A Most Improper Rumor (6 page)

Perfect. He had her all to himself.

And that was what he wished for the rest of his life.

Christopher leveled a look at Lord Heathton. “You seem remarkably informed about my personal affairs. I can’t think why it might occupy your interest.” He glanced at the clock. “Especially at this hour of the day.”

“Lady DeBrooke came to see me.”

Angelina was in town? He’d thought she was gone to the country again. Too sharply, he asked, “When?”

“A few days ago. Do not worry; she didn’t tell me who you were. That I discovered for myself. I thought that perhaps—”

“I don’t care whether she told you,” Christopher informed him tersely. “She can scream it from the rooftops. She is the one who insists on all the secrecy.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” Heathton replied, his hazel eyes veiled. “And she told me why. She’s trying to protect you. At first I thought it was possible that you orchestrated it all; the deaths of her husbands, her banishment from society in general, but the more I looked into it, the less I thought it likely. There has been mischief afoot, but you haven’t caused it.”

Of course not. The very thought astonished him and he was not without imagination. The hotspur retort was heartfelt as he said heatedly, “We only met—”

“I know. I must say I am suspicious by nature, so I needed to consider you.”

They looked at each other and Christopher had to concede that if Angelina’s best interests were involved, he could not take umbrage. “Point taken.”

“Think about it. A secret romance is not unheard of, especially when the young lady is so much in the public eye and so closely guarded by an ambitious father. Were you a frustrated suitor six years ago when she became affianced to her first husband, you would have been very young, and at the time, you had not made a name for yourself nor were you anything but the second son of a baron. Her father would never have considered you.”

That was true enough. Christopher had no idea what to say.

Conversationally, Heathton went on as if discussing the pleasant weather of the past week. “So she marries another man and he dies and she is free. How convenient, but yet again, she marries someone else, influenced by her father’s conviction she is still a desirable commodity on the marriage mart. Strangely enough, that husband also dies.”

“I would never harm her by putting her through the hell she has endured, not even so I could finally have her.” He’d never known the carefree, flirtatious beauty that had captured the
ton
’s rapt attention. Angelina was guarded and cautious, and wounded . . . damn all, and if he knew who was responsible, he would personally put a bullet through his black heart.

“I believe that also now,” Heathton said in his cool voice.

“Thank you.” Still, the implied insult rankled.

“That’s why I came here.” Heathton was almost infuriatingly calm. “So since I have ruled you out of the equation, who do you think might fit?”

“How could she possibly have enemies?” Christopher sat back and took in a breath. “She is hardly the venal beauty, with nothing but gowns and parties on her mind. I’ve really never heard her say a harsh word about anyone, even in the extreme circumstances of her situation, and quite frankly, what would be the point of lashing back at her? She married well the first time, but I do not get the impression he was a man who inspired devotion beyond his fortune and title. The second time she chose for herself, but at the will of her father once again because he insisted she remarry.”

“So she said.”

“How could retaliation be productive? Once she was widowed, she withdrew from society both times, and she swears no one pursued her.”

“I find it all curious myself.”

Why
did
he find it curious? Christopher wasn’t sure, but as he took measure of the man, he did know it wasn’t idle curiosity. Heathton would never bestir himself because he wanted to pry into something that didn’t concern him. “I was not aware you knew Angelina.”

“I don’t, really. But I did know her second husband. Even without that incentive I would probably help her for personal reasons of my own, but I
liked
Thomas, and if he was murdered and there is a chance to catch who did it, I would hardly be a friend if I passed it by. Tell me about her,” the earl said with a smile that managed somehow to be both affable and humorless, which should be impossible. “Leave nothing out, if you please. No detail is unimportant. I find I wish to foil whoever wishes her harm.”

Put that way, how could he possibly refuse? Christopher took a moment and contemplated. “She’s warm, giving, and without artifice.”

Heathton looked unimpressed. “And beautiful, intelligent, and poised. You misunderstand. I very much want something about her I don’t know. You are in a position to actually give me pertinent information, since you know the lady so intimately.”

Intimate summed it up nicely. And yet it didn’t do their relationship justice. He took in a calming breath, and said, “Please give me one good reason I should showcase the details of my personal life, much less hers.”

“I most certainly don’t need
those
sorts of details.” Heathton took a moment and looked abstractly at the wall, his gaze unfocused. “What I need is probably something that doesn’t matter to you. Maybe you haven’t even noticed it . . . I realize I am groping in the dark here, but is there something about her life, however incidental it might seem to you, that strikes you as odd or out of balance? I’ve wondered all along if there was a slighted would-be lover who wished to do harm to her and to her two former husbands, but she swears she can think of no one and I do believe her. It has to be something else.”

Christopher believed it as well. Angelina was adamant that there was no one who wished her the degree of harm that had been done.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. If it exists, I am not privy to it. She’s remarkably artless under that sophisticated exterior. Please keep in mind that in reality, she barely made it into each season before she was engaged and then married off. I cannot see how she could possibly cultivate an enemy so vindictive.”

“I can’t see it either,” Heathton muttered. “Damn all.”

Chapter 7

T
hey made a striking couple, Alicia thought, he so tall and masculine, and she so voluptuously feminine with her deep auburn hair . . .

Only the man with whom the woman in the emerald dress was deep in conversation was
her
husband. They stood in a corner, just out of the milling throng, and it didn’t help that the minute Ben saw Alicia’s approach, he simply nodded and walked away without so much as a polite word of departure that she could see.

If her stomach hadn’t already been a little queasy, it was now. Although despite his reserve and tendency toward secrecy, she was sure he would never be unfaithful.

But could she deny that many men in the beau monde married for duty and had mistresses for pleasure? Her mouth compressed lightly as she tugged on her gloves, making sure they were adjusted just right above her elbow.

The woman acknowledged her as she passed in a swirl of velvet and perfume, just a slight inclination of her head, and Alicia could swear she looked familiar and yet again was just as certain they had never been introduced.

The scenario took her aback, her thoughts arrested, and then Ben was there to grasp her elbow in a light clasp, his face impassive. “You’re certain you wish for us to see this performance?”

“Absolutely,” she murmured, allowing him to escort her through the throng.

“Shakespeare.” His voice held a certain resignation. “Scottish kings, I imagine, and bloodthirsty relatives, and God only knows what sort of other melodrama.”

“Don’t you admit people do act that way from time to time?”

“In plays, yes.”

“I think in life they can be far more dramatic. Who was that woman?”

Their box was warm and empty, though he’d thoughtfully had champagne delivered, for it sat in a silver bucket on a pedestal. “To whom are you referring?” Her husband stood politely until she sat down.

“The one you were talking to before we caught up with each other. Red hair and a remarkable figure.”

For a moment she thought he might deny it, but then he merely said, “Ah, Mrs. Dulcet.”

The name was vaguely familiar. Alicia thought maybe she’d heard it in connection with a venerable duke. “I don’t believe I have ever seen her before.”

“She is recently returned to town.”

“How do you know her?”

“She has proved useful in the past.” He fished the dripping bottle from the ice bath.

As that could be interpreted in several ways, Alicia blinked, and studiously considered her response. “By useful, do you mean . . . that the two of you—”

“Good God, my dear, not
that
,” he muttered, correctly reading the expression on her face, the champagne cork making a soft sound as he opened the bottle. “No. Not that.”

What am I supposed to think?
Though those words were tempting, she said quietly instead, “She’s very beautiful and you just stood and ignored me while you talked to her for quite a long while, or at least it seemed so.”

“Ignored you?” He sat down and reached for the tray of glasses. “Never. Rest assured I am aware of you at all times. It seemed to me you were engrossed in some sort of discussion with your sister and her circle of friends.”

The startling fact was she believed him; the not-so-startling fact was he had circumvented the question. That was Ben. “Who is she?”

“I think I just told you. Mrs. Dulcet.” He handed over a glass of sparkling wine. “Which abysmal performance are we seeing? If you say
Hamlet
, I must toss back most of the bottle right now.”

“No.
The Tempest
.”

“Ah. Books drowned in water and blue-eyed hags. I still might need more refreshment. Have I mentioned I like that color on you?”

It was odd, but when he tried to be witty, he succeeded admirably, but he usually didn’t try.

“Blue-eyed hag?” she asked dryly since her gown was actually blue.

“I was referring to the play.” And he laughed as he rarely did, the mirth seeming to be spontaneous. “I meant that color of silk, no hags involved. Would you prefer some cool water?”

Another lesson learned about her husband. Only when he didn’t want her to pursue a certain line of questioning did he seek to charm. Usually he was polite—well,
always
polite—but not with an intent to divert. It wasn’t obvious, but she’d learned that much about him.

“I would prefer water,” she admitted. The pregnancy made her queasy only at times, but the episodes were unexpected and she wasn’t interested in making a spectacle of herself in the King’s Theatre by tossing up her accounts in front of all the
ton
. How indelicate. She wasn’t ashamed of her current state of fertility, but really, it just belonged to her and her husband.

That aside, Mrs. Dulcet rather piqued her curiosity.

The woman was sitting in a box on the opposite side, her auburn hair vivid enough to draw notice, the extravagant array of pearls around her neck gleaming under the lights. Her bosom was opulent, the creamy tops of her breasts displayed in vivid emerald velvet, though Alicia had to admit the gown was in good taste. She would not have chosen it, but it was hardly outré.

Confound it, who
was
she?

“For you,” he said when he returned, handing her a glass before he seated himself. “If at any time you become fatigued, rest assured I will take you home.”

That made her laugh. “You constantly fall asleep during the theater. I am the one who watches the performance.”

“I am not asleep; I am protecting myself from bad actors and from even worse refreshment by closing my eyes.” He took a sip of champagne, set aside the glass, and surveyed the crowd. “It seems everyone is here.”

“Including . . . Mrs. Dulcet, was it? What a remarkable name. I somehow doubt it belongs to her. Who is she? Is there a Mr. Dulcet?”

“Have I ever mentioned you are quite inquisitive?”

“Have I ever mentioned you are infuriatingly secretive?”

“Are we going to have an argument?”

She eyed him above the rim of her glass. “I’m not certain. Are we?”

“As I said, she’s an old acquaintance.”

“And you used her . . . how?”

“For information.”

That actually could be possible, Alicia reflected, sipping her water. The cool intelligence in the woman’s eyes was telling and Ben didn’t suffer fools lightly. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.” He gazed at the still-lowered scarlet curtain guarding the stage. “I don’t even know if I wish for you to understand. You . . . our child, can’t I separate you both from the rest of it?”

“The rest of what?” she asked with a hint of asperity. “If you mean your life aside from being the Earl of Heathton, no, you can’t. It isn’t two disparate entities. You are one man.”

“What if I disagree on that point?”

That startled her. Yes, he was complex, he held some of himself apart, but how apart was the real question. “I—”

“I think the first act is starting,” he said with his usual reserve, his long fingers lightly holding his champagne flute as he relaxed in the chair next to her. “We’ll discuss this later.”

That was a dubious promise. He knew exactly how to distract her.

“
Before
we retire for the evening?” It was asked innocently enough, but though she was a novice to this kind of warfare, she was learning fast.

“Alicia,” he said in some exasperation, “are you blackmailing me?”

“Darling, it
is
bad form to talk during the performance.” She languidly waved her fan. “Look, you are right; the curtain is going up.”

* * *

He was sure he was not going to escape his predicament easily; however, luck was in his corner, though it came rather unexpectedly and it couldn’t precisely be defined as good.

Despite the late hour, Yeats was hovering in the hallway in his dressing gown when they came home, his lined face reflecting an uncharacteristic anxiousness. Usually he displayed very little emotion at all. “My lord, there has been an incident.”

“Oh?” Ben stripped off his gloves and dropped them on the hall table. Since Alicia was right there, safe and sound, next to him, he was concerned but not alarmed. “Please elaborate.”

“An intruder, to be precise.”

His gaze sharpened on the older man’s face. “My study?”

“I’m afraid so. How did you know, my lord?”

“An educated guess,” he responded grimly. Trouble in the form of Lady DeBrooke had recently visited him and it was logical to assume that had not gone unnoticed. Yeats was trustworthy beyond measure, but her identity would be speculated upon by the other servants, and once discovered, considering her notoriety, there would be gossip.

Besides, if the vendetta was against the beauteous lady, were
he
in the shoes of the villain, he’d have her watched. That was how one handled the enemy.

He asked calmly, “Did anyone see the culprit?”

“No. I noticed the door was ajar as I walked around the house before retiring as is my habit. I like to make sure the windows are secure and the doors locked save for the one you will use on your return. The footman I left on duty to let you in swears he heard nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And were the windows and doors secure?”

Yeats nodded unhappily. “Nothing appeared to be amiss until . . . Well, I do not think you will be pleased with the damage, my lord. As your orders are for no one to enter your study without your permission, nothing has been done to tidy the mess.”

Like anyone, he inherently disliked the idea of a person coming into his home uninvited, but even more so if the thief was skilled enough to accomplish the task without detection and left no trace of how it was managed. “Please have no one touch anything. I’d like to inspect the windows and doors myself, though I am sure you have done a splendid job, Yeats.”

For the first time, he caught a glimmer of speculation in the eyes of the man who had served his family for two generations. “I thought maybe you might. I have instructed the staff to stay in their rooms until told otherwise.”

Ben had always wondered if the servants thought he was merely a little eccentric, or if they speculated his role during the war had been an unusual one. It seemed Yeats understood it was the latter.

That
war was over. However, as he stood in the doorway of his study, his private sanctum, he rather thought a new one had begun. Albeit more private than the collision between Bonaparte’s ambitions and all of Europe, but still . . .

The drawers to his desk had been wrenched out and the contents strewn everywhere. Ink was splattered across the papers and spilled on the Oriental rug, and even the painting above the fireplace, not necessarily valuable, was taken down and the canvas slashed. Behind him, he heard Alicia’s dismayed gasp as she surveyed the destruction.

“Apparently our visitor has a malicious streak.” He picked up a broken miniature of his mother with real regret. A flicker of emotion must have shown on his face because his wife touched his arm.

“I’m sorry,” she said in an indignant voice, her lovely face pale. “This is truly terrible.”

“No need to be sorry. Possessions can be replaced.” His voice was calm, but inside there was a flicker of icy rage, quickly smothered, and he set aside the miniature carefully in case it could be restored somehow. “I think, don’t you, that this makes it even more doubtful Lady DeBrooke is behind the poisonings, though I’ve no doubt her recent visit inspired this particular debacle.”

“I can’t see her doing this, true.”

He eyed a toppled bookcase. “Physically, unless she has an accomplice, it would not be possible for a woman so slender to wreak this kind of chaos.”

“I couldn’t,” Alicia said thoughtfully, drawing her cloak around her shoulders as she stared at the slashed painting. “And what would be the point of it? She came to you and drew you in, if indeed, her request is even a part of this. It is possible it was someone else entirely, is it not? You confessed to me you know some dangerous people.”

“This wasn’t a robbery,” he said, thinking out loud. “This is more of a message. It is possible, of course, that Lady DeBrooke hired someone to stage it, but I doubt most street thugs hold the ability to slip in unnoticed, cause this amount of destruction unheard, and then leave with the same subtlety as they entered. So tell me, since you show such an interest in investigation, what does this room tell you?”

The way his wife pursed her lips showed she was formulating the answer carefully. “It looks random,” she ventured, “but I don’t think it is. It seems like a lot of trouble was taken to conceal the intrusion, but also to make sure it had quite an impact. If the person who did this was just looking for something valuable, he could have quietly rifled through your papers and drawers and taken his time searching for other hiding places. He chose to do this to challenge you and let you know you are vulnerable.”

He admired his wife more every single day. The dewy glow of her skin was luminescent in the light of a single lamp, left on the desk no doubt by Yeats because the intruder surely would not have been so thoughtful; her slender figure was undeniably provocative; but most of all it was the intelligence in her gorgeous eyes that inspired his admiration. “I agree,” he conceded softly. “That is why I am sending you away from London.”