Suzanne Robinson (18 page)

Pushing away from the tree, Cheyne squared his shoulders and walked on. There was no use wondering. He was never going to confide in a young lady whose mission was to marry for a title. Also, Mattie Bright was haunted by the ghost of her father, and too stubborn to admit it. Marcus Bright must have been a single-minded fanatic about success and earning his bit of tin. From what Cheyne had learned, the old man had worshiped Mattie as she’d worshiped him. Cheyne sometimes envied her, but at other
times, he was grateful not to have been burdened with a father who mistook his needs for the wishes of his child.

He came to a fork in the path and hesitated. To his right stretched the route that would take him near the grounds of Buckingham Palace, to the left, Spencer House. He could sense the rage he’d felt at Barmy Richmond. It lay like a white-hot coal under a bed of ashes, ready to ignite an inferno. Before he saw Mattie he had to extinguish it.

“Think of something pleasant,” he muttered to himself.

Immediately one of Mattie’s letters came to mind. In it she described how she felt about her supposed lover. “Do you know how I came to fall in love with you? Through your goodness. Not a fashionable trait these days, I’ll allow. I saw how you cared for those in trouble, how you care for lesser creatures—your horse, a stray dog. My love, your soul is more beautiful than your visage. Great beauty indeed.”

Cheyne sighed and wondered if there was anyone on the earth worthy of such admiration, and he reflected that he was glad the blackmailer hadn’t been in a position to steal Mattie’s letters from him. Then it occurred to him that the criminal would see the letters he wrote to her. All at once a feeling of violation overcame him. An evil stranger had read what he wrote to Mattie Bright. Damn him!

Standing on the path, staring into the darkness, Cheyne struggled with a rage that almost dwarfed
what he’d felt toward Avery Richmond. Then he shook his head and laughed. He was being ridiculous. No one knew he’d written those letters. They were a ruse to trap a criminal, and nothing more. He must be more tired than he thought to allow himself to be carried away by such misplaced sentiments. With another sharp laugh he took the left fork in the path.

Cheyne approached a line of shrubs contained by the low iron fence that surrounded the grounds of Spencer House. As he neared the gate, Mattie Bright emerged from the shelter of a tall bush and let him in.

“Everyone’s asleep,” she whispered.

She led him to an arbor beside a pool in the center of which stood a tiered fountain. Water sprayed from the mouths of stone dolphins and cascaded down the tiers.

Sitting on a bench beneath the arbor, Miss Bright beckoned to him to join her. “In case someone gets restless and looks out a window.” She nodded over her shoulder at the house. “You can’t see in here, and the water will cover our voices.”

“You’re very good at clandestine meetings, Miss Bright.”

“Thank you. I’ve been thinking that you should call me Mattie since we’re working together.”

“Then you must call me Cheyne.”

He could just make out her features in the pale moonlight, especially the gentle curve of her face below her eyes. It was odd how he noticed such fine
details about her. He never noticed those things about the ladies with whom he was intimately acquainted. He studied her face and the long slope of her neck while she told him of the disappearance of the letters.

“So Dora didn’t take them—she wasn’t here,” she concluded. “And Wynkin keeps a hawk eye on the rest. They had to have vanished during the time the lights were out, and I’m sure it was one of the guests who took them.”

“Damn.” Cheyne thought for a moment. “Damn. I expected him to make his approach as he’s done before. He would have, if not for the infernal electricity. That’s what comes of relying on new inventions. The turn of the century will bring more plagues like this.”

“Don’t blame electricity. He’s been doing just fine without it, since most houses around here aren’t on it.”

“You’re right. It’s just that these are people I know well, and none of them could be a blackmailer.”

“Look, I’ve been thinking about what happened, and all of them had the opportunity to go upstairs after the lights went out. It would have taken time in the dark, but it could be done. It was done.”

“Lance was with me.”

“Not the whole time.”

“True,” Cheyne said.

“Remember, everyone was on the stairs when the lights failed. The Stellafords, Avery, you, and Gordon came from upstairs when the candles were lit.
Mama, Narcissa, and the countess went downstairs, as was Dr. Capgrave. They were in the stairwell when Wynkin brought the candles, but any one of them could have gone up unnoticed while we waited. I remember talking to Narcissa and Mama once or twice, but not to the others.”

They lapsed into silence. The fountain sprayed and dripped its watery song while they thought.

“Narcissa isn’t the blackmailer,” Mattie said. “She’s rich, and there’s no spite in her.”

“There’s no spite in Lance Gordon or Dr. Capgrave, either.”

Mattie leaned back so that she could look up at him. “You sure about that? He told me that he likes power—power over people.”

“Elland spends his time working for the good of the kingdom, not tearing people apart.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Well, it’s not Mama, Ma
ma.
”

“Of course not.” Cheyne couldn’t help smiling at the way she kept correcting her pronunciation.

“But it could be Sir William Stellaford. He’s got a lot of curiosity, and who knows what his financial situation is?”

“I thought everyone knew everybody’s financial situation in Society.”

“Not completely. You can go along on promises and evasions for years.”

Mattie turned her gaze to the fountain. “Is that what Avery’s doing?”

“Avery needs a load of tin. Everyone knows that. He’s got several enormous houses that gobble money for things like dry rot and drainage and roof repairs. His estates aren’t producing enough income anymore. There’s an agricultural depression here, you know, and it’s American wheat that’s done it. Too much of it, too cheap.”

“What about Lady Julia?”

“Julia Stellaford has no malice in her, either. She makes me laugh.”

Mattie grinned. “Me, too. What about our friend the countess?”

“Rose is unhappy at her exclusion from the most exalted dinner tables, but she has many friends, and she needs no money.”

Mattie rose and paced back and forth in front of him. She walked with a distinctive wide-legged gait and swung her arms in a way no finishing school would allow to go uncorrected. Cheyne was glad that her preoccupation had made her forget to walk in the approved ladylike manner.

His smile turned to a frown as he recalled the implications of what had happened tonight. One of the people at the dinner was the blackmailer, or was cooperating with the blackmailer. Could it be a lady? He’d always thought the ruthlessness of the crime belonged to a man. But he didn’t want to think it could be Capgrave or Gordon.

Lance was too busy falling in and out of love. He spun in a toplike manner around a central point of goofiness that seemed incompatible with crime. Elland
Capgrave’s passion for molding events and people might qualify him, but the man had been his only confidant after Cheyne had separated himself from the duke and duchess. If Elland had wanted to blackmail someone, surely he would have tried the proud Duke of Bracewell.

“Balfour will investigate their financial situations,” he said. “And I’ll make inquires.”

Mattie paused before him. “Me, too.”

“No.”

“Don’t snap at me like a bullwhip, Cheyne Tennant.”

“It’s too dangerous, Mattie. Someone ruthless enough to drive people to their deaths won’t hesitate to do you harm should he suspect you’ve become a threat.”

“I’ll be careful, and subtle.”

Cheyne stood abruptly. “This isn’t one of your pranks. You’ll do nothing.”

“You can’t order me around, Cheyne. I can find out more than you from the ladies.”

The image of the dead Juliet Warrender swam into his ken, and fear shot through him. “I forbid you to interfere.”

“You can have all the conniption fits you want. I know what I’m doing.”

Visions of Mattie’s body floating in the fountain, crushed beneath carriage wheels, crumpled at the foot of a staircase flooded his mind. Cheyne grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake before drawing her close.

“Do you know what can happen? I’ve seen it, Mattie.”

She rammed her fists against his chest. “Let go, dang it!”

“Not until you promise to do nothing.”

She tried to wrench free, but he pulled her against him. Once she was trapped in his arms, he realized he’d designed a small torture for himself, but she wouldn’t listen to reason. Before he could say anything further, she tried to stomp on his foot, caught his instep and he hopped backward. His legs hit the stone bench, and he dropped onto it with Mattie on his lap. In acute discomfort that had nothing to do with his foot, Cheyne set his jaw.

“Bloody hell, woman, stop squirming like that!”

“Don’t you cuss at me, you mangy skunk. Let go.”

Desperate to stop her from moving her hips against him, Cheyne tightened his grip on her. She gasped as air rushed from her lungs, but she filled them again and shouted at him this time.

“What in blazes do you think you’re doing?”

Furious and frustrated, Cheyne suddenly loosened his arms. Mattie cried out and fell backward. He grabbed her, drawing her back against him before she could fall. She landed on his chest with a small “Oof” and glared at him. He could barely see her expression. Her eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth as if to shout at him again.

This time he stopped her. It seemed the right thing to do at the time. After all, someone might hear her. Cheyne quickly took her mouth with his,
stabbing with his tongue and muffling whatever she’d been about to say. He sank into a world of soft, hot sensation, only to be ripped from it when she tore her free.

Mattie leaned her head back and glared at him. “You had no call to take such a liberty.”

“Mattie, my midnight sun,” he said with a voice roughened by the hunger that drove him. “Will you please be quiet for once?”

“No, you can’t try to bully me like a range rider after a maverick and expect—”

Cheyne couldn’t help but smile. He had no idea what she was talking about. Still smiling, he kissed the tip of her nose. At last she went silent, her mouth slightly open in astonishment. Cheyne’s gaze fastened on her lips. Fire washed through his body, then swept down his arms to make his hands close convulsively over her arms. He pulled her to him slowly. His lips were nearing hers when he glimpsed the fluttering of her lashes, the look of confusion in her eyes. What was he doing?

“Blast.” He turned on the bench, pushed her off his lap beside him and stood. “Blast, blast, blast.”

“What’s wrong?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Cheyne charged over to the fountain and back, then to an apple tree and back.

“Forgive me, Miss Bright. I’ve behaved terribly. Not the thing, taking advantage of a lady simply because one is—most unchivalrous.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“It won’t happen again.”

“Oh.”

“I give you my word.”

“That’s nice.”

Cheyne came a little closer at the distant tone in her voice. “I’m not like Barmy, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve no need of your tin, and I’m not after it.”

Now he was close enough to see her astonishment.

“That’s the last thing I’d think.”

There was a strained silence. Then Mattie cleared her throat.

“I wanted to thank you for your help this evening. Avery wouldn’t listen to me.”

“He’s of the opinion that any woman to whom he pays court is the most fortunate in the country.” It suddenly occurred to him why he’d been so furious at Barmy. “I assumed you’d accepted his proposal and he was carried away with his excitement.”

“Nah, I told him to ask me next Season, and he didn’t take to the idea of waiting. From what he said, I reckon he can’t wait that long.”

“Next Season? I’ve never heard of a young lady putting off the son of a duke for almost a year.” Cheyne felt a burst of elation. “Good God, you’ve seen reason, haven’t you? You realized your father’s request was unreasonable, absurd even.”

Mattie planted her hands on her hips. “My pa wasn’t unreasonable, and he certainly wasn’t absurd.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Heavens to Betsy, no. You meant Papa was selfish and silly. You don’t know anything about my pa, and I’ve had enough of your judgmental attitude.”

“Really, Mattie,” Cheyne said. “You react to a small criticism as if it were a public condemnation. You know as well as I do that you’re incapable of marrying merely for the purposes of gaining an exalted but empty title. You’re an American romantic, my dear Mattie, and the moment your husband began to misbehave, you’d take a shotgun to him.”

“There you go again, calling me ill-bred.”

Cheyne drew nearer to see her lips press together and a hiss escape them.

“You’re peeved because I’m right.”

“I’m peeved because you’re a rude, uppity son of a gun.”

Cheyne grinned. “You’ve lost your courage, haven’t you? Can’t face marrying a blighter like Barmy, or some ancient old buster with gout and yellow teeth just because everyone calls him Your Grace.”

“Now, you see here, Mr. Highfalutin Tennant, I’ll marry a titled gentleman when I’m ready, and not before. I haven’t gone sour on the idea, I’m—I’m just not in a hurry. I got things to do. I’m going to work to get women the vote and get them into colleges and universities, and I got modern inventions I want to take a look at for investment purposes. I’m busy, dang it.”

“What a cheery prospect,” Cheyne said with a mocking laugh. “You ensconced in some ancestral
country seat trying to convince His Grace and the whole family that your role isn’t that of a breeder of future dukes, but investor and civic agitator.”

“That’s exactly what’ll happen.”

Cheyne’s smile vanished. He stalked close to her and hissed, “Silly fool. Once they’ve got you and your millions, they’ll stash you in the country to breed regardless of your wishes. And once you’ve produced a couple of sons, your dear husband will ignore you for the next three or four decades.”