The Purloined Papers (26 page)

“Which would you prefer?”  George looked at William.

“Martha should be here. I won’t make the decision for her. I’ve always believed that truth is the only honorable course, but I will claim business if she wishes. How much curiosity can she handle?  At the first hint of trouble, Mrs. Telcor will descend like the vulture she is. And some of the highest sticklers will use this to decry my choice of wife.”

“They will anyway,” said Andrew.

George winced.

“I care nothing for their opinions,” swore William. “But we cannot deny that they exist. Martha will be under close scrutiny even without hurling her into scandal. Is it fair to apply this additional pressure?  And what about your mother?”

“If we reveal the truth, she must stay in her room,” decided George. “Her hysterics would embarrass us all.”

“I will fetch Martha,” offered Andrew. “Or rather, I’ll send her to you. This is your problem. Let me know which path you choose. I will see that Rankin and the footmen honor your decision. In the meantime, I must change.”

He left.

* * * *

In the end, they announced that Truitt had left on urgent business.

When word swept the drawing room before dinner, more than one guest frowned. Truitt’s departure reminded everyone that Martha came from trade. The obvious conclusion was that Truitt cared more for money than for his family.

Andrew sighed and tried to minimize the damage. No one dared cut Martha in front of lords Seabrook, Grayson, and Rockhurst, but it added yet another burden to her shoulders. Even as she smiled to her friends and helped William greet new arrivals, Andrew could see the strain around her eyes.

Mrs. Truitt was clearly embarrassed by her husband’s defection and furious that his business was reducing Martha’s consequence, but she remained determined to make the most of the occasion.

Andrew had discouraged William from sharing the truth with the family – the more people who knew a secret, the less secure it became. But William had insisted on telling Grayson and Rockhurst that Truitt was under arrest for attacking Chloe. Andrew suspected that they had shared the information with their wives.

But so far it had worked. The family rallied to fend off censure for Truitt’s absence. Grayson and Rockhurst laughed with George. Catherine and Mary introduced Mrs. Truitt to high-ranking guests, using their own consequence to stifle speculation and reminding people of Mrs. Truitt’s connections. Andrew deflected conversation onto neutral topics.

When Chloe finally appeared in the doorway, he heaved a sigh of relief. He’d been watching the door for half an hour, his heart thudding wildly whenever someone appeared. But it had never been her. He’d nearly decided to go fetch her – or at least check on her in case her injuries had worsened.

But now he could relax.

“You are lovely this evening,” he said, unable to quell a broad smile as he placed her hand on his arm. Sally had twisted her hair into a knot of cascading curls more elaborate than he’d ever seen her wear. To adorn it within the bounds of deep mourning – and hide the bruises peeking out above her high neckline – Sally had woven a long gray scarf into her hair, then wrapped it loosely around her neck. The end trailed provocatively across one breast, heating his blood.

“Thank you.”

“I like the scarf. It reminds me of Spanish mantillas.”

“It will do for dinner. Then I will plead a headache and retire. Since Laura is not here, no one will comment.”

“Nonsense. You promised me two sets.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Andrew,” she hissed. “I can’t attend a ball in this gown. It is too plain. And close examination will reveal bruising. Anyone who approaches me is bound to guess the truth. If they connect it with Truitt’s absence – which is quite likely, since my bruises and his disappearance happened at the same time – the fat will be in the fire.”

“They would be more likely to suspect Laura, since she is also absent this evening. You have no connection to Truitt. You can remain in the dimmest corner and decline to dance in deference to your bereavement,” he admitted. “But I need you there. I need a safe harbor where I can relax.”

“Your leg can’t be
that
weak!”

“No, but I am not accustomed to the sly traps of polite conversation. It will be hard to keep people from guessing that scandal is afoot. At least you will avoid distressing subjects.”

“Ah.”

“Sets four and six. Don’t let me down.”

He kept her arm when Fitch announced dinner. He’d swapped place cards so they could sit together.

* * * *

William allowed only one glass of port before rising to lead the gentlemen to the ballroom. Andrew approved. Speculation had run rampant the moment the ladies left. Truitt’s friends and associates refused to believe that any crisis could pull him away from his daughter’s betrothal, though Ashley’s absence supported the claim of a business emergency. But what could demand attention on a Saturday evening?  His offices remained intact – or had when Mr. Garrison had driven past them on the way to Seabrook.

Others pondered why Rankin’s secretary had been riding neck-or-nothing toward Exeter – several of the guests had passed the man.

Wagers covered both issues.

Andrew gritted his teeth as Lord Hunt and Mr. Wren whispered together at one end of the table. They seemed to be discussing rumors about Truitt, which could only cause trouble. It was definitely time to join the ladies. He must see that none of the men had time for private conversation tonight.

Grayson thwarted that goal when he pulled Andrew aside as they left the dining room. “A moment of your time, if you would,” he said softly. The morning room door closed behind him.

“What now?”  He couldn’t manage another crisis tonight. “I need to be in the ballroom to deflect speculation about Truitt. As do you.”

“Of course, but first I have a business proposition for you. If you are interested, I must dispatch messages immediately.”

Andrew raised his brows. Had Gray discovered that he’d resigned his commission?  Even Jinks didn’t know yet.

“The elevations and floor plans you did for William are brilliant. I am even more impressed with the skill demonstrated in your sketchbook.”  A raised hand prevented protest. “An impertinence on my part, and one I would not forgive if someone invaded my privacy. But I’ll not apologize. You hide your lights too well, Captain.”

“Drawing passes the time,” he growled, hating the heat rising in his face. “Soldiers suffer long periods of boredom between battles. Hobbies fill it. Perhaps Captain Smith’s pack was a more useful pastime – he supplied many a hare when rations fell short – but coursing was never my forte.”

“Understandable. I’m not much for hunting myself. But I like your mind, and I love your ideas. My father will be dead in six months. I have always hated Rothmoor Park – dark and oppressive, with rooms so tiny they close around you, filled with furniture so massive it would overwhelm a castle. I vowed years ago to replace it. That’s where you come in.”

“No. We already had this discussion. I can play with floor plans and façade decorations. I can even build a decent cottage. But I don’t know enough about stress and foundations to manage even a town house, let alone a manor.”  Yet his heart was trying to batter free of his chest. He wanted this job almost as much as he wanted Chloe. If only he had the training—

“You’ll learn,” vowed Grayson. “Here is my proposition. You resign your commission and work for me. You will spend the first six months in Soane’s London office. I sent him your sketchbook. He thinks it is brilliant and has agreed to fill any holes in your education. He also wants to see everything else you’ve done, both measured drawings and original sketches. Don’t forget copies of the plans you drew for William.”  From a pocket, he pulled out a letter that must have arrived with today’s courier. “You can stay at Grayson House or find rooms closer to his offices, but plan frequent conferences to discuss Rothmoor Park. Before Rothmoor dies, I want detailed designs. You will oversee the building’s construction.”

“I’m no builder.”

“No, you’re an architect. Hire a builder. But you will be in charge of the project.”  He named an outlandish fee.

Head spinning, Andrew glared. “I don’t want your charity.”

“I won’t offer any. The standard fee for an architect who supervises construction is five percent of the project cost. I don’t know the final cost on this one yet, but I expect it to exceed one hundred thousand. So that five thousand I just offered is no more than your due. Once you finish Rothmoor, you will be eligible for membership in the Royal Academy. And unless my instincts have deserted me, you will be in great demand for other projects. A gifted architect can retire a wealthy man.”

Andrew opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. Gray was offering every dream he’d ever had – Chloe, a venue to try his ideas, construction rather than destruction as the focus of his life. He tried again. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll accept. My courier can handle your resignation—”

“I posted it on Thursday.”

Gray’s changeable eyes flared blue. “Good. I’ll make sure they handle it with dispatch. A captaincy in an infantry regiment sells for eighteen hundred guineas. Right?” 

Andrew nodded, dazed.

“Any back pay due?”

Another nod.

“Good. It will be waiting for you in London. You can leave on Monday.”

“Make it a week. I can’t walk out in the middle of this mess. William would drown.”  His head was whirling. Five thousand guineas when added to the sale of his commission would buy a comfortable house, or even a small estate. He needed to talk to Chloe. Did she still care?  Would she modify her own dreams to include him?

“Good. I’ll inform Soane that you will begin in a fortnight. Welcome aboard, Andrew. I anticipate a productive relationship. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Andrew nodded, hardly aware when Gray left.

His hands shook as he read Soane’s letter. Brilliant execution … creative extension of classical themes … exquisite attention to detail…

What if he failed?  He had no idea if he had the temperament to be an architect. Soldiering had been easy. He’d followed orders and made sure his men followed theirs. If he lived until morning, he followed more orders.

This would be different. He would be the one making decisions. Failure meant discredit, not death. But that was worse. Discredit would taint him for a lifetime, burdening him with images of what might have been.

* * * *

Chloe sat in a corner of the ballroom, half behind a pillar so she needn’t speak to anyone. Too many people sought confirmation that Laura was soiled, insane, or both. She refused to provide it. The Seabrooks deserved her loyalty, no matter what Laura had done.

At least Laura was not the only name on people’s tongues. Mr. Truitt’s absence garnered even more attention, particularly from his friends and business associates, who recognized the explanation as odd. Ladies whispered behind fans. Gentlemen clustered in corners. Tension permeated the room. Mrs. Truitt appeared ready to shatter. So far no one suspected the truth, but one wrong word would cause instant scandal.

The receiving line finally broke up, allowing William and Martha to open the ball. Andrew led Mrs. Truitt out – another demonstration of support for William’s match. He danced the second set with Martha, then disappeared again.

She frowned. When the ladies had left the dining room, Andrew had intended to go directly to the ballroom so he could deflect speculation. Yet he’d not appeared until half an hour after the other men, and now he’d left again.

Perhaps Laura was planning some new vengeance. It would be just like her to stage another confrontation. In her current humor, Laura would enjoy hurting everyone she knew. The ballroom held more than a hundred people. If she embarrassed William and Martha badly enough, they would remain tarnished for years.

Chloe was rising to check on Laura when movement behind the fretwork screen enclosing the minstrel’s gallery caught her eye.

Sarah!

She nearly kicked herself for overreacting. She’d forgotten that Andrew had promised the third set to his niece. Since Sarah was too young for the ballroom, he’d gone to her.

How thoughtful he was. Few men would consider the feelings of a girl condemned to the periphery of events. Kevin had hated social events, for they interfered with his studies. He’d even taken himself off to see a friend instead of accompanying her to Bath. Peter was too selfish to consider anyone but himself. William was much like Kevin, though his obsession had always been the estate rather than books.

But Andrew was special. Even the horrors of war that had hardened too many men had left Andrew’s kind heart alone. No wonder she loved him.

Don’t think about that
, her conscience ordered.

It was right. She must face facts. In a day or two she would start a new life. Alone. Posing as a widow meant she could not ask Andrew to help her settle. He would never approve. Nor could she let him know where she lived. If he could find her, a part of her would always pray for a knock on her door. Even a faint hope would blight her future.

So she had to find her cottage herself. He wouldn’t agree, so she must slip away when he wasn’t looking. Tonight would be best. He would be too busy to notice her absence. Spending more time together could only increase her ultimate pain. His touch was too tempting, his lips—

The music stopped, ending the third set. He would return and seek her out. It was best that she not be here. She and Sally would head north. Her Yorkshire relatives could assist her if help became necessary.

The terrace offered the most direct route to her room. Slipping along the edge of the crowd, she headed for the door, snatches of conversation propelling her feet.

“…don’t know how Seabrook can demean his title…”

“…Truitt always seemed a little too lucky.”

“Silly old bat. Imagine claiming that Sir Peter stole her pearls, when they were in her own reticule, where she’d put them after the clasp broke.”

“Mad. Quite mad. He should have kept her locked…”