A Wicked Gentleman (26 page)

The three women stared at him. “Aunt Sophia kept a carriage?” Livia asked, struggling to fend off the dogs, who wanted to climb up onto her elegant lap.

“O'course she did,” Morecombe said, sounding indignant at the question. “Lady Sophia knew what was what for a lady of her standing.”

“Yes, I'm sure she did,” Aurelia said soothingly. “But we understood that she didn't get out much in the last few years.”

“Well, neither she did,” the man declared. “But that don't mean she couldn't if she wanted to.”

“So there's a carriage.” Cornelia returned the thimble to her workbox. “Where is it kept, Morecombe?”

“In t'mews,” he said as if it was self-evident.

Cornelia bit her lip. “And where would we find the mews?”

“T'other side of the square.”

“And horses?”

He shook his head. “No, Lady Sophia got rid of the horses, said they were eatin' their heads off.”

“A horseless carriage isn't going to be much good to us,” Livia said with a sigh.

“You want a horse, ma'am, why don't you say so? I could get you one if'n you want one. But reckon as how that carriage'll need a pair, it being as big as it is.”

“How big?” Cornelia said with foreboding.

Morecombe shrugged. “Big enough for Lady Sophia at any rate. Her ladyship knew what was due her consequence.”

“I think we should go and see it,” Cornelia announced, getting to her feet. “Will you direct us, Morecombe?”

“Oh, aye,” he said, going to the window and pointing. “'Tis behind number sixteen across the garden. Don't think nobody's been near it in nigh on ten years.”

“Perhaps you'd accompany us,” Livia suggested.

“You'll need the key.” He went off, leaving them wondering if he'd agreed to go with them or not.

However, he reappeared five minutes later brandishing a large brass key and wrapped in a thick greatcoat, a long scarf twined several times around his neck, and a high-crowned beaver hat pulled down low over his ears. He looked equipped for the Arctic, Cornelia thought suppressing a chuckle.

“Thisaway.” He preceded them to the front door, then paused. “Catch your deaths you will in them flimsy gowns. Don't know what the world's comin' too.”

“Give me a minute, Morecombe,” Livia said, turning to the stairs, the dogs crowding her ankles. “I'll fetch shawls for us.” She ran upstairs, the dogs prancing ahead of her and was back in a few minutes with an armful of pelisses and shawls. “I shut the dogs up in my bedchamber,” she said. “They'd only be in the way.”

Morecombe sniffed and opened the door, peering out suspiciously as if he expected some kind of monstrosity to be lying in wait for him. Judging the coast to be clear, he stepped outside.

The women followed him around the square and down a narrow alley that ran alongside number sixteen on the far side. The alley led into a mews courtyard, lined with stables and carriage houses. For the most part they appeared well cared for, the paintwork fresh, the cobbles swept. Except for one at the far end. The double doors sagged on their hinges, and the paint was scraped almost clean.

The women exchanged glances, and Cornelia murmured, “What are the odds those doors haven't been opened in ten years?”

The trouble Morecombe had with the key seemed to prove her right, but eventually it turned in the lock, and he put his shoulder to the doors, pushing, but with little success. The doors refused to budge.

“Perhaps I can help,” a cool voice said from behind the women. They all turned as one. “Lord Bonham,” Livia exclaimed in surprise. “Where did you spring from?”

“My aunt decided to drive in the park without my escort,” he explained. “So I left her at the Stanhope Gate and came back to see if there was any way I could be of further service to you.” He offered a little mock bow. “What exactly do you expect to find in here?” He moved to the double doors.

“A carriage,” Cornelia told him, watching as he put one shoulder, elegant in dark blue superfine, to the doors and pushed. They gave slowly and with much creaking but finally stood open.

Harry brushed off his shoulder and stepped inside. “Good God.”

“What is it?” The women crowded behind him.

“Apart from cobwebs?” he said lightly. “It looks like a Berlin. At least twenty years old I would hazard.”

“Oh, aye, it's all of that right enough,” Morecombe confirmed with gloomy satisfaction. “Very fine in its day it was.”

“It must have been,” Cornelia agreed faintly, as she stepped up beside Harry to examine the huge round body of the carriage. “It's like a gigantic teacup.”

“It's lined with crimson silk,” Livia said in awe, standing on tiptoe to peer through the dirt-encrusted window. She pulled open the carriage door and sneezed at the cloud of dust. “It's sadly moth-eaten though.”

“Well, there's no way we can pay calls in that,” Aurelia pronounced.

“'Twas good enough for Lady Sophia,” Morecombe stated.

Harry felt Cornelia shaking with laughter beside him. He glanced at her, and she put her hand to her mouth, her eyes brimful of mischief. “Oh, I don't know,” he said gravely, his own eyes dancing. “Perhaps it can be made serviceable again. Think what an impression you'll make on the town.”

“It doesn't bear thinking about,” Livia said.

“I think we could make quite a stir,” Cornelia announced, suddenly taken by the absurd possibilities. “Why shouldn't we be a little eccentric? The ladies of Cavendish Square driving around in such crimson-squabbed magnificence, even if it is a little moth-eaten. No one will be able to ignore us.”

“That is certainly true,” Harry agreed. His suggestion had not been intended as serious, but now, like Cornelia, he could see through the absurdity to the possibility.

“Let's face it,” Cornelia said briskly. “We are three unremarkable women. We're not debutantes, we have neither wealth, great lineage, nor outstanding beauty. We need to be eccentric if we want to be noticed.”

“I think you do yourselves some injustice,” Harry said. “Nevertheless…”

“Nevertheless, Nell is right.” Aurelia chuckled. “We shall be known as the ladies in the teacup.”

They all three burst into laughter and Harry once again thought that he had never encountered three such unusual women. Cornelia entranced him, but they all entertained him.

“If you will permit me, I'll send a coachmaker to see what needs to be done to put this…this teacup…on the streets again.” He closed the carriage door carefully. “You will need at least a pair of horses.”

“Morecombe says he can arrange for that,” Cornelia said swiftly before any more generous offers were forthcoming. She could see nothing wrong with allowing him to send a coachmaker to effect repairs, and they would pay for them themselves, but horses were another matter.

Harry shrugged. “If you say so.”

Morecombe was walking around the carriage with an air of reverence. “Oh, quite magnificent this was, when Lady Sophia went out of an evening. Her hoops were so wide she had to step in sideways. And her coiffure was powdered an' dressed so high it brushed the top of the carriage.”

The women stared at him, astonished at this extraordinary eloquence from the taciturn retainer. Suddenly self-conscious, Morecombe coughed and stalked to the doors of the carriage house. “I'll be locking her up now.”

They followed him out, and Harry pulled the heavy doors to. Morecombe insisted on wrestling with the key himself, and Cornelia murmured, “Does he really imagine someone's going to come in and steal it away?”

“It's a museum piece,” Harry said, offering her his arm. “Will you walk a little with me in the garden, Lady Dagenham?” His eyes were no longer amused; instead, they rested on her face with a powerful intensity that made Cornelia's skin prickle. She could almost feel the heat of his body so close to hers. She seemed to be leaning towards him, as if pulled by invisible threads as she put her hand on his arm.

Then she became aware of Aurelia and Livia looking at them. She let her hand drop, and said casually, “Oh, a little stroll will do us all good, don't you think, Ellie…Liv.”

Livia was about to agree when Aurelia stepped heavily on her toe, and said, “No, I promised to read to Franny, but you go, Nell.”

Livia recovered swiftly. “I have a touch of the headache, Nell. I think I'll lie down for half an hour.”

“Then, Lady Dagenham, will
you
do me the honor?” Harry's voice had a touch of mockery, a hint of challenge, as if he guessed she was about to refuse.

She wanted to go with him, be with him more than anything, and yet she didn't…couldn't…not in this hard, practical daylight. It destroyed the illusion of their nights. And she knew he was going to force a conversation that she was not ready to have.

It was an effort but she managed to find a light, careless tone as she said, “I must ask you to forgive me, Lord Bonham. I have things to do in the house too. Perhaps another time.”

He bowed, his green gaze unreadable. He gave her a fractional shake of his head as if he had read her mind and disapproved of what he read. “As you wish, ma'am.” He turned and walked away out of the mews.

Cornelia became aware of her friends' puzzled looks. “What?” she demanded.

If Nell wasn't prepared to confide in them, then they had to honor her reticence. Ellie said easily, “Why, nothing. Let's go home, it grows chilly.”

H
ARRY DISMOUNTED IN THE
filthy alley outside the George and Dragon. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the stench and the fetid pool into which he'd just placed one immaculately polished top boot. His informants had traced Nigel Dagenham to this hellhole in London's East End and despite his irritation with the young man, Harry couldn't help a flash of sympathy.

He handed the reins of his chestnut to Eric, who was staring straight ahead as if trying to ignore his surroundings. “Should I walk 'em, m'lord? It won't do 'em much good standing around 'ere.” The question was muffled, coming as it did through a handkerchief he held over his mouth and nose.

“I rather think you mean it won't do you much good,” Harry corrected wryly.

“Well, as to that, m'lord, there's disease all over in these alleys,” Eric said. “Typhoid an' scarlet fever, and the Lord only knows what else.” His sigh was filled with reproach.

“I'll not be above ten minutes,” Harry promised, and entered the reeking confines of the inn. He found himself in a dark and seemingly deserted taproom, the air redolent of stale beer and the outhouse. The sawdust beneath his boots was clotted and sticky.

He banged his whip on the stained deal counter, and shouted,
“House.”

A man with the broken nose and flabby physique of a prizefighter gone to seed shuffled out of the back regions, eating a gigantic pickled onion. He peered in disbelief at his elegant visitor and seemed disinclined to say anything, merely continued to eat his vinegar-soaked vegetable, staring at the newcomer.

“You have a gentleman putting up here I believe,” Harry said impatiently, when it seemed the silence would continue. He waved a hand in front of his face in an effort to dissipate the fumes of the pickled onion.

“Not no more,” the man said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat disgustedly into the sawdust at his feet. “Did a runner 'e did. Took off in the middle o' the night, wi'out payin' 'is shot. Not a farthing. I should 'ave got the Watch on him.”

“No doubt,” Harry said. “Although I doubt you see much of the Watch in this neighborhood, my friend.” He tapped the counter with his whip in an increasingly impatient rhythm. If Dagenham had run, there had to be a reason for it. One that went beyond his inability to pay his shot in this filthy hovel.

“Show me his lodging.”

“Up them stairs.” The man gestured with what was left of his onion, sending a shower of vinegar over the counter. “Can't miss it…door's at the top.”

Harry climbed the rickety staircase. A door, sagging in its frame, stood at the top. He opened it and entered the desolate chamber. “Poor fool,” he muttered as he looked around. He kicked at an empty brandy bottle and grimaced. If the lad had been drinking that stuff, he'd be burned to a socket. He'd be lucky to have a gut left.

He examined the few sticks of furniture, pulled the ragged quilt back from the bed and turned the mattress. His movements were both fastidious and efficient, and when he'd examined every corner of the chamber and found nothing more interesting than a mousehole he slapped his gloved hands together and cursed softly. There were no clues here as to where Dagenham had run to next. And no clues as to why.

Harry returned to the taproom, which, once again was deserted. He played his tune on the counter again, and the man reappeared, minus the onion this time, much to Harry's relief.

“Did anyone visit your lodger while he was here?”

“Mebbe, an' mebbe not,” the barkeep said, his eyes suddenly shrewd. He blew his nose on his sleeve.

Harry laid a sovereign on the counter. He let the man see the coin, then laid a hand over it. “Why don't we discuss the maybe?”

The man's eyes darted sideways into the gloomy corners of the still-deserted taproom, then fixed upon the gloved hand covering the coin. “Yesterday. A man come lookin' fer 'im. Another one come as well.” He shrugged. “I ain't got a real close look, m'lord. They was gone in five minutes.”

“And your lodger didn't go with them?”

The man shook his head. “Not what I saw, m'lord. I 'eard 'im movin' about up there fer a bit. This mornin' he done a runner.” He spat again.

“Did you notice anything unusual about these visitors?”

“Spoke funny,” the man said with a shrug.

It was all he was going to get. Harry raised his hand from the coin and spun on his heel out into the alley. Eric sighed with relief as he handed over the reins. “We'll be out of here now, m'lord?”

Harry gave a curt nod and swung onto Perseus. His informants had found Dagenham yesterday evening. Not that the young fool would have been aware of them. Presumably he'd had his visitors, foreign visitors if the barkeep was to be believed, earlier that day. Visitors who'd either spooked him sufficiently to run away or terrified him into doing what they wanted of him.

Which was what?

Well, they were back to square one. Harry was no longer really concerned for the safety of the women in Cavendish Square. The enemy watchers had disappeared some days ago and even though the Ministry, now that the thimble had been retrieved, had withdrawn its own men from observation, Lester was there, and if the only person they needed to worry about was Nigel Dagenham, then Lester would be more than a match. As indeed would he himself. And Harry intended to be around whenever he could.

Like tonight.

Yesterday, after Cornelia had brushed him off in the mews, so clearly against her own inclinations, he had been too aggravated to pursue her, telling himself that maybe a night of quiet reflection would change her mind. He recognized that it was just pique that made him hope she would spend the night in frustrated passion because he wasn't there to slake it. In truth, he'd spent the night in a state of pent-up frustration himself. To such an extent that he'd contemplated visiting the discreet house on Half Moon Street where he was accustomed to taking his pleasure when the need became imperative.

He hadn't gone however. The prospect had for once seemed tawdry. But tonight he was going to have it out with the Viscountess Dagenham. She was cutting off her nose and spiting both their faces. But first he had to set the dogs on her cousin once more.

 

Cornelia retired to bed early, pleading a headache. It was not entirely untrue, but it was more a sensation of aggravation in her temples than actual pain. She was restless, sleepless, could settle to nothing. And she well knew why.

She tried reading, but Madame de Staël's,
Delphine,
a novel she had long promised herself she would read, failed to hold her attention. Ordinarily she read French easily, but the words seemed meaningless tonight. She had expected to be excited by the author's portrayal of an independent and artistic woman, but her intellectual interest was as dormant as her linguistic ability.

When she heard the faint tap at the window, she was not startled. It seemed inevitable. She had not opened the window, but she had not drawn the curtains across either. Her actions had been as contradictory as her emotions. She pushed aside the coverlet and rose slowly from the bed. Her body told her to run to the window, her mind to procrastinate.

The tap came again, a little more urgent this time, and she had a mental image of Harry, hanging precariously from the drainpipe. She moved quickly to the window and pushed it up, then turned away, picking up her discarded nightrobe and throwing it around her shoulders.

Harry swung himself over the sill and softly closed the window. He stood looking at her averted figure wrapped in the thick robe.

“Thank you for letting me in, ma'am.”

“I could hardly leave you hanging by your fingernails from the drainpipe,” she replied.

“It would have been a little unfriendly,” he agreed lightly. He crossed the faded carpet in three quick steps, caught her loose hair in one hand and pressed his lips to her nape. He felt her shiver as his tongue licked up the little groove into her scalp, then he released her hair and turned to the fire, bending to throw more coal on the glowing embers.

Cornelia sat on the chest at the foot of the bed and watched his swift economical movements. He was hatless and, as always on these nocturnal visits, dressed completely in black. “I might have been asleep,” she said.

“A risk I was willing to take.” He straightened and turned to face her, his green eyes brilliant in his pale face. “We have unfinished business, you and I.” He drew off his gloves and tossed them onto the chair by the fire. His muffler and coat followed. “A glass of cognac would not come amiss.”

“I'll fetch the decanter.” She rose and took her carrying candle, now extinguished, from the dresser. She held the wick to the flame of the reading candle beside her bed until the small flame took, then she went to the door, opening it quietly. There was complete silence in the house. She stepped into the corridor and a swish of fur brushed her ankles as Puss darted into the bedroom before she could close the door behind her.

She hesitated, then shrugged. The cat wouldn't raise the alarm as long as Harry didn't step on her tail again. She flitted barefooted down the wide staircase, almost holding her breath lest the terriers sense unusual movement in the house. While she had every right to be fetching the decanter of cognac to her own chamber to help her sleep, she would still prefer not to have to explain herself.

But she retrieved the decanter and two glasses and returned to her bedchamber without disturbance of any kind. Harry still stood with his back to the fire, and he'd drawn the curtains across the window. Puss lay curled in front of the fire, clearly unperturbed by the presence of a comparative stranger in her favorite's bedroom.

Cornelia poured cognac for them both, then resumed her seat on the chest. She regarded him in interrogative silence.

Harry sipped his cognac and raised his eyebrows. “Very well,
I'll
begin. As I recall you said you risked everything, and I risked nothing. It's become very clear to me in the last few days how much I am risking, Nell.”

“What?”

He gave a half laugh. “Things I have always believed vital to me…to my self-esteem, the person I believe myself to be. Control over events for one.” He regarded her over the lip of his goblet. “You are becoming an obsession with me, Nell. I am entranced by you, I want to be with you, I can't get your scent, the feel of your skin, the richness of your hair out of my mind. I have never felt this way about a woman before. It's as if your body is imprinted upon mine.”

Cornelia felt herself grow warm at his words. She had never been so complimented before, and she knew he was not making empty speeches. It was not his way, and besides, his eyes told the truth, those deep green eyes that glowed with light. But physical passion was one thing, and she now understood it as she had never understood it before. But it wasn't enough.

“I don't know enough about you.” She set her goblet down on the chest beside her. “I know your body, as you know mine, but who are
you,
Harry? Oh, I don't mean the facts. You've mentioned your family, your marriage…but that's not enough. It doesn't show me who you
are.
I realize that I haven't yet seen you in your own world. And I suppose that will happen soon now that we're ready to join that public world ourselves, but there's something else about you…you hint at business affairs that take you out of town, or somewhere for days at a time. You seem on the surface to be an ordinary person, but I know you're not.”

Her voice was very low now but ringing with conviction. “I'm not a fool…some ingénue to be easily tempted by the sophisticated man-about-town. I am a widow, a mother, with duties, responsibilities. I cannot blithely ignore those obligations simply because a man makes my body sing.”

She took a shuddery breath, overpoweringly aware of how close his body was to hers, of the intensity of his gaze, of the electric crackle of sexual anticipation between them. And she wondered why she was bothering with such futile protestations. Her mind had no say in this…no say at all.

Harry made no move. He stared down into his goblet, swirling the tawny liquid. And for the first time he hated his dead wife. Anne had ruined him for all but the lightest and most impermanent of relationships with women. However much he cried out for a relationship that could grow and deepen beyond the ephemeral glories of passion, he could never have it. He could not say to the woman sitting so still on the chest in front of him, a woman so straight and true, that he wanted to be with her always, that there was no need for these clandestine nights together. He could not say that one day they could live together openly, that he could be a father to her children.

Maybe his great-aunt was right, and somewhere there was a woman who could brave the scandal of marriage to Harry Bonham, but from what Cornelia had told him,
she
was not that woman. The old scandal would ruin her. She would lose her children. And so he had nothing to offer her but these nights, and the promise of absolute secrecy. And, as she'd said, secrecy did not sit well with her.