Cloaked in Danger (5 page)

She took the final few steps down the stairs and stopped, her attention never wavering from the stately man who stood in front of Adam. “Franklin, it’s truly you.”

Mr. Calebowe inhaled, and on his exhale of breath he said her name: “Hypatia.”

“What are you doing here?” Adam’s mother looked frozen with alarm.

“I came to call on you.” The last word was raised slightly, turning it almost into a question. “Forgive me for being a little late.”

Adam’s gaze volleyed back to his mother and he startled. She held herself stiffly, her emotions bared in the angry set of her jaw, the shock in her wide eyes and the protective instinct to cross her arms over her chest. How could a man he had never met have caused such immediate emotion?

“Late?” She covered the distance of the corridor in seconds. It would appear anger had kicked in as well. “Late would be thirty minutes. Late would be an hour or two. Maybe even a day. Bloody hell, Franklin!”

“Mama!” Who the hell was this man?

“Young man, this does not concern you,” she tossed back, without looking in his direction. Her righteous indignation was directed at the unsuspecting man whom Adam was starting to believe should leave. Immediately.

“‘Patia, I can explain.”

Adam frowned at the intimacy of his address. “Kindly address her as Lady Merewood in this home, Mr. Calebowe. My mother deserves the proper respect due her station.”

Mr. Calebowe bowed his head slightly, accepting the criticism with the quiet fortitude of one who knew he asked a lot to be forgiven. “Lady Merewood, a few minutes of your time. Let me explain.”

To Adam’s utter amazement, tears filled his mother’s eyes and she shook her head.

“You are too late, Franklin. Thirty years too late.” And with those throaty, emotion-filled words, she turned on her heel and went back up the stairs.

Adam turned to their uninvited guest. “You need to leave.”

The man suddenly seemed smaller. Defeated. He reached into the inside of his overcoat and pulled out an envelope. “Would you give this to your...to Lady Merewood? I had not expected her to see me, but I had to try.”

Adam took the envelope and nodded. Mr. Calebowe shot a final, regretful glance at the now-empty staircase before turning toward the door. Higgins held it open with a stoic expression.

“Mr. Calebowe?” Adam asked.

He turned back. “Yes?”

“How do you know my mother?”

The corners of his mouth lifted in a sad smile. “I was betrothed to her.”

Chapter Five

Aria set her reticule on the table by the front door. A yawn escaped, and she jumped a little in place to try and force some energy into her body. She was forever coming and going these days, adhering to the God-awful late hours society kept. She peered out the small window in the front door.

It was a little past eight and a long evening loomed ahead after a completely fruitless day. It was no wonder society disdained anyone who worked for a living. You could not possibly put in a full day of work in any capacity and then stay out until the morning hours at parties and balls.

And for what? To mingle with people they’d known all their lives? Where was the adventure in that?

Aria shook her head. They weren’t terrible people. She was just weary. Of going to balls, of pretending to be something she wasn’t.

“Ready for this evening, Miss Whitney?” Lady Beasley teetered out of the parlor, sherry in hand. It was at least her third, perhaps more, since her arrival an hour before.

“Looking forward to it,” Aria replied. “Thank you for acting as my chaperone.”

Lady Beasley took a lengthy sip. “I am delighted to attend tonight’s performance. I have friends who shall be there.”

Which meant another evening in which Aria would be free to pursue her own plans. She sent a prayer to the heavens, thankful for tipsy, flighty chaperones.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

When she opened it, Mr. Patrick Wade stood on their porch, dressed in simple black and dark blue. His kind of handsome was the devastating kind, with a grin full of charm and a smooth manner intended to set one at ease.

She waited for that feeling to strike her—the same tingle, the awareness that had flooded her around Lord Merewood. But her body felt perfectly normal.

“You look quite perfect tonight, Miss Whitney—an Incomparable.”

“Thank you. But I shall be the envy of every woman at Vauxhall simply for the handsomeness of my escort.” She pushed open the door and moved aside. In seconds, he filled the space with a large working man’s frame. Strong, muscular shoulders that hinted of hours of labor, arms and hands that had seen their fair share of toil.

“Aria, I am not sure this is the—oh. Mr. Wade.” Emily stood on a step, one foot poised to step down and her hand on the rail as if she would turn and run. “Don’t you look dashing this evening.”

“Mrs. Whitney, you grow more beautiful each time I see you. Lady Beasley, how enjoyable to see you again.”

Lady Beasley beamed, while Emily playfully batted her hand at him, then rested it on her belly. “Poppycosh, you charmer.”

“Aria, might we have a moment before you leave?” Emily asked.

“I have some of the whiskey you so enjoy,” Aria told him and gestured toward the parlor. “Please, help yourself.”

“I don’t mind if I do.” With a wink, he moved where she’d directed.

Aria turned to Emily. “What is it? I want to arrive before they light the lamps.”

“Tell Mr. Wade the truth. Perhaps he can help.”

“Do you see him attending parties with me? With how he feels about the aristocracy? They’ve done little to earn my respect, but he hates them. And besides, Mr. Wade doesn’t have the connections I need. He’s a merchant. He imports the goods they buy. They would never allow him in their circles.”

“But he does have business connections. Perhaps there is something—”

“I don’t need his help, Emily. And the less people involved, the safer Papa is.”

“You don’t have to handle this alone. Mr. Wade’s feelings for you are abundantly clear. Even when he travels for business, he returns to your side the minute he sets foot in London.” The characteristic pinched lips and a brow furrowed with disapproval appeared upon Emily’s sweet face. Aria was forever disappointing her stepmother. “Think about letting him help.”

“Aria? Is there something you need my help in?” Patrick stood in the doorway, a glass with a modicum of whiskey in his hand.

“Why do you ask?”

He quirked an amused smile. “When you answer questions with questions, I know something is amiss. What has you so concerned? If there is some way I may resolve it, you know I will.”

His hand landed on her arm, offering a firm, almost hard squeeze. She felt affection for him—they were companionable, comfortable. But trust him with her father’s life?

That wasn’t quite so simple. She wasn’t sure she had the ability to trust anyone so completely, much less when it concerned something so important.

“Aria, let me help you,” he urged. He took a final step and loomed a little too close.

She stepped back. “Nothing is amiss.”

A tic jumped in his jaw, but it quickly disappeared. “Very well. Shall we go?”

As he escorted her to their carriage, irritation emanated from his solid steps, his strident gait. Aria knew he was disappointed.

And she hated lying, though had anyone observed her at a society affair of late, they’d find that impossible to believe. All she was doing was lying—to Patrick, to every person she complimented. Every time she acted as if she cared about the latest gossip.

She was used to frank honesty. Her father was a blunt man, and he had raised her to value the truth above all. It was the foundation of their existence; it was how you knew who you could trust in any environment. Now, to be thrust into a world that thrived on deceit and games felt like walking on a floor of glass—one that cracked with every step and threatened to shatter beneath her.

She settled into the carriage. She’d expected an uncomfortable ride into Lambeth, but as they crossed the Westminster Bridge toward Bridge Street, the lack of small talk hung in the air.

Lady Beasley had fallen asleep only moments after the carriage left, lulled by the bumps on the road and the rhythmic clops of the horse hooves. Little whistle snores erupted from her every so often.

And Patrick, who had proven on every other occasion to be nothing but charming and gracious company, was uncharacteristically silent.

He’s brooding, she thought. And Emily was correct—Aria had to be clear with him.

The fact that she remained focused on leaving London was all the answer she needed to know how she felt about him. She didn’t want to hurt him. But this wasn’t the time to be honest.

And finding her father was something she had to do alone.

The carriage began to slow and she peered out the window. The entrance to Vauxhall Gardens was up ahead, teeming with carriages and patrons walking down the street toward the crush of people at the gates.

They had missed the ritualistic lighting of the lamps, and by the time they made it to the entrance, strains of music could already be heard.

Despite how uninspiring the Gardens looked during the daylight, at night they became a place far removed from London. Exotic in ways that made her recall warm desert nights lit only by candles and lamps when one could step out of the tent and see nothing but the haloed lamps and stars. She’d read in a gossip rag that there were thousands of lamps lit in Vauxhall. They hung from trees, from posts, and turned every speck of ordinary dirt and rock into shimmering walkways. Plants and trees destined to be nothing but a common green by day shone with shadows and highlights, the reflections of the light dancing between the leaves.

Ironic that one of the few places in London she could relax was a fenced-in garden.

“Our box is over there,” Patrick said brusquely after they had entered, pointing toward the south end of the supper boxes, near the statue of Handel. Patrick’s fingers tightened around her arm. “This way.”

As he tugged her, Aria scanned the crowd. She saw a number of people she’d met recently, received an occasional nod of acknowledgement, and noticed more than one appraising glance at Mr. Wade. He was not one of them and they knew it—that was clear from the noses slightly raised, the eyes averted. Aria had suspected they tolerated her among their ranks because of her father’s fortune and perhaps because of his charm, but to have it so clearly shown was chilling. The unlikely crowd may mingle in one place, but people still separated themselves, hidden behind invisible walls.

She had always wondered why Patrick held such a loathing for the haute ton. One would almost think he was of noble blood, and they were but dirt under his feet, so acrimonious was his demeanor. Perhaps it was the way they looked at him. The way they looked through him.

And the vague hope Aria had of spotting one of the men on her father’s list tonight, perhaps even gain an introduction, grew dimmer by the moment. She refused to approach someone with Mr. Wade by her side, knowing they were likely to ignore and offend him. He didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

Even as she thought it, her breath caught.

Lady Ashton was here with an older woman and yes, there was Lord Merewood. Tingles of pleasure filled her, but she shifted her gaze past him. The duke wasn’t nearby, but Aria studied the faces around her. Three of the men on her list were here. Viscount Turleton stood at the end, next to a woman of a decidedly questionable virtue. Lord Barrymore stood with Lady Barrymore, back to back—which lent credence to the gossip Emily had passed on that they had ceased conversing with each other years past. Aria turned around to find Lady Beasley, wondering if the woman knew the couple of equal age, but their trusty chaperone had already disappeared from sight.

One last glance at Lord Merewood. She would ignore how handsome he looked, even with that permanent scowl on his face.

“Are you looking for someone in particular?” Patrick asked.

Aria snapped around with a pang of guilt. Had he seen where she was looking? “Lady Ashton. I met her the other night. She was very kind to me.” Perhaps she could tell him. Maybe he would have some insights on the matter, suggestions on how best to proceed.

“You have been attending a number of events lately, haven’t you?” The words were casual, but the stone set of his jaw was not.

“Papa has always urged me to attend to his invitations.” Which was true. “I thought in his absence, I should make some appearances. He has made a number of connections in society, people who sponsor Papa’s work. It is good business.”

“It is admirable that you support your father’s efforts.” Patrick leaned in and his voice grew more intimate. “But as someone who cares a great deal about you, I caution you against becoming too close with anyone in that world. They are not your friends, Ariadne. They will use you and mock you for it.”

“What could they possibly gain from me?” she teased, but his expression didn’t lose one bit of seriousness.

“Your father is an extraordinarily wealthy man. There are many nobles who have bankrupted their holdings, and they would not think twice at wooing you for your money.”

“They could only do so had I any intention to marry them, and I do not.”

Her words appeared to mollify him only slightly. “I should hope not.”

No, Aria realized with a small thud of disappointment, she had been right to keep this to herself. Patrick would never understand and furthermore, he might try to impede her efforts.

“Why do you dislike them so?” she asked.

He turned his head sharply away, but the hard set of his jaw suggested he was far from unemotional. “Come. Let’s sit and eat.”

The dismissal was clear. Aria swallowed her irritation and followed him to their box. Rather than antagonize him now, she might as well enjoy a part of her evening. It was a three-sided box, the fourth side open into the courtyard. At the back was one of the many panels that decorated each box. Aria leaned in closer to get a look at theirs. Most of the paintings had been commissioned for Vauxhall and painted by Frances Hayman. This wasn’t one of her favorites. It was an image of children playing on a seesaw, but she found the copious use of brown a bit grim.

“One of my favorites,” Patrick commented, gesturing at the painting.

That wasn’t a surprise. She’d already surmised their tastes in art were vastly different. She liked bold colors; he liked things she thought of as moody at best. Gloomy at worst.

She turned and sat in the seat that provided the clearest view of the crowd. The Merewood family was no longer in sight, but Lady Beasley teetered her way over to them and plopped down on the seat.

“Such a lovely, lovely night,” she chirped. “Don’t you agree, my dear?”

“Mmmm hmmm.” Aria mentally ran down the names on her list, trying to gauge who else was here this evening that she could at least study from afar, if nothing else. One remained that she’d yet to see at any event. “Lady Beasley, have you heard of Lord Brandywine?”

“Of course, dear. Everyone knows Ol’ Brandy.” She lifted her cup in toast.

The “everyone” she referred to didn’t include Aria or, from the black look that crossed Mr. Wade’s visage, him. And Lady Beasley did not seem inclined to expand. For a moment, Aria understood his sometimes irrational dislike of the nobility. They often acted as though no world but their small circle of exclusivity existed.

At that moment, Lady Ashton appeared.

And some of them, Aria mused, were quite friendly and kind.

“Miss Whitney!” A smile dawned across her face, as genuine as the squeeze from the hand she extended. “What a wonderful surprise to see you here.”

Aria smiled in return. “Same to you, Lady Ashton.” She glanced at Patrick. “Might I introduce Mr. Patrick Wade? Mr. Wade, Lady Ashton.”

Warm curiosity gleamed in Lady Ashton’s eyes. “Mr. Wade, hullo. Are you enjoying the evening so far?”

Unable to stand without Aria moving first, he offered a barely visible nod and a gruff “Yes, Lady Ashton. Thank you.”

“I love the Gardens. Always such a lovely evening.” Lady Ashton turned to her. “I thought a walk down the promenade would be lovely. Might I steal you for a few minutes to join me?”

It was an opportunity Aria could not refuse. She could walk for a few moments with Lady Ashton, gain a very important introduction without worrying about Patrick. Aria immediately scooted from her position next to Patrick, but before she could slide out of the booth a hand fell upon her arm. She twisted to meet his very displeased visage.

“The intention was for us to spend time this evening,” he replied, his voice even and low.