The Rake and the Wallflower (11 page)

She wished she could see him — just to verify that he was well — but it was better this way. They could never be friends. Anyone who saw them together would assume the worst.

Regret stabbed her chest. Heaven knew he could use a friend.

Three young ladies entered the retiring room, laughing. With the peace shattered, Mary left, passing Lord Hartford and Mr. Turlet outside an antechamber. Those two gossiped as avidly as Lady Debenham.

As Mary started down the steps into the ballroom, Laura laughed, then drew Griffin’s attention to the stairs. He immediately started forward.

Mary cursed, plunging into the crowd. Laura was becoming as vindictive as Lady Wilkins. She must speak to Blake in the morning.

In the meantime, she ducked into the refreshment room, circled through the card room, then slipped behind the draperies that formed a backdrop for a mass of flowers. It was a tight squeeze, but she was flat enough to leave no bulge, and the flowers would mask her slippers. Hugging the wall, she prayed that no one had seen her. Especially Mr. Griffin.

Three matrons were talking nearby, too intent on discussing the fire at Albany to have noticed her.

“Mr. Sanders said it was started by a lad playing with fireworks,” reported Lady Wilkins.

“Absurd,” snapped Lady Horseley. “Grayson probably knocked a lamp over in a drunken stupor. A shopkeeper in Upper Bolton died in just such a fire last month.”

“You may say what you like about Grayson, but he is rarely the worse for drink. And he was not home at the time,” said Lady Wharburton.

“According to whom?”

“Lord Sedgewick Wylie. He helped fight the blaze.”

Mary smiled, though it was hard to imagine Lord Sedgewick battling a fire. He was one of Brummell’s followers, oozing ennui as well as style. But Lady Horseley could hardly deny his credit.

“Why would he risk his coats in a fire?” demanded Lady Wilkins.

“His rooms are adjacent to Grayson’s, so he was first on the scene,” said Lady Wharburton. “Grayson arrived half an hour later.”

“Spent the night with his mistress, I suppose,” snapped Lady Horseley. “That Wren person — or so I’ve heard.”

“Cut Clifford out to win her favors,” murmured Lady Wharburton. “Their competition caused a stir in the clubs. She’s been all the rage every since.”

“Men!” Lady Horseley snorted.

That explained Clifford’s animosity in the library, Mary realized. More than Grayson’s reputation and Clifford’s priggishness stood between them. Competing for the same courtesan often created bad blood — or so Blake had admitted when she’d wheedled details of London life one night when he’d been the worse for wine. He’d been appalled to recall the conversation the next morning.

“Will he move in with the Wren while repairs are in progress?” asked Lady Wilkins.

“Even Grayson would never consider it,” replied Lady Wharburton. “He is staying at Funston’s.”

“Why not the Pulteney?” grumbled Lady Horseley. “He is wealthy enough to command the best suite, and the service is better in a hotel. Funston’s attracts vicars and the like.”

Mary wondered why Lady Horseley disliked Grayson. Granted, she was one of the more rigid dowagers, but she criticized everything he did, whether good or bad. Other gossips distrusted him, but took avid pleasure from discussing his affairs. Lady Horseley simply hated him.

“It does seem odd,” admitted Lady Wilkins. “The rooms at Funston’s are small and dingy — or so Wilkins claims. Why would a wealthy man consider it?”

“Why not retire to his estate? It is near enough, and he hasn’t enjoyed much luck this year. If he returned home, he could start over once his rooms are repaired.”

Mary ceased listening as the ladies debated this point. A window alcove a few feet away offered space. Moonlight streamed in. Since it did not overlook the garden, no one would see her. She pulled out her sketchpad.

Her pencil fashioned a trio of bullfinches perched on a fruit tree, their heads huddled together as they chattered about the latest news. Greedy bullfinches stripped trees of buds, destroying fruit and sometimes even killing saplings. Not much different from gossips stripping reputations.

Their voices washed over her, sometimes clear, sometimes muted by music. “Clarkwell picnic … Lady Atkins … Sanders visited Lady Darnley…”

The set concluded. She peered through a crack in the drapery. Catherine would be looking for her, but Mary would not return while Mr. Griffin was in sight.

People milled about the room as ladies returned to their chaperons and gentlemen sought new partners or the card room. Griffin stood ten feet away, head craning to see everyone.

Frowning, she retreated to finish her sketch.

“I always knew Lady Flint would meet her comeuppance,” declared Lady Marchgate, joining the trio.

“What happened?” Lady Wilkins’s eyes would be avid.

“You know what a pinchpenny she is.”

“Insists on using that appalling modiste on Hay Market,” complained Lady Wharburton.

“And she never pays vails to the servants,” added Lady Horseley.

“She paid today,” announced Lady Marchgate. “She lost three pins from that awful striped gown, but the retiring room maid refused to repair it until Lady Flint paid a full shilling, in advance.”

Chuckles met this news. As the gossips moved on to other tales, Mary concentrated on her sketch, again letting the voices wash over her. “Blackthorn insulted … dancing master … Nortons leaving for … Grayson dying—”

Mary’s pencil dug into the page. Lady Debenham had joined Lady Wharburton’s group.

“You cannot be serious!” Lady Wilkins’s voice squeaked.

“That’s what Wigby claims,” swore Lady Debenham. “Food poisoning. Grayson should have expected it the way his luck is running. Funston’s cook is terrible, and the service grows worse every year. Debenham dropped his membership because of it.”

Listeners cited other complaints. At least a dozen ladies had joined the conversation.

Lady Debenham continued. “Fifteen victims, but Grayson is the most serious. Wigby swears he is at death’s door.”

Mary covered her mouth, bumping the draperies in her agitation. He could not be dying! It was too much. A beating, a fire, food poisoning… It wasn’t fair. What a waste of a good man.

Pain sliced her chest. No other man had set her so quickly at ease. Now she might never see him again. But at least she could stop fretting over Laura.

Laura!

The girl was bound to make a cake of herself when she heard. Having decided Grayson was her white knight, she would throw strong hysterics because he was dying. Catherine would need help.

Griffin had moved on, so Mary headed for her sisters.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Three mornings later, Mary rounded a shelf in Hatchard’s and ran into Grayson. He caught her before she could fall.

“Good morning, my lord,” she managed to croak. His hands burned through her pelisse.

Gossip had learned nothing beyond that initial report — a matter for much speculation, leading Lady Beatrice to gnash her teeth on at least two occasions. He had disappeared from Funston’s before morning, but no one knew where.

“Miss Mary.” He finally released her.

She stepped back. “I trust you are well,” she began, then blushed. Even an imbecile could see that he was anything but well. His face was pale and pinched, his hand trembled as he pulled a book from a shelf, and he had lost enough weight to affect the fit of his jacket. Yet she had never been happier to see anyone.

“I am recov—” He sighed. “You are too astute to believe social lies. I am improving, to the disappointment of my detractors.”

“Nonsense. No one wishes you dead. Not truly,” she added, recalling Lady Horseley’s satisfaction and the excited speculation that filled drawing rooms. That had been the titillation of the moment, for no one seriously expected him to succumb to food poisoning when the other victims had recovered within a day.

“But I would wager they discussed it quite avidly.” His smile hid a wince.

Her heart went out to him. Despite his façade of insouciance, he felt every barb. “Of course they did. You know people spend hours discussing a stumble in the park or the pink cheeks on a girl returning from the garden. They would do no less for you. But the most animated discussions cover speculation of your whereabouts. Lady Beatrice is beside herself.”

“Really?”

“She hasn’t a clue where you are. I’m just glad that you will recover.”

“No thanks to the fish.”

“Was that what is was?”

“Has to be.” He leaned against a shelf — casually, though Mary suspected he needed its support. “It was quite tasty — unusual for Funston’s — so I ate several pieces. Which accounts for the severity of my illness. I should have been more prudent.”

“I’d wager it won’t happen again.” Her hand touched his arm in a gesture of comfort.

“Never. Even the thought of fish turns me quite green.”

Realizing that she was caressing him, she reclaimed her hand, then changed the subject. “How is that dog you rescued?”

Shock twisted his face. “How the devil did you learn of that? Is nothing I do private?”

“I doubt anyone else knows of the incident, but I was emerging from Mason’s Book Emporium when you dashed across the street. Had those boys injured it badly?”

His face bloomed with color. Embarrassment? But he answered readily enough. “A few bruises, and he was underfed — hardly a surprise. He must have lived with a family at some point, for he is at home indoors and well mannered.”

“Poor thing. Where is he now? You can hardly have taken him to your club. Or Albany, for that matter.”

“Have people spoken of nothing but me lately?” He sounded disgruntled.

“Everything you do is grist for the gossips, so don’t pretend shock. You’d probably feel neglected if they ignored you.”

“They twist facts until I fail to recognize my own deeds.” The pain was more evident this time.

“That is the nature of gossip.” She again touched his arm. “So what did you do with the dog?”

“Sent him to my estate, where I’ve another house dog. My steward reports that Fred agreed to share the space, but he made it clear that he had precedence. When Bones tried to pass him on the stairs, Fred read him the riot act. Bones now follows meekly behind.”

Mary chuckled. “You did not accompany him home, then?”

He raised his brows.

“I am not asking you to reveal secrets, but I admit to curiosity. I can’t imagine how you kept Lady Beatrice ignorant. She was quite incoherent when the subject arose yesterday.”

“Seriously?” He looked pleased.

She nodded.

“She must be slipping.”

“Or otherwise occupied. Miss Norton is in disgrace and expected to leave town. Blackthorn’s feud with Atwater grows more ominous. Three betrothals, two births, and a carriage accident required attention yesterday. And we awakened this morning to news that Mr. Omney fled the country to escape his creditors.”

He laughed, revealing a dimple that sent tingles clear to her toes. She would do much to draw another laugh.

“I am residing with a friend,” he admitted, “though I would prefer to keep that quiet until I fully recover. I’ve no wish to receive callers.”

His mistress. She reached for a book to cover a ridiculous spurt of pique. “Of course, but why then are you here? Remaining abed would hasten that recovery. You need rest after so many afflictions.” She examined him closely. “Frankly, you look little better than when you staggered into Oxbridge’s library. And even then you managed to hide some of your injuries, like that limp I saw the day of the fire.”

“Damnation,” he muttered. “Are you always there when I display my weaknesses?”

“So it would seem. But why not remain abed? Look what rising too soon accomplished the last time.”

“I will lie down shortly, my dear Miss Mary. But I need something to read. Justin’s library contains nothing of interest.”

She shook her head. “You could have sent your valet.”

“He is otherwise occupied.”

“What you really mean is that you are bored.”

This time the smile was rueful. “You know me too well. I wonder how. Even my closest friends can’t read me so clearly.”

“A guess, I assure you. I also find it hard to lie quiet for days, but you should know better.” She returned the book to the shelf and pulled out another. The books themselves were of no interest — they described the mathematics of constructing buildings. But they kept her hands from smoothing his jacket or touching his pale cheek. “Rumor claims that a fireworks rocket started your fire. How did a boy find one?”

“That is the question of the hour.” He paced two steps away, then returned. For a moment she thought he would turn the subject, but instead, he explained. “The rocket was the sort used by the army.”

“A battlefield rocket?” Mary could not keep the astonishment from her voice. Her brother Andrew, who was a captain in the 95
th
foot, had mentioned such devices in his most recent letter from Spain.

“Precisely. Large and powerful. I know the inventor, so I recognized the remnants.”

“Where would boys obtain one?”

“I’m not sure they did.” He rumpled his hair. “A dozen people were in the street when the fire started. Each knows the tale, but none actually saw a boy or can name anyone who did.”

Mary nodded as enlightenment broke. “Ahh. Deliberate falsehood. I’ve seen it done before.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you Rockhurst saved my sister from ruin. The culprit used the same technique. His lies suddenly appeared on every tongue, yet no one could name a single witness to her supposed crimes. Nor did they know who had started the tales. But who would wish to burn your rooms?”

“Wrong question. Those rockets produce chaos, but they are unstable and cannot be aimed with any precision. What I really want to know is how the culprit obtained one and whether he has more. The War Office insists that all of them were shipped to Spain.”

“Curious.”

“Exactly. I have a runner looking into the matter, but so far he has discovered nothing.” He shrugged. “At least no one was injured. My valet noticed the blaze immediately, so the damage is confined to one room. Repairs should be complete in another week.”