abrupt halt.

  Beatrice crashed through a small thicket and stumbled against him. “Oomph. Good heavens, sir. What is this all about? What did you see?”

  “A man.” He turned to steady her. “Watching us.” He was briefly distracted by the sight of Beatrice, cheeks flushed from running, fashionable hat askew over one eye. Bits of leaves and some dirt clung to her gown. “Unfortunately, I was not close enough to catch him before he reached his horse.”

  “You say he was watching us?” She absently straightened her hat as she peered into the trees. “A passerby, perhaps? A curious lad who became frightened when you set off after him?”

  “No.” Leo pushed through a barrier of branches and saw the place where the horse had been tied. He studied the ground where the watcher had stood. The earth was disturbed by the imprint of a man’s boots. “I do not think he happened past by accident. This is obviously a section of the park that is rarely used. Whoever he was, he stood here for a time.”

  Beatrice gazed at the trampled ground. “Do you think that someone deliberately followed us here today?”

  “I do not know. But one thing is certain.”

  “What is that?”

  “He saw you meet with the brothel keeper. So much for your brilliant plan to remain incognito, Beatrice. We can only hope that your reputation is not in shreds within the hour.”

  She gave him a brittle smile. “If my good name is destroyed so quickly, will you withdraw your invitation to the theater?”

  Her cavalier attitude toward the matter infuriated him. He held on to his temper with a heroic effort. “I am the Mad Monk,” he reminded her. “I doubt that Society will think me any more eccentric than usual if I choose to escort a ruined woman to the theater.”

  Chapter 8

  An evil potion stirred by a skeletal hand…

  FROM CHAPTER EIGHT OF The Ruin BY MRS. AMELIA YORK

  Beatrice’s reputation was still intact the next morning. Leo, seated in a chair in front of the fire in the coffee room of his club, contemplated the matter with mixed emotions.

  On the one hand, it was a relief to know that her good name was secure, at least for the moment. But that fact immediately raised an unpleasant prospect. It meant that whoever had spied on the meeting between Beatrice and Madame Virtue likely had his own reasons for maintaining his silence.

  Leo had spent the better portion of the night contemplating what those reasons might be. He had found none of them very reassuring.

  He had come to his club to seek out information but thus far he had accomplished little. He glanced at the tall clock in the corner. He had promised to meet Beatrice at Hook’s bookshop in half an hour.

  He reached into his pocket, removed the letter from his son Carlton, which had arrived that morning, and unfolded it. He was vaguely aware of the background sounds of muted conversations and the clink of china as he read.

  Toured several more ruins early this morning. William insists upon sketching every single one of them. I regret to say they are all starting to look alike to me. One ancient, crumbling temple is indistinguishable from another.

  Plummer dragged us through another gallery during the afternoon. William proclaimed some of the pictures (especially those that featured nude goddesses) to be quite interesting. I agreed with him concerning the goddesses. But I am convinced that if I am forced to admire one more landscape or another picture of saints dressed in flowing robes surrounded by plump cherubim, I shall likely expire from boredom.

  Tomorrow will no doubt prove to be vastly more entertaining, indeed, fascinating. We have met a gentleman from England, Mr. Hendricks, who has settled here in Italy for a time. He is a man of science and he has invited us to tour his laboratory. He has promised that we shall perform several excellent experiments with his burning lens. If time permits, we may use his electricity machine to animate some dead frogs.

  Mr. Hendricks has also kindly offered to show me a nearby field where flammable vapors emerge directly from the ground. It is in the vicinity of a volcano, and Mr. Hendricks believes that there may be a connection.

  Leo smiled ruefully. Some fathers had to worry that their heirs would fall into the arms of an unsuitable woman. Carlton had been swept off his feet by the wonders of science instead. Perhaps, in the end, there was not much difference, he thought. Both had the power to captivate and enthrall. Both could cost a man a bloody fortune. Carlton would no doubt want to purchase a burning lens of his own when he returned from the tour.

  “I say, Monkcrest, is that you?” A stout, elderly man with bushy gray brows and bristling whiskers paused in front of Leo’s chair. “I’d heard you were in town.”

  “Tazewell.” Leo refolded Carlton’s letter and put it into his pocket. He glanced again at the tall clock. About time, he thought. He had almost given up on the baron. “How’s the gout?”

  “I have my good days and my bad days.” Lord Tazewell lowered himself cautiously into a chair and propped a swollen ankle on a small stool. Glumly, he surveyed his foot. “Got myself a new doctor. Has me on a regimen of vinegar and tea. Nasty combination.”

  “It sounds unpleasant.” Leo assumed what he hoped was a sympathetic expression.

  The baron had been one of his grandfather’s younger acquaintances. In spite of the twenty-year difference in their ages, the two had shared a mutual interest in the science of gardening. Leo had childhood memories of watching Tazewell and his
grandfather hovering together over a tray of plants.

  Leo also recalled that Tazewell was given to an endless litany of illnesses and infirmities. The baron changed doctors the way other people changed their clothes. He was always the first to try out the latest quack remedies or to sample the newest tonics. If anyone would know the mysterious Dr. Cox, it would be Tazewell.

  “Don’t know if I’ll carry on with the vinegar and tea much longer,” Tazewell confided. “Can’t see that it’s doing me much good. Heard there’s a new doctor in town who is achieving amazing cures with the use of magnets.”

  “Have you consulted with an apothecary or an herbalist?”

  “Indeed, indeed.” Tazewell settled quite happily into the subject of his health. “Been to any number of apothecaries. Charlatans and quacks, the lot of ’em. Sometimes think the only useful stuff they sell is laudanum.”

  “I have heard of a certain Dr. Crock,” Leo said, deliberately vague. “Or was it Cox? Comb, perhaps. I cannot recall precisely. But I believe I was told that he sold some very useful herbal remedies.”

  “Cox?” Tazewell snorted. “I consulted with him a few months back. But he made it clear he could not help me. Specializes in the treatment of impotence, he said. I don’t concern myself overmuch with that particular problem these days.”

  Leo propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and linked his fingers. He extended his legs and studied the toes of his boots. “I have a friend who does suffer from just that affliction. I wonder if Dr. Cox could help him.”

  Tazewell’s bushy brows scrunched together. “No harm in trying, I suppose.”

  “Do you happen to have the doctor’s direction?”

  “Keeps a small shop off Moss Lane.” Tazewell frowned. “Bloody damned difficult to find the place. Don’t know how the man manages to stay in business.”

  “There is a great deal of money to be made in the treatment of impotence, I understand.”

  “True.” Tazewell’s brows snapped together in sudden concern. Then a look of dawning sympathy lit his eyes. “I say, Monkcrest, this friend of yours who suffers from a weak member …?”

  “What about him?”

  “You were not referring to yourself by any chance?”

  “Of course not.”

  “No need to be embarrassed, y’know,” Tazewell said kindly. “After all, you must be approaching forty. Not exactly a young man anymore, eh?”

  SHE WAS BEING followed.

  Beatrice caught the flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye just as she was about to enter Hook’s bookshop. She turned her head slightly and used the wide brim of her parasol to conceal the direction of her gaze.

  There could be no doubt about it. The man with the curly blond hair and gold-rimmed spectacles had just crossed the street. She was sure that he was the same one she had seen watching her when she emerged from Lucy’s shop a short while earlier.

  He was a slender, handsome man in a well-cut blue coat, yellow waistcoat, and buff trousers. His cravat was tied in an elaborate, fashionable style. His spectacles gave him an earnest, studious air.

  He was definitely sauntering in her direction, looking everywhere but directly at her.

  As if he realized that she had seen him, he paused abruptly and made a pretense of examining some gloves on display in a nearby window.

  A shiver went through Beatrice. Leo had not gotten a clear glimpse of the man he had chased through the trees the previous day. The only things he had been able to discern were a dark cap and the sleeve of a shirt. But clothing could be altered all too easily.

  She realized that some of the maids and footmen who were hanging about on the benches outside the bookshop were watching her curiously.

  She snapped her parasol shut and went through the door. She made her way through the crowded establishment to stand in front of a bookcase.

  She pretended to study the latest novels on display, one of which, she noticed, was her own, while she kept an eye on the street. With any luck she would get a close look at the blond man when he walked past the window.

  But instead of moving off down the street as she expected him to do, he boldly entered the bookshop. Beatrice nearly dropped the novel she had plucked at random off the shelf.

  Frantically, she tried to decide whether it would be more useful to ignore the bespectacled man or to speak to him. Something told her that Leo would strongly prefer the former course of action. He would arrive soon, in any event. She could point out the mysterious person to him.

  But what if the man left the shop before Leo arrived? There might not be another opportunity to confront him and demand an explanation.

  The situation called for action. Setting the book back on the shelf, she turned and walked straight to the counter, where the stranger stood conversing with the proprietor. She listened as he finished placing an order for some novels.

  “Have them sent to 21 Deeping Lane, please,” he concluded.

  “Mr. Lake?” Beatrice interrupted brightly. “It is Mr. Lake, is it not? You do remember me, I trust. Your sister and I were such good friends.”

  “What?” The man jerked as if he had been stung. He swung around so abruptly that his elbow struck a book on the counter. “Damnation.”

  He made a grab for the volume and managed to catch it before it hit the floor. Unfortunately, when he straightened, he banged his head against the overhanging edge of the counter. He winced.

  “Oh, dear,” Beatrice murmured. “Are you all right, Mr. Lake?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” He pushed his spectacles more firmly in place onto his distinguished nose and gazed at Beatrice with deep chagrin. “But I most sincerely regret to tell you, Mrs. Poole, that I am not Mr. Lake. I only wish I could claim that honor.”

  He looked genuinely devastated, she thought, amused in spite of the situation. She also noticed that he was even more attractive up close.

  His blond curls, cropped in the manner of Byron, framed a fine forehead and intelligent, somewhat bashful, blue eyes. She estimated that he was very close to her own age, perhaps a year or two younger.

  “My apologies for mistaking you, sir,” she said.

  “No, no, it’s quite all right,” he assured her hastily. “Unfortunately, my name is Saltmarsh. Graham Saltmarsh.” He bowed his head. “At your service, Mrs. Poole.”

  “If I do not know you, sir, how is it that you know me?”

  Graham sighed. “This is going to be rather difficult to explain.” He glanced around the busy shop and then took a step closer to her. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Poole, I know who you are.”

  “Obviously. We have already established that fact. But as we have never been introduced, would you care to explain how you learned my name?”

  He took another look around and moved even closer. “Your printer’s apprentice,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

  It was Beatrice’s turn to stare. “The apprentice?”

  “I confess, I bribed him. But I assure you that he did not sell the information cheaply.”

  Suddenly everything fell into place. “Good heavens, sir, do you mean to say that you really do know who I am?”

  “Yes. I am aware that you write the most wonderful horrid novels under the name of Mrs. York.” His eyes gleamed with open adoration behind the lenses of his spectacles. “Please allow me to tell you that I would walk upon hot coals to read your books. Your imagination is inspired. Your stories are the most thrilling I have ever read. You cannot begin to know how much pleasure your novels give me.”

  A mix of dread and delight brought a sudden warmth to Beatrice’s cheeks. She told herself that she had feared this moment of revelation for five years. But in truth, it was rather pleasant not to have to pretend that she was not Mrs. York.

  “Mr. Lake, I do not know what to say.”

  “Saltmarsh. Graham Saltmarsh.”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me, Mr. Saltmarsh. I am somewhat taken aback. No o
ne outside my family and a very close friend knows that I write novels.”

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Poole.” He smiled ruefully. “I fear any number of people know your secret. There is your publisher and the printer—”

  “And the printer’s apprentice and no doubt the printer’s wife.” She grimaced. “You’re quite right. I had not stopped to consider that someone might drag the information out of one of them.”

  “I doubt that anyone other than myself would be tempted to try,” Saltmarsh assured her. “I do not think it likely that your secret will ever be widely known. Please believe that I will never tell a soul.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Saltmarsh. I shall sleep better knowing that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  A fervent look appeared in his eyes. “You may depend upon my discretion, madam.”

  “May I ask why you followed me here today, sir?”

  He turned red. “I confess, I noticed you earlier when you went into the modiste’s shop. I could not resist the opportunity to be in your presence for a while. You are my muse, Mrs. Poole.”

  “Your muse?” Beatrice was delighted. “Do you mean to say that you are an author?”

  “I have not yet been published, but I have a manuscript which, when it is complete, I intend to submit to a publisher.”

  “I wish you the very best of luck, sir.”

  “Thank you. I can only hope that someday I shall be half as capable of producing the sort of extraordinary sensations in my readers that you create in yours. I know of no one who even approaches you in your ability to elicit the darker passions and horrid atmosphere.”

  Beatrice blushed. “Why, thank you, sir.”

  “In addition to reading your novels for inspiration, I have spent several hours in Mr. Trull’s museum. The exhibits often provide me with wonderful ideas for my story. Are you acquainted with the establishment?”

  A flicker of familiarity ruffled the edges of Beatrice’s memory. She knew that she had recently come across a reference to Trull’s Museum, but she could not quite place it. “I am not familiar with the place.”