A Lady Most Lovely (10 page)

“You can’t think it has anything to do with me,” Tom protested.

“Of course I do,” James replied unapologetically. “I think she fell head over ears in love with you the instant she saw you, and realized she couldn’t possibly marry Denault.”

“That’s absurd!” Tom said, a little too quickly. And too loudly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the footman flinch. He lowered his voice to normal tones. “What do you suppose really happened, James?”

“Well…” James sat back, took a sip of his coffee, and savored it. Clearly he had more to add, but the cursed fellow was pausing for effect.

“Well?” Tom prodded, fighting to keep his irritation in check.

James set down his cup. “Well… I’ve heard things about Denault’s business. He may have… overestimated his net worth.”

“I can’t believe that,” Geoffrey said. “Everyone knows Denault was hugely successful in America.”

“I can believe it,” Tom said. “I sensed that something was not quite right as soon as I met with him. He’s a good salesman, I’ll grant you that.
Too
good. Once or twice he put me in mind of those preachers at big-tent revivals. They get people all stirred up so they act out of emotion rather than common sense.”

“I’ll bet that tactic didn’t work for you,” James observed. “You’re too levelheaded.”

“Not always,” Tom said, remembering with chagrin how he’d nearly gotten into a fight with that idiot Carter. He was still prone to fight first and ask questions later. “I’m working on it.”

“How interesting that we automatically assume the problem lies with Denault,” Geoffrey remarked.

“Surely you can’t think Miss Vaughn is at fault!” Tom protested.

Geoffrey held up his hands. “We don’t know whether
anyone
is at fault,” he said reasonably.

“That argument won’t work with Tom,” James said. “His bias toward Miss Vaughn is unmistakable.”

Great heavens, they were
both
going to needle him on this now. As if he needed any more practice holding his temper, which at the moment threatened to slip deftly from his grasp. Tom threw his napkin on the table and stood up. “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” he said with forced politeness, “I am going out.”

*

Tom called for his horse to be brought round, then took the stairs two at a time to his room. What a waste of time it all was, he thought as he hastily shrugged out of his fine clothes and into more sturdy riding attire. Time was when he could get dressed once in the morning and be done with it.

As he stepped out of the house, Tom took a moment to survey the patch of green that was Berkeley Square. It was deserted except for a nanny watching a young boy of six or so at play. Tom sent his gaze beyond the square to
Margaret’s house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But no one was coming or going from the large front door. No one could be spotted at its windows.

Tom was itching to march over there and ask her straight out why she and Denault had broken off their engagement. But he was certain she would not take kindly to it. He might wish to be her friend, but she clearly wanted nothing from him. Perhaps it was better that way, he told himself. For now, he would do better to spend some time in reflection and prayer. At the moment, even if the Lord wanted to extend some guidance, there was no way Tom would be able to hear it over the multitude of anxious thoughts stampeding through his head. So with a nod of thanks to the groom, Tom mounted his horse and set off in the direction of Hyde Park. It was the only place that could give him the peace and quiet he needed.

A patchy blanket of gray clouds threatened rain, but so far had delivered only a damp sensation without actually making anything wet. Rotten Row was not yet the bustling thoroughfare that it would become later in the day if the weather held. Tom turned his horse onto a patch of grass that was fairly deserted, where stands of tall elms offered shade and solitude. He dismounted, secured his horse, and sat down to ponder. After a minute or so, a cool breeze touched his face—just enough to offer an enticing hint of autumn, and bringing a fresh, new thought to Tom:
Margaret was free.

It was an absurd thought, and yet there it was. Why her circumstances should appear to him that way, he was not ready to explore. He only knew that it was so.

“Lord, you’ve seen me through bad times, worse times,
and better times,” he said softly. “You’ve taught me to look for your hand in my affairs. Is this one of those times?”

He was not expecting an answer, of course. Nothing outright, at any rate. He’d learned that God was not quite so direct as Tom would have wished. Back in Sydney, the minister had once shown him a verse about God’s “still, small voice.” In Tom’s experience, that soft voice was mighty hard to hear.

He closed his eyes and tried to open his heart, but memories of Margaret filled him so completely that there was no room for anything else: the self-assured way she’d moved through that crowded ballroom; that loose curl that had accentuated the elegant line of her alabaster neck; the exuberance that had lit her face when she flew past him on horseback. How many women were so completely comfortable in both outdoor pursuits and elegant soirees, so thoroughly breathtaking in any setting? Not many, he’d guess.

The breeze rustled again, stronger this time, as though the clouds, searching deep within themselves, had found some rain after all. They must have, because soon he could hear the soft patter of raindrops on the leaves above his head. “The only thing the Lord is telling you,” he reprimanded himself, “is that you are mighty foolish if you plan to sit out here in the rain.”

Castor began to shift restlessly and sent out a soft whinny. Changes in the weather always unsettled him. Tom would do well to get him back to a dry stall as soon as possible. He stood and stretched, speaking soothing words as he took hold of the reins and loosed them from a tree branch. “Easy, boy. We’ll be home soon.”

He mounted the horse and turned him back toward the
open field. Castor obeyed, but Tom could tell he wasn’t happy about it. The increasing wall of gray overhead showed the potential for a soaker. Other park visitors had also begun to seek shelter. Some scurried to waiting carriages; others walked briskly toward the streets that would lead them home. Castor would have liked to hurry, too; he kept shaking his head, irritated that Tom was keeping him at a walk. But despite the rain, Tom was unwilling to leave the open space of the park. He might have stayed for hours if the weather had been favorable and his horse more amenable.

When the rain became heavy enough to send large drops sliding down the brim of Tom’s hat, he finally conceded defeat and set his horse into a canter for the park gates. On the main thoroughfare he threaded his way carefully through the traffic, which the mud had reduced to a crawl. Before long he was turning into the mews behind Geoffrey’s house. It would be better to deposit the horse there himself, rather than ask one of Geoffrey’s servants to do it. He wanted to personally make sure that Castor was properly groomed and comfortable.

He had just led Castor into the stable when the rain started to come down in buckets. The storm lasted for nearly an hour, pounding on the roof and cracking bursts of thunder, while Tom and the stable boy saw to the horse’s needs.

When it was over, Tom stepped outside and studied the sky. The light was still muted, not streaming in the bright rays that so often appear after a summer storm. He considered saddling his horse again, but finally decided against it. The morning was far gone, and Lizzie would be looking for him for luncheon.

He made his way along the muddy street, doing his best to avoid the pools of standing water. Even so, his boots were becoming filthy and would soon be in serious need of cleaning and polishing.
That,
at least, was one thing he was glad to have another person do. After his jaunt today, he might have to give his valet a pay raise.

When he reached the Somerville home, Tom paused. The little square out front was deserted, its wooden benches glistening from the rain, but Tom crossed the street to it anyway. He still had a few minutes to spare before he was needed inside. He perched on the back of one of the benches, his feet on the seat, enabling him to sit without getting his trousers soaked.

He knew why he had stopped here, of course. He studied Margaret’s house, wondering for the thousandth time what she was doing. As he did so, a hansom cab pulled out of the traffic and came to a stop at Margaret’s door. Two men got out of the cab. One approached the door and knocked. The second spoke briefly to the driver before joining the first man on the steps. He must have given instructions to wait, for the carriage did not pull away. Tom got off the bench and walked to the edge of the square in order to get a better look.

The first man was perhaps fifty, while the other, who was considerably younger, stood next to him, a towering hulk of a man. Both were dressed in black. There was nothing unusual in that; black was the standard dress for men in London these days. On these two men, however, it seemed to lend a sinister air. They looked like undertakers.

What did they want with Margaret?

The older man rapped on the door again. It was loud and insistent; Tom could hear it from where he stood.
When the door finally opened, it was not a butler standing there as Tom had expected, but a harried-looking young maid.

The men asked her a question, then showed their displeasure at the way she answered them. Tom couldn’t hear the conversation, but it was clear from their gestures that they were insisting on entering the house. He could also see that the maid was just as unwilling to admit them. The brawny man looked ready to break the door down if necessary.

When the maid turned her head for an instant, as though trying to hear something spoken from inside the house, the men took advantage of the opportunity to force their way in. They pushed past her, opening the door wide, and Tom saw the maid protesting as she followed them. The older man strode down the hall without hesitation, as though he had been there before. Both went into a room at the far end of the hall and disappeared from view. Seeing she had no hope of removing them, the maid rushed back to close the front door.

What sort of men would dare to strong-arm their way into Margaret’s house? Did they intend to harm her? In an instant, Tom was crossing the square. He might have no right to interfere, but he fully intended to do so anyway. He stalked up to the driver, who was leaning casually against a lamppost and eating an apple. “Who are those men?” he demanded, pointing toward Margaret’s door.

The cabbie nonchalantly disengaged himself from the lamppost. “Beg pardon, govnah?” he said in a thick cockney accent.

“Who are the men you’ve just brought here?” Tom said again. “What are their names?”

The cabbie shrugged. “I don’t make it my business to know the names of the persons I carry. One man’s money is as good as another.”

“You have no idea who they are?”

“London’s a big place,” he replied, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Filled with more people than I could ever count.”

“Where did you pick them up? At some place of business?”

The cabbie brought a hand to his grizzled chin, as though trying to cast his mind back—as though he didn’t know exactly where he’d picked up those men and had already calculated the exact fare he was going to get from them. One thing that hadn’t changed while Tom had been gone from London was the way the cabdrivers would try to wring every penny out of you.

“Somewhere along Fleet Street, I think,” the cabbie finally said.

This was no help at all, since Fleet Street was one of the busiest areas in London. Finding his patience was wearing dangerously thin, Tom employed another tactic. “I assume they paid you to wait?”

“Aye,” the little man answered. He grinned, showing a set of teeth with so many gaps that Tom wondered how he’d managed to eat that apple. “Three shillings for waiting, with a promise of double the total fare.”

The cabbie looked at him expectantly. No doubt he’d precisely assessed Tom’s financial bracket from the fine tailoring of his riding clothes. He would probably be more forthcoming if he were to find some silver in his hand.

Tom pulled a half crown from his pocket. “Where will you take them?” he asked, dropping the coin into the
man’s palm, which was suddenly in a convenient position to receive it.

“Well, how would I know that?” the cabbie said, galling him with a cheeky grin. “I ain’t taken ’em there yet.” He started to put the coin in his pocket, but Tom reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Guess,” Tom said fiercely, giving his arm a wrench.

The cabbie met Tom’s gaze steadily, assessing him. Plainly, in his years on the streets he’d dealt with even tougher customers than Tom. But Tom didn’t back down. “I said
guess,
” he ground out again, gripping the man’s hand more tightly and giving it a small twist.

The cabbie blinked, and Tom knew he’d won. “I have a notion,” the little man said with a slight cough, “that it might be in the vicinity of Pedley Street.”

Tom knew that place. It was a haven for moneylenders—the most vile, disreputable kind imaginable. Now that he thought about it, those two men looked exactly like the sort of despicable bastards that populated Pedley Street.

He dropped the cabbie’s hand without another word and raced up the steps to Margaret’s house. If she was receiving calls from moneylenders, then something was seriously wrong. A woman of her means would never consort with such people.

Would she?

He was going to find out.