My Lord Murderer (17 page)

“We can’t be sure you’ve lost her. Perhaps, if you haunt Almack’s every night, she may turn up there one evening.”

“Are you serious? Do you think I should?”

“I suppose I’m half serious,” Drew said with a laugh. “Every young lady of the
ton
must go to Almack’s a few times during the season. It’s almost
de rigueur.
”

“But what if she’s not of the
ton?
”

Drew looked at Wys in amused surprise. “What? Not of the
ton?
Wys, you astound me! The proper and respectable Mr. Farr could not be attracted to some … girl of the
streets
, could he?”

“Stop joking, Drew. She was well bred … a lady in every way, but…”

“But…?” Drew asked encouragingly.

“But she
was
in a hired hack. And alone…”

“Ah, I see. A hired hack. No abigail in attendance. Very, very strange. The mystery deepens.”

“You won’t take this seriously, will you?” asked Wys, annoyed at last.

Drew looked across at his friend, saw the pain in his eyes, and was immediately repentant. “I’m sorry, Wys. It’s only that it’s hard to believe that you’ve tumbled into love at first sight, like the veriest schoolboy. It’s so unlike you.”

“I know. I can scarcely credit it myself. But she made me feel—don’t laugh, now!—like a…”

“Go ahead, tell me. I promise not to tease.”

“Like a knight in armor!” Wys said, a bit shamefaced.

Drew shook his head. “The moderate, self-controlled Wys! It
must
be love. What else could have wrought such a change in you?”

“But what am I to do about it? I can’t knock on every door in London asking ‘Excuse me, madam, is there a girl living here who wears a rose-colored pelisse?’”

“I can’t think of anything,” Drew said, shrugging sympathetically. “Except that you might stroll on Jermyn Street at the same hour every day. Perhaps she may pass there on some regular errand.”

“I’ve tried that for the last two days. No sign of her yet. It makes me feel so foolish to peer into carriages, I can tell you. I’ve received a goodly number of questioning glances from the riders.”

“I can well imagine it.” Drew sighed a melancholy sigh. “I’m afraid, Wys old boy, that neither one of us has any luck in love.”

The two men leaned back in their chairs and gazed into the fire moodily. Their abstraction was soon interrupted by Mallow, who came up to Drew’s chair and coughed lightly.

“Yes, Mallow, what is it?”

“A young man, sir, name of Quentin Cavendish. Says he must see you on a matter of urgency.”

“Cavendish?” Drew mused. “I’ve heard that name somewhere. Send him in, Mallow.”

A moment later, Drew looked up to see a rumpled-looking young man staring down at him in fright. His lips were white, his eyes wide, and he twisted the brim of his very stylish beaver nervously in his fingers. “Lord J-Jamison?” he stammered.

“Yes,” Drew said kindly. “I’m Lord Jamison.”

“I’m Quentin Cavendish. You don’t know m-me—”

“I’m aware of that,” Drew said with a smile, trying to tease the boy into a more relaxed state.

“I’m a friend of Tom’s,” Quent explained.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Drew said warmly, rising and extending his hand. “Tom has spoken to me of you.” They shook hands and Drew indicated Wys, deep in a wing chair. “This is my friend, Wystan Farr. Mr. Farr, Mr. Cavendish.”

Quent extended a nervous hand to Wys and turned back to Drew. He opened his mouth to speak, lost his courage and closed it again. Drew watched him in some amusement and then said gently, “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Cavendish?”

“Yes. You see, we have Tom in the carriage outside…” he said lamely.

“Tom? Outside? I don’t understand—”

“You see, sir, it was rather difficult to … that is, we didn’t know where else to take him. His sister would raise a devil of a dust if we took him home, you see…”

Drew was beginning to feel a sense of impending disaster. “No, I’m afraid I don’t quite—”

“He speaks of you so often, you know…” Quent said, trying to explain the situation sensibly but quite unable to do so with his head spinning and his stomach churning fearfully. “We hoped you could help him.”

“
Help
him?” Drew asked tensely. “Is there something wrong with Tom?”

“Yes, sir, there’s something very wrong,” said Quent, quite near hysterics. “You see, I … Oh, God, Lord Jamison, I … shot him!”

Chapter Ten

G
WEN STUDIED HERSELF IN
the mirror with troubled eyes. She had dismissed her abigail impatiently, preferring to dress her own hair rather than endure the girl’s chatter. She was engaged to attend a small dinner party at the Warrentons under the escort of Sir George, and she had determined to make herself enjoy it. One of her favorite gowns was laid out on the bed. The underdress was of a white Persian silk called belladine and had small, puffed sleeves, a square neckline cut in a low decolletage, and a graceful flounce at the bottom. Over this she would wear a bronze-colored sleeveless coat of Venetian twill which would be laced tightly beneath the breasts but would otherwise hang loose to reveal the silk underdress as she walked. Determined to make this evening as festive as possible, she had spent the last of the pin-money she had allotted herself for this quarter to buy a pair of bronze-colored silk slippers and a new pair of long white gloves. These, still enticingly wrapped in tissue paper, the abigail had also laid out on the bed.

But somehow the pleasure she had expected to feel when dressing for this festive occasion was completely absent. She was not sure what it was that so depressed her spirits. Was it her feeling that the people with whom Sir George surrounded himself all seemed slightly disreputable? Certainly the expectation of being ogled by Lord Warrenton through his quizzing glass was irritating, but could it explain why she was so sunk in the dismals? She had subjected herself to his scrutiny before, and she knew just how to give him his deserved set-down. No, it was more than Lord Warrenton’s vulgarity which was troubling her.

If she were to be honest with herself, she would have to admit that the whole circle in which she moved was not to her liking. Sir George was an attractive man who never bored her, but even he had a slightly disreputable air. Certainly his friend Lambert Aylmer was above reproach, but Gwen could not abide Lambie for long. He tended to attach himself to her for interminable periods, breathing down her neck with his whispered revelations of the doings of the
ton
. No wonder he was called Lambie the Leech.

In George’s circle, the conversation depended heavily on the latest gossip, cards and gambling, or humor heavily tinged with sexual innuendo. Gwen could not accuse any of them of breaking the rules of etiquette, but there were many times when she felt that the remarks and the quips were beyond what she considered good taste. Of course, her values might be too old-fashioned. Was it possible she had become stiff and old-cattish?

Why didn’t Sir George and his friends ever talk intelligently about the trouble the Whigs were facing in Parliament, about the chances of peace with Napoleon, about the enduring value of Lord Byron’s exciting poetry—the sort of conversation she had heard at Stonehaven? Why wasn’t the dinner conversation at the Warrentons at all like the conversation in Drew’s circle?

Drew … there was the crux of it, of course. She couldn’t fool herself. Not only could she not banish Drew from her thoughts, but she was beginning to waver in her conviction that he was truly at fault in the duel. Everything she had heard of him from people she respected—people like Hazel and Wystan Farr and even her own brother—proved him to be a man of excellent, even admirable, character. Over and over she had heard him described as kind, generous, and honest. Even the gossip which had spread through all the drawing rooms of London with lightning speed following the scene at the Selby ball seemed not to have adversely affected him. He was still seen at his club in the company of many friends, he was still being invited to grace the best tables, and he had even been seen on the arm of the Prince Regent himself at the home of the Countess Livien. Although the duel and his relationship with her were still favorite subjects of gossip and speculation, his reputation with the polite world was evidently too solid to have suffered greatly from all the talk.

But this was dangerous speculation. She must deal only with facts, for her emotions in regard to Drew were too strong to be relied upon. The laughter in his eyes, the endearing warmth of his smile, the charm of his conversation—these were unreliable qualities that had nothing to do with a man’s character, yet they had completely turned her head. They had made her wish—oh, so fervently!—that the facts of the duel were not true. But was it not Mr. Dryden who had written,
‘With how much ease believe we what we wish!’?
She must be on her guard against such beliefs.

She sighed mournfully and attacked her hair with the brush. She swept the rebellious waves into smoothness and twisted them into a neat knot at the back of her head. Only a few tendrils around her face were permitted to escape the severe confinement of her coiffure. This done, she dressed quickly, with more efficiency than pleasure. No amount of self-chastisement was capable of giving her a sense of happy anticipation of the evening to come. In fact, if she had to find a word to describe her feelings, it would be “foreboding.” She was fearful of the evening, but of what, she had no idea. She knew only that she would be glad when it was over, and she would find relief from these thoughts and this mood in sleep.

George Pollard, on the other hand, was anticipating the evening with more cheerfulness than he had felt for weeks. The business with Mr. Joshua Plumb had proved quite promising, and he felt sure that his financial problems were very soon to be solved. He had determined to marry the Plumb chit no matter how dour or insipid she turned out to be, but from Mr. Plumb’s remark that “she took the shine out” of her half-sisters, George felt confident that she was at least passable. Her father’s settlement was quite generous, which assured that he would take her. There were many qualities of the female nature which George did not like—talkative women irritated him, those who whined disgusted him, plain ones bored him, plump ones revolted him—but none of those qualities were so repulsive that a fifteen-thousand-pound settlement and three thousand a year couldn’t make them endurable.

Yes, he could endure anything, especially if he could also have Gwen. He hungered for her as much as he hungered for the fortune that was almost his. Ever since Rowle had brought her to London from the obscurity in which she had been raised, he had wanted her. He yearned to feel her bronze-gold hair clutched in his fingers, her lithe slimness held tightly against his chest, her full lips pressed against his mouth. To marry her was a luxury he could not afford, but give her up he could not. Tonight, he would take the first step in a plan to bind her to him without marriage. Somehow, before the announcement of his forthcoming marriage to Miss Plumb was made public, he must convince—or trick—Gwen into going away with him. He need compromise her only once. He was sure that he could then convince her of the benefits to both of them of a liaison. She was, after all, a widow—not a green girl.

But he knew he must tread carefully. She was not yet in love with him. Although he could tell that she enjoyed his company and thought well enough of him to consult him occasionally on matters of business or on problems with her brother, at other times she seemed far away, or she would suddenly, inexplicably, turn cool to him. She might easily slip from his grasp if he rushed her or offended her sensibilities. He must handle her like a thoroughbred horse, slowly and carefully playing the rope until, at the proper moment, he could pull it tight. Tonight, he would merely give her something to think about—something to keep himself in her thoughts in his absence.

He whistled jauntily as he tied his cravat in an intricate fold he had learned from his last valet. Poor fellow, he had had to let him go because of lack of funds. But it would not be long before he could afford the services of a valet again. Not long at all.

It had been a difficult two hours. Wys had rushed for a surgeon; Drew, with the help of Mallow, Quent, and Ferdie, had carried the still-unconscious Tom to an upstairs bedroom. Drew thought it best to wait until the bullet had been removed from Tom’s shoulder before bringing him round, an idea which the surgeon roundly applauded. But the pain caused by the prying forceps roused him, and for several minutes the poor fellow had to exercise some white-lipped control to keep from screaming. At last the ball was removed, the doctor dressed the wound and departed, and Drew and Wys removed Tom’s clothing. Mallow, having collected the softest goosedown pillows he could find in the unoccupied bedrooms, settled Tom as comfortably as possible on the bed. Tom, at last able to look around him with some awareness, discovered that Quent and Ferdie were standing at the foot of his bed regarding him in hang-dog misery.

“Oh, there you are,” he said foggily. “I
told
you that those guns would shoot.”

Drew let out a shout of laughter. Immediately, the teeth-gritting tension of the past two hours seemed to evaporate. Wys guffawed, Ferdie snorted like a neighing horse, and Quent—who had been suffering untold agonies of remorse—doubled over with mirth.

“What’s so funny?” Tom demanded. “Drew, what are you doing here?”

“This is my house, you paperskull. Your friends brought you here. The doctor assures me—if you’re at all interested—that the wound is neither very deep nor very damaging. You’ll be well enough to get yourself into another muddle in a fortnight or so.”

Tom smiled. “Oh, I knew the shot was of no consequence. I wasn’t in the least upset.”

Ferdie and Quent exchanged looks of disgusted incredulity. Drew came up to the bed with a large glass of brandy. “Never mind, old man. We’ve had enough heroics and hilarity for one night. Drink this down and go to sleep.”

“No, no, take it away. Got to get up and go home,” Tom remonstrated. But Drew put the glass to the boy’s lips, pried open his mouth, and forced him to drink. By the time the glass was drained, Tom was regarding everyone in the room with a foolishly cheerful grin. Drew gently pressed him back against the pillows, Wys pulled a comforter over him, and in another moment the boy had drifted off into a sound sleep.