Suzanne Robinson (20 page)

“How am I going to know?” she asked herself. “He wrote the letters to catch the blackmailer. They’re not really to me. I have to remember that. He doesn’t really think of me as his midnight sun. That’s just a ruse, nothing more.”

She repeated the thought over and over. The letters weren’t really for her. She wouldn’t fool herself again. Cheyne Tennant was attracted to her as he had been to many women, but he’d been in love with none of them. Lancelot Gordon had assured her of this. She wasn’t going to throw herself at his feet like that foolish woman who banished herself to Italy.

Besides, she could look in a mirror and see the truth—that she was passable, but hardly irresistible. Cheyne was drawn to her because they’d been thrown together by circumstances. Once those circumstances changed, he would forget about her. He wasn’t responsible for her falling in love with his pen.

Swallowing hard, Mattie folded the letter and went to her secretary, where she found one of the envelopes from her store of personal stationery. Placing the letter in it, she glanced around the bedroom looking for a hiding place no one could discover. She didn’t want the blackmailer stealing it again. None appeared at first glance, so she slipped it inside her dress against her corset. Then she sat down and penned a note to Cheyne, summoned Dora, and sent her to deliver it.

They must meet in the garden again tonight to make a plan for the delivery of the blackmail money. Mattie groaned and rested her head in her hands. Seeing Cheyne now would be difficult. She was going to be awkward and she just knew she was going to reveal her foolish feelings somehow. He would be embarrassed by them and feel sorry for her. Like he’d felt sorry for Lady Drake.

Mattie straightened and set her jaw. She’d just have to pretend indifference. No doubt he would say something to annoy her. If she could get mad at him and stay mad, she wouldn’t do anything that might expose her feelings. He must never suspect. Of all the nightmares in the world, enduring Cheyne Tennant’s pity would be the most dreadful.

There was a knock, and the door handle rattled. “Mattie? It’s time to go down to dinner.”

Mattie opened the door for her mother.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You don’t look well, my dear. You’re pale, and there are blue smudges under your eyes.”

“I’m fine.” Mattie tried to smile but failed.

Mama didn’t look convinced, but Mattie didn’t have the heart to try. As they walked downstairs together, Mama forgot Mattie’s appearance and brightened.

“I’ve been most peeved at you about the Marquess of Stainfield, Mattie, but since Lord Geoffrey has been coming around, I realized what you’re up to.”

“Lord Geoffrey?”

“The Duke of Bracewell’s son. You know.”

Mattie stopped three steps from the bottom of the stairs to stare at her mother. “You mean Cheyne. What about him?”

“You’re so secretive sometimes, Mattie. It’s annoying. But I’ve discovered your secret.” Mama tapped Mattie with her fan.

Mattie’s heart flip-flopped in her chest. “I don’t have any secret.”

“Yes, you do. You’re angling for Lord Geoffrey—Lord Cheyne. He’s the son of the duke, and you’re thinking he’d do if Avery doesn’t make an offer. And I must say, it’s wise of you. I don’t understand why
Avery hasn’t proposed. I’ve given him several opportunities. Why, the night the electricity went out I sent him up to you while you were getting my shawl, and nothing happened.” Mama eyed her. “Nothing did happen?”

“No, nothing.” Mattie rushed on, “Mama, I’m not angling for Lord Cheyne.”

“Nonsense, my dear. It’s a good plan. If you can’t have the oldest son of a duke, another will do in a pinch.”

“But I’m not—he’s not …” Mattie sighed.

“I shall invite him to our country house party.”

“No!” Mattie shut her mouth as the word echoed in the stairwell.

“Now, Mattie, don’t be difficult. I know it will be a challenge to manage Avery and Lord Cheyne at the same time, but you can do it. I’ll help you.” Mama continued downstairs, chattering as she went. “There will be plenty of other people there, so it won’t look like I invited Lord Cheyne especially. You’ll see. It will all work out, and by the end of the house party, you’ll be engaged to one of them.”

Mattie remained on the stairs gawking at her mother in horror. Mama’s mind was made up. Cheyne would be invited.

Forcing her feet to move, Mattie followed her mother. Her only hope now was that Cheyne would refuse the invitation. If they caught the blackmailer, there would be no reason for him to come. Wasn’t that right? And they would catch him. So there was
nothing to worry about. She wasn’t going to have to spend day after day in the country in the company of Cheyne Tennant.

Now all she had to do was catch that danged blackmailer.

 
14
 

Wearing a black lightweight coat, top hat, and evening clothes, Cheyne strolled along the path beside the lake at St. James’s Park a few minutes after midnight. He carried a walking stick with a gold handle and did his best to imitate a gentleman of leisure on his way to one of the many balls that were being held at the close of the Season. Other men dressed in the same fashion crossed through the park on their way to various social engagements. The coming fall suffused the air with sweet-smelling crispness, and the moon illuminated the lake with silver light. He passed the line of bushes where Balfour and his men lurked. The dense vegetation along the lake provided concealment, but the footbridge was exposed, and the blackmailer would see anyone who approached it.

Balfour had been diligent about inquiring into the suspects’ financial affairs. As Cheyne had predicted, nothing had turned up to incriminate anyone.
However, the superintendent’s men were still working and might uncover something. The demand for money had come before they’d completed their investigations.

Cheyne swung his stick as he walked, went by the footbridge and rounded a bend. Stepping off the path, he entered a grove of willows whose trailing branches skimmed the surface of the lake.

“Nothin’ stirring here, gov’nor,” Mutton said.

“We’ve half an hour yet,” Cheyne replied. “You’re sure Dora will be on time?”

“She’ll be here. And so will your Miss Bright, mark my words.”

Cheyne stabbed the turf with his stick. “I told you she’s not coming. We had a most serious discussion about it when she told me about the blackmailer’s demands. I impressed upon her the danger of her coming and ordered her to remain at the Trillford ball.”

“Right.”

“Don’t use that skeptical tone with me,” Cheyne said. “It’s annoying.”

Cheyne turned his back on Mutton and walked to the bank to frown at the moon-streaked water. He was irritated with Mutton, who he was sure followed him on his late-night excursions to Spencer House. But the real cause of his vexation was Mattie Bright. She’d summoned him, revealed the blackmail letter and had assumed she would place the money in the appointed spot herself. When he told her he’d arranged for Dora to disguise herself and
perform that function, Mattie had protested. The resulting argument had been fierce. How could she think of exposing herself to that kind of danger? The idea of Mattie coming near such a ruthless criminal frightened him and made him want to lock her in her room to keep her safe. She had argued with him in that blunt, stubborn way of hers until he’d been tempted to shake her. Only the knowledge of what might result from touching her had stopped him.

He’d won that argument, though. He told her that Dora was going to be there, so if she tried to come, there would be two Mattie Brights, which would ruin everything. Mattie had fumed and called him an ornery skunk, but she’d acquiesced to his decision.

“Pssst.”

Cheyne turned to find Mutton beckoning to him. He joined the valet beside the trunk of a willow. From this hiding place, they had a good view of the south end of the footbridge. The paths on both sides of the lake had grown more crowded, and Cheyne had to admire the blackmailer’s choice of time and place. The park bordered the grounds of the Royal Palace and lay within easy walking distance of Mayfair. Lancaster House, Clarence House, and Marlborough House were close, as was Spencer House. When fashionable London was abroad, the park filled with pedestrians. On this particular night, Cheyne knew of at least five costume balls and half a dozen more functions, all being held to mark the Season’s end.

Mutton nudged him and pointed to a group of luxuriously dressed people that had crossed the Mall from the direction of Carlton House. They laughed and danced their way onto the footbridge while nearly a dozen more spilled onto it from the opposite direction. The two groups met in the middle of the bridge, merged, laughing and teasing, and parted again. Cheyne peered through the darkness and could just make out a lone figure that had trailed behind the first group.

It was Dora dressed in a copy of Mattie’s costume for the Trillford ball. He’d seen Mattie dressed and ready to leave earlier this evening. She had chosen to go as Mary, Queen of Scots, and wore a wine-colored gown with a square neck, stiff bodice and farthingale. The jeweled caul she wore on her head like a cap sparkled in the midst of waves of black hair. Luckily they’d been able to put the maid in a hooded cloak, because Dora’s first attempts to resemble Mattie had been disastrous. Cheyne had ended up buying a wig of black hair and high-heeled boots to make Dora tall enough. No artistry of padding or painting could give Dora Mattie’s curves or her tulip lips.

Cheyne gripped his walking stick hard as Dora walked onto the footbridge holding the parcel by the twine wrapped around it. She moved slowly as she approached the south end. Cheyne held his breath as she stooped, set the package down by the last post in the balustrade and straightened. She glanced around as if uncertain, then clutched her
cloak about her and hastened down the path. She passed Cheyne and Mutton without glancing at them and disappeared around a turn in the path. As she left, a man approached going in the other direction. Tipping his hat, he passed Dora and neared the bridge. Mutton stirred, but Cheyne held him back. The man walked past the bridge without stopping.

Two men walking side by side crossed the bridge without seeming to notice the parcel, and Cheyne’s grip on the walking stick tightened. Voices carried across the water, and they turned to see a large party in Elizabethan costume begin a dancing parade toward the footbridge. He saw several William Shakespeares, Queen Elizabeths, and Sir Walter Raleighs. Several couples in evening dress followed them, while another group costumed in medieval garb hurried down the path on the other side of the lake.

The crowds met at the end of the bridge near the parcel of money. Cheyne craned his neck, but there were too many people around for him to be able to keep the parcel in sight. Cursing, he left the shelter of the willow and hurried toward the bridge. Beyond it he saw Balfour and his men coming. Cheyne reached the south end first, but the package was gone. A harlequin jostled him, apologized, and ran to catch up with several people in Elizabethan dress.

Balfour ran up to him. “Did you see who got it?”

“No, damn it.”

They surveyed the retreating partygoers. The two groups had dispersed in different directions. None of them appeared to be holding the package. Suddenly
Cheyne heard a low whistle. A figure in gentleman’s evening dress emerged from the shadow of a tree and pointed at a retreating group as he went after them. Cheyne narrowed his eyes and studied the man’s wide-legged gate. It was Mattie.

There was no time to be furious or shocked. He pointed to the group of costumed revelers Mattie had indicated.

“We’ll follow them.”

Balfour was already running toward his men, who had split up to keep track of the various groups. Threading his way through several groups of pedestrians, Cheyne hurried after Mattie and caught up with her as she approached the Mall with its heavy carriage traffic. Cheyne grabbed her arm but didn’t slow as they crossed the street in front of a town coach. He said nothing to her, and she didn’t speak, either.

The three of them chased after the group in costume as it swept past St. James’s Palace. At Pall Mall several of them parted from the main group and headed in the direction of the Reform Club.

Cheyne stopped in the shelter of a doorway but kept a tight grip on Mattie’s arm. “Mutton, you go with them. We’ll stay with the main group.”

Once the valet was gone, he dragged Mattie close to him. “Wait till this is over, Mattie Bright.”

Undisturbed, she shrugged out of his grasp and pointed at a glittering costume of Elizabeth I. “You got no call to threaten me, Cheyne Tennant.” She
looked down the street. “They’re getting too far ahead.”

She pushed him aside and rushed after their quarry.

“Blast,” he muttered. He sprang into a quick walk that wouldn’t attract attention. Mattie and the partygoers were headed for Berkeley Square.

He increased his pace as they approached the Georgian home of the Countess of Trillford. Carriages and cabs filled the street, and Mattie seemed not to notice them in her haste to keep up with their quarry. When the Elizabethan costume disappeared into the house, Mattie dashed across the busy street. At the same time a hansom careened around a corner. Cheyne sprang off the curb, hurtled into Mattie and shoved her out of the cab’s path. They hit the pavement on the other side of the street, and Mattie’s top hat flew off. Cheyne rolled off her, snatched the hat, and stuffed it back on her head in one swift movement. Several bystanders arrived, expressing concern. He thanked them, and they left. Furious with Mattie for making his heart leap up his throat, he yanked her to her feet.