Almost a Gentleman (21 page)

"Quite the joke on you."

"Quite."

"And are you planning to try again?"

"No, we've given up on it—no sport in being led a wild goose chase around the countryside. Anyway, the pleasure for Raikes and me turned out to be in the imagining of it. But why do you ask, my lord? Would you want to join such an expedition?"

I'd join you in hell first
, David thought, balling up his fists and barely suppressing the impulse to pound this nasty-minded glutton to a soft white pudding and toss him out with the rest of the kitchen scrapings.

His fury and revulsion quickly soon gave way to a series of other emotions. Disappointment: it was clear that Smythe-Cochrane wasn't the culprit. Relief: at least, he thought, he'd eliminated two suspects and wouldn't have to bother talking to Raikes. A renewed certainty: surely it was Crashaw, just as he'd always suspected. And a renewal of his single-minded devotion to the cause he'd set himself: to rescue Phoebe from the hatred that her masquerade had inspired.

Also a measure of thanks. Because the good food, blazing fire, and fine wine he'd provided had combined with the man's over-heated fantasies to wrap Mr. Hugh Smythe-Cochrane into a warm cocoon of postprandial bliss. A happy snore rose from the deep armchair as the clock struck half past ten. Well, at least it hasn't been the longest unendurable evening I've ever spent, David thought. He offered quiet thanks for having been spared any more of the gentleman's conversation.

Staring at the fire, he came to a quick decision. Impatiently, he rang for his butler.

"Would you and a footman toss him into the guest bedroom, Grimes? And make my apologies if, as is devoutly to be hoped, I don't see him tomorrow morning. For I've decided to escape to Lincolnshire a few days early.

"Have Dickerson get the horses and carriage ready, won't you, and tell Croft to pack a small bag for me. Oh, and please ask Cook to prepare an early breakfast and pack a luncheon for me and Croft—after you deliver my congratulations on the dinner she produced this evening. We'll leave at daybreak."

He'd post letters to Wolfe, to Stokes, and to Phoebe, informing them of his altered plans. (Could he possibly write "Dear Phoebe?" No, not yet.) He hoped she'd understand how difficult it was for him to be in London and not see her. It would be better to go home. His extended stay in London had put an unfair burden on his steward, who'd had to distribute a wagonload of Christmas gifts throughout the village in his stead.

He stood up, stretching his arms and powerful shoulders, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. His heart was beating too quickly and his stomach felt a bit off-center; one shouldn't eat good food while listening to vile conversation, he thought. But he'd feel better once he was on the move.

He'd saved the letter to Phoebe for last. Predictably, he'd blotted several sheets in his vain struggle to get it right. His first draft had been stiff and school-boyish, his second florid and word-drunk; both unfortunate attempts had been tossed in the fire. His third try was adequate, he supposed, if a bit more formal than he'd like. It would be easier, he thought, when she'd granted him the right to call her by name. And after he'd told her that he loved her.

This last thought so astonished him that he made a fair mess of sprinkling sand over the paper to dry the ink.

He loved her;
the dazzling idea of it had crept unbidden into his head while he'd been forcing his emotions into acceptable shape. No wonder it had been so difficult to write the letter—he'd been telling her everything but what he'd truly felt.

He loved her
. Odd, he'd thought of everything but love. Sex, marriage, even children. A lifetime together. But love? Somehow he'd thought that love wasn't meant for reasonable, responsible people. He'd done so well without it, after all.

But yes, he loved her
. He didn't know where the feelings came from or how he could be so sure of them. Still, it was true. He loved her absolutely and unrestrainedly. After a lifetime of imagining himself incapable of such a thing, there it suddenly was: effortless, natural, thrilling.

You don't know me well enough to care for me
, she'd cautioned him. But she'd been quite wrong. Nothing could stop him from caring for her, from loving her. Nothing could and nothing would. He'd tell her that, he thought happily, first chance he got.

He gazed abstractedly at the fire, listening to its soft crackle and only gradually becoming aware of another sound, a loud pounding out in the street. No, it wasn't in the street; the furious banging came from right below where he was sitting. The glass panes in his study windows were shaking as though rattled by a strong gale. Someone, it seemed, was trying to break his front door down.

His butler's feet clattered down the stairs. Blast it, who could be out there at this hour?

He could hear two sets of footsteps on the stairs now, Grimes's and someone else's, both rushing up to see him. The second man had a heavier stride. He turned in his chair, rose, and hurried to open the door.

"Begging your pardon, my lord," Grimes began, "but Mr. Stokes here—well, sir, he insisted, sir…"

Stokes elbowed Grimes aside.

"You better come wi' me, guv'nor. The lady…"

Dear God.

"Is she hurt, Stokes? Did someone…"

"No, guv'nor, she ain't hurt. It's the… the boy, see."

David had never seen Stokes blush before, never heard him stumble over his words as if there were something he was embarrassed to say.

"She said I should come get you. There's a cab waiting downstairs."

It hadn't been an easy thing, Stokes reflected later, to tell Lord Linseley the story. He'd wished the streets had been empty, so that the cab could have quickly delivered them to Brunswick Square. For it had been bloody unpleasant, spending all that time in the cab with the guv'nor all pale and furious and with that dazed look on his face—like someone had finally got past his ironclad defense and fetched him a good one in the jaw.

No, he corrected himself—like someone had kicked him where a man didn't want to be kicked.

It ain't my business to say such things as I was forced to say to him, he thought indignantly. Should be the lady informing him what happened. After all, it was on her account that the boy was all hurt and bloodied.

But the cab had stood maddeningly still, mired in traffic. There'd been some kind of big reception just letting out from one of the great houses nearby. Swells and their ladies poured out of the large front doors; cabs and carriages were stacked up in the streets for block after impassable block. And the guv'nor wanted to know right now, exactly what had transpired at the lady's house. So Stokes had no choice but to spill out everything he knew.

Not that he actually knew all that much. And he wasn't exactly proud of his role in the part he did know about. He should have hung around, he supposed. But nights when the pretty blond boy made his visits—Tuesdays and Saturdays they were—he usually knocked off early. This hadn't been one of those regular nights, but Mr. Simms had been kind enough to tip him off about it.

Stokes liked the old valet. They'd become friends one stormy afternoon when Simms had invited him into the kitchen and given him a cup of tea. "No point your catching your death out there," he'd said, "when I know she's not planning to go out for a few hours."

None of the other servants had been around, so they'd been able to talk honestly, about the lady and her peculiarities, so to speak. It had been a bit of a blow to Stokes's pride to learn that both she and Simms knew he was guarding her; he'd thought he'd been wonderfully sly. But Simms had been handsome about it, and had a sense of humor as well. "If you think she leads you a merry chase in the streets, just try looking after her every day as I do."

"I'm deeply grateful to you, Mr. Stokes," he'd added, "for keeping her safe. I worry about her, you know." He sounded like a kind old uncle; it seemed that he'd known the lady since she'd been a child. Stokes would wager that the boy's visits weren't Simms's favorite events of the week either.

The boy had been due at eleven; Stokes had shoved off about nine. Had a bit of an engagement himself if truth be told. Bosomy Dolly Martin had taken rather a fancy to him since he'd had some money to throw around.

"But when I got to the Laughing Crow Tavern, there she was wi' Cummens Small's 'and round her waist. And his other 'and reaching deep down into her… sorry for talking out of turn, guv'nor." For Stokes had belatedly realized that his employer might not enjoy the drift his story was taking.

" 'E won't try that again, anyway, but… but where was I? Right, took a walk outside I did, to clear my head. And somethin' told me maybe I'd been neglecting my post back at Brunswick Square. Which I 'ad, guv'nor, no point my tryin' to deny it.

"I got back too late for the fight. The body 'ad been dumped on 'er doorstep. Not dead, they 'adn't meant to kill 'im I don't think, but awful badly beat up—seemed like they might o' got carried away, lovin' their work as some types do. I think they worked 'im over in an alley you know, and then just 'auled 'im over."

"So you could have apprehended them if you'd been there. And we would have learned who had hired them."

Stokes nodded soberly.

"That's true, sir. Couldn't 'ave done nothing for the boy, but…"

"Hang the boy, I hired you to protect
her
! I told you she was in danger, didn't I?"

The outburst wasn't like the guv'nor, but Stokes took his point.

"Yer right, sir. I failed you, I did."

Still, Stokes thought, it had been the boy who'd taken the lumps. A bad beating around the face, that was for sure. And probably a broken leg, Stokes hadn't liked the look of how it had hung down all crooked. He'd appeared in awful pain: if the toughs had mashed his insides like they'd flattened his nose he might not live out the night. And if he did live he wouldn't be pretty enough to continue earning his living in his accustomed manner. Simms had told Stokes to carry him inside, lay him out on a settee. He'd sent a footman to get a doctor.

"And the lady?"

"Didn't see 'er. Simms went upstairs to inform 'er wot 'ad transpired, and I thought she'd come down directly. But Simms said she'd 'ave to dress, which always takes 'er a bit o' time, you know. Well, it makes sense, disguised as she is, so clever and natural she makes it seem, though myself I 'adn't given the matter much thought before 'e'd said it. Simms said that I wasn't to wait, but go fetch you, at 'er orders, see."

Stokes had thought that the guv'nor would like that bit, about her requesting his presence. But his face only looked paler and his eyes darker and angrier, if that were possible.

"She'd have to dress," David repeated. He spoke slowly, giving due weight to each syllable.

Disguised as she is
. Stokes was precisely right. She'd have to dress, because in order to face her servants and the doctor she'd summoned, she'd have to be disguised as Marston.
So clever and natural
, as Stokes had put it.

From which it followed that while she'd been waiting upstairs for this boy—this pretty blond boy, who visited her twice a week late at night—she hadn't been Marston. She'd been Phoebe, the woman David had only asked to dream of. The woman he'd been waiting—so patiently, so politely, so idiotically, as it had turned out—to permit him to call by her proper name.

He set his mouth in a cold line. Absurdly, he'd assumed that she'd been waiting for him as well. He'd supposed that she was eager for him to finish his investigations and come back to her. A veritable princess in a tower, he'd imagined her. Had any man, he wondered, ever made such an ass of himself over a woman?

He remembered the awkward letters he'd penned tonight, his silly attempts to express his growing devotion to her. And all the while she'd been preparing for an evening of sport with her hired boy. She'd been bathing, brushing her hair, daubing scent here and there, and smiling her devastating half-smile into the mirror. She'd been doing one or all of the hundred little things he'd fantasized her doing in preparation for his own triumphant arrival at the door of her bedchamber.

She'd been Phoebe for this boy all the time that David had been obliged to address her as "Mr. Marston." Stokes had presented the state of affairs with impressive delicacy, but there was no question where things stood.

She's played me for a fool
, he thought numbly.
She's used me
. In return, she'd allowed him bits and pieces of herself—a kiss, a touch, a madly provocative glance—in order to secure his assistance. And all the while she'd been paying for the regular professional ministrations of a pretty male doxy.

He became conscious of a roaring in his ears. A dull, opaque sort of sound: it was his blood, David thought, rising in jealous fury. Oddly, his blood seemed to know what he should do; it knew it better than he did himself.
Bellow with rage
, his blood insisted,
break things, wreak some fearsome damage on Stokes in return for the pain his story had caused
. He rather enjoyed the violence of the impulse, the dark brutishness rushing in and releasing him from his duties to a fellow creature.

Certainly, he thought, he was under no obligation to listen to whatever else Stokes might want to say. Not that he could have heard him even if he'd wanted to. The roar in his ears had transformed Stokes into a ha'penny dumb show, big face wagging clownishly as he continued to move his lips, with only a vain word or two—"note… shirt… swine"—penetrating the roar in David's ears.