My Lord Murderer (7 page)

This intermission was the first moment he had permitted her to be alone, the Warrentons having gone off to visit with some acquaintance they had spied in another box, and Sir George to find her some refreshment. She leaned back in her seat and fanned herself contentedly. She let her eyes roam over the other boxes, and suddenly her fan ceased moving. Looking at her with his hint of a smile was Lord Jamison, comfortably ensconced in a box only two removed from her own. She stared at him coldly and turned away with a decided toss of her head. She hoped that the insolence of her gesture made it clear that she would not in any way acknowledge his presence.

To her chagrin, her pulse began to race in a most alarming way, and her cheeks became noticeably hot. She fanned herself rapidly and began to wish for Sir George’s return. She did not like to be observed by
that man
while sitting here alone. She felt awkward and self-conscious and found herself strongly tempted to glance in his direction to see if he was still watching her, but of course she could not permit herself to do such a thing. After an endless moment, the door of the box opened, and she turned gratefully to welcome Sir George. But it was Drew who stood smiling down at her.

“Good evening, Lady Rowle. Are you enjoying the play?” he asked comfortably, seating himself beside her without leave. She turned her head away from him in annoyance. “A number of people have seen us,” Drew continued smoothly. “Do you want to set the tongues wagging again?”

Gwen turned to face him, trying to keep her expression calm. “It is very like you to cause this awkward scene and then to blame
me
for the result. If you didn’t want tongues wagging, why did you come in?”

“It’s been some time since I’ve seen you. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to pay my respects and tell you how dazzlingly lovely you look tonight.”

“Perhaps that was your intention, but instead you accuse me of setting the tongues wagging! Do all your intended compliments end by being insults, sir?”

“I sincerely hope not,” he said ruefully.

Gwen glanced around the theater and noticed the many faces staring at them, accompanied by much surreptitious whispering behind programs and fans. “Oh, dear, they
are
watching,” she said, dismayed.

“We are an interesting drama in ourselves, I’m afraid—to some, more interesting than the one on the stage. If you cry ‘Murderer!’ and order me out of the box with a large gesture of your arm, everyone in London will know by morning that I have accosted you again,” Drew suggested, his eyes smiling into hers in that irritatingly disconcerting way.

Gwen raised her chin proudly. “I am not as vulgar as you seem to think! I do
not
enjoy being part of a public spectacle.” She glanced around again, uneasily. “What can we do to prevent their whisperings?”

“If you but nod and smile at me in a friendly way, they will have little to gossip about,” Drew suggested.

“If I nod and smile at you, will you leave?”

Drew grinned at her broadly. “My dear, if you nod and smile at me, I’ll go to the ends of the earth for you,” he said extravagantly.

Gwen’s lips twitched. “There’s no need to go quite so far,” she said. “Back to your box will do.” And she gave him a dazzling smile, permitting her face to be seen by as many observers as possible, and held out her hand to him. He rose, took her hand and kissed it, then looked at her with a twinkle.

“As you wish, my dear,” he said. Still holding her hand, he added softly, “Do you see now that it is quite easy to behave kindly to me?”

“Easy!” she exclaimed, carefully keeping the false smile on her face. “I find this the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. What I’d
really
like to do is … is…”

“What, my dear?”

“Push you over the railing!” she said, withdrawing her hand from his but keeping the smile fixed on her face.

“You really are utterly enchanting, you know,” he said. He went to the door but turned back before leaving. “Was
that
a proper compliment, ma’am?” he asked. But she didn’t turn around.

George Pollard came in at that moment, a glass of champagne in each hand. He stopped short on seeing Lord Jamison and gaped.

“Good evening, Pollard,” Drew said politely, then bowed with a flourish and went out quickly.

“Good Lord!” Pollard exclaimed. “What was
he
doing here?” He crossed the box quickly, spilling champagne heedlessly as he walked. “Damn the man! Has he made a disturbance here?” he demanded, his black eyes glinting coldly.

“No, no, I assure you,” Gwen said, surprised and a little perturbed by the hate in Pollard’s eyes. “He was quite polite, really. There’s nothing to disturb yourself about.” She took a glass of champagne from his hand and sipped it calmly. “Sit down, Sir George, or you’ll have the tongues wagging again.”

Pollard reseated himself, put down his drink, and picked up his omnipresent ebony and ivory cane. He swung it thoughtfully, smacking the ivory handle into the palm of his left hand with, Gwen thought, irritating regularity. His eyes still smoldered. “I suppose
that
was his purpose in coming here,” he said.

“What?” Gwen asked, not following.

“His reason for accosting you here. To win back his place in the world by forcing you to acknowledge him,” he said shrewdly.

Gwen’s eyes flew to Sir George’s face in surprise. It had not occurred to her that the careless raillery with which Drew had entertained her could have been calculated. “Do you think so?” she asked, aware of a sharp pang of disappointment cutting into what had been a very pleasant mood. “I suppose you’re right,” she sighed. “Yet he seemed rather indifferent to the gossipers. That is … yes, I’m sure you must be right. That
dreadful
man has used me again.”

When the play resumed, Gwen found herself too depressed to follow it. Sir George continued to swing his cane. “Must you do that?” she whispered impatiently.

Pollard leaned close and whispered sympathetically, “Jamison
has
upset you, hasn’t he? Would you like to leave, my dear?”

“No, of course not,” Gwen whispered back. “The Warrentons seem to be completely absorbed. We mustn’t disturb them.”

Sir George nodded, put down his cane, and let his arm fall over the back of her chair. With his other hand he lifted her chin. “Then smile, my dear, smile,” he said softly, his face close to hers. “I want you to have a merry evening.”

Made uncomfortable by the intimacy of his attitude, Gwen’s eyes stole to Drew’s box. Somehow she could not bear to have him see George Pollard leaning over her this way. But Drew was not there.

Later, as he drove her home in the Warrentons’ phaeton, she could not refrain from questioning him about the subject most on her mind. “I’ve been wondering, Sir George, why you’ve never told me the details of Rowle’s duel.”

Sir George frowned. “You needn’t know the details. They’re not a woman’s business.”

“But I must know,” she urged, “if it was a fair fight. Did Lord Jamison give Edward a fair chance to—?”

“How could it have been fair?” Pollard interrupted brusquely. “Everyone knows that Jamison is a crack shot.”

“Yes,” Gwen sighed, “but even so, if everything had been done according to the rules…”

“You mustn’t ask me to reveal any secrets concerning Jamison or that duel. Having been a participant, it would not be honorable to do so. All I can tell you is that the entire affair made a mockery of the word ‘honor.’ But no good can come of this talk. You must put the business out of your mind.”

“I will try. But one more question, please. Are you hinting that … Lord Jamison did something dishonorable? Did he truly murder my husband?”

“I can only answer that by suggesting that you deduce what you can from the facts. Here was a man whose ability to handle a pistol is unquestioned, facing a green boy whose hand was unsteady with sick fear. What do those facts tell you?”

A sound of agonized pain came from Gwen’s throat. “It would seem … that he is … indeed …
guilty
of … murder…” she said in a choked voice.

“Then what more can I say?” Pollard said blandly. “Best to forget it all, my dear. Best to forget it.”

“I wish I could,” Gwen said quietly, as a wave of utter misery washed over her.

Chapter Five

T
OM, ALREADY DRESSED FOR
the day in a neat double-breasted blue coat and fashionably tight breeches, emerged from his ‘aunt’ Hazel’s bedroom with a conspiratorial smile lingering on his lips. He looked up and down the corridor and, satisfied that no one was about, returned quickly to his own room. There he stripped off his coat, put on a rather shabby dressing gown, and studied himself in his shaving mirror. Making an exaggeratedly miserable face, he coughed several times in a pitiable manner and then smiled at his reflection as if he were quite pleased with himself. This strange behavior seemed to satisfy him immensely.

Still smiling, he emerged from his bedroom and made his way down to the breakfast room. Before he entered, however, he carefully re-arranged his expression to duplicate the miserable one he had practiced in the mirror. In the manner of an actor making an entrance, he opened the door. “Good morning, Gwen,” he said in a tired croak, and took his seat with a sigh.

Gwen looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Not dressed yet, my dear?” she asked. “I thought you were engaged for riding again this morning.”

“Changed my mind,” Tom answered gruffly, reaching for the coffeepot. There he stayed his hand as his chest shook in a spasm of coughing.

Gwen looked at him sharply. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

Tom shook his head vehemently. “I’m fine, fine. Don’t kick up a dust over a little cough.”

Gwen was about to remonstrate when a knock at the door interrupted her. Mitching, the butler, entered carrying several notes on a tray. “These arrived this morning, Lady Rowle,” he said, and placed the tray beside her plate.

“Thank you, Mitching,” Gwen said absently, her eyes still on her brother. Mitching, about to withdraw, opened the door in time to admit Lady Hazel, who looked bright-eyed and cheerful in a flowered morning dress. “Good morning, my lady,” the butler said with a bow. He stepped aside to let her pass and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Lady Hazel smiled at her daughter-in-law and Tom. “Good morning, good morning. I see you have both risen before me today.” She took her place and looked across at Tom. “Not yet dressed, my boy? Is anything amiss?”

“No, no,” Tom said in very convincing annoyance. “You two fuss over me like a couple of old hens. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. I think I’ll go back to bed after…” And he coughed again, a good long spasm.

“We may be a couple of old hens,” Gwen said shortly, “but that cough of yours doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”

“It’s nothing, I tell you,” Tom said and began to cough again. He felt Hazel kick him under the table and cut the spasm short.

“It’s just as well that you’re returning to bed,” Hazel said calmly. “I think it’s going to rain before long. Nothing is more chilling to the bones than an October rain. A day at home in a nice warm bed will be good for you.”

Tom only grunted and sipped his coffee. Gwen sighed, shrugged and began to leaf through her messages. “Here are some for you, Hazel,” she said, handing them across the table. Watching Gwen from under her lowered lids, Lady Hazel opened her notes with feigned eagerness. Gwen looked at one of her notes with surprise. “This is from Hester Selby! I wonder what she—” Gwen broke the seal and scanned the note quickly. Tom gave a quick cough, but she didn’t look up.

“Nothing is wrong with Lady Selby, I trust,” Hazel remarked.

“No, no. She only says she would like to call on me today and hopes I’ll be at home. It’s as if she were afraid I’d cut her!”

“Well, you
did
cut her brother, after all…” Lady Hazel murmured.

“That’s very much beside the point,” Gwen said defensively. “She
knows
I don’t blame her for her brother’s behavior. I wonder what she wants to see me about.”

“You’ll find out soon en—”

But Lady Hazel’s words were interrupted by another paroxysm of coughing. Both ladies looked at Tom with concern. “Listen to him,” Gwen said, troubled. “I think we should call Dr. Blackman, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to see any pill-peddler,” Tom said grumpily. “It’s nothing. Nothing. I think I’ll just lie down for a while.” And he went to the door, the merest totter in his step. As he passed Lady Hazel’s chair, his back to his sister, he gave Hazel a broad wink.

Gwen looked after her brother with a troubled frown. “He doesn’t look at all well. Hazel, do you think I should send for Dr. Blackman?”

“Tom will be so cross if you do. Besides, I’ve found that doctors are quite ineffective in cases of inflammation of the lungs.”

“Inflammation of the lungs!” Gwen cried, alarmed. “Do you think—?”

“No, no my dear, I don’t think he’s seriously ill. That is, not yet. I only fear that if his cough persists…”

“Well, what am I to do? He won’t keep to his bed for long, I know that. He
does
love to engage in sporting activities with his friends, so he’s bound to be up before long. And with the weather becoming worse…”

“We shall get him better, never fear. Don’t worry so, my dear. I’ll go down to the kitchen right now and make him some of my special herb tea,” Lady Hazel said, rising and going to the door. With her hand on the knob, she looked back at Gwen with a sigh. “It’s too bad that Brockhurst House is no longer ours. A couple of weeks in the country would have been the very thing for Tom. The very thing. Oh, well.” And with another sigh, she left the room.

At the Selby house in St. James Square, Wys was staring at Hetty across the breakfast table with considerable suspicion. “I don’t know, Hetty. Does Selby know what you’re plotting?”

“I tell you, Wys, you are troubling yourself over nothing. Selby has been trying to wheedle me to agree to go to Suffolk these past two months. He says he’s neglected his duties at Stonehaven for too long.”

But Wys was not taken in. It was clear to him that Hetty was hoping to avoid facing Selby with the details of this preposterous plot she was hatching. “That is not an answer to my question. Does Selby know whom you’re planning to invite?”