The Rake and the Wallflower (12 page)

Mary returned the second volume to the shelf, then stepped past Grayson to a more interesting section.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” he asked.

“Anything on natural history. I would love to find that folio Lord Oxbridge has.”

“You will have no luck there. They only printed a hundred copies, and all sold immediately. I have one myself,” he added, then looked like he regretted admitting it. Did he deliberately foster a care-for-naught image?

But she dared not ask. “It would have been too expensive in that case. Can you recommend one of these?” She pointed to two books on the birds of southern England.

“Mr. Aubrey’s writing is ponderous, but he covers the subject in great detail. Personally, I prefer Stewart’s more amiable style, but he confines his comments to birds found between Hampshire and Kent.”

“I will try Stewart, then. I’ve studied many of the west country birds myself.”

Grayson stiffened as voices approached. “I must leave before someone sees us together.” A raised hand forestalled her protest. “I know you do not expect a match this Season, but you must safeguard your reputation for the future.”

Nodding a farewell, he grabbed a book and disappeared around a corner. Mary glanced through Stewart’s book. Grayson was right. The style was quite readable and very informative. Only a dozen woodcuts were included, but the descriptions were precise.

She left Hatchard’s a few minutes later. Her carriage would not return for half an hour, but she needed to visit the apothecary next door. Frannie would meet her there — she was running errands for Laura.

Grayson was standing at the curb, his head bowed as though in thought — or perhaps fighting dizziness. In the sunlight, his face was paper white.

She was opening her mouth to offer help when a cart driver whipped his horses into a gallop, careening past a carriage and around a flower cart. Then he aimed the team straight at Grayson.

Men shouted. Vehicles swerved to avoid collisions.

Grayson remained in a trance, seemingly oblivious to his danger.

In two frantic strides, Mary grabbed his arm and jerked him into the narrow passageway between Hatchard’s and the apothecary. The cart thundered past, knocking an apple peddler into a horse, which bolted, dragging its teammate and a curricle with it. The tiger who’d been walking them raced behind, shouting.

Chaos filled the street. Horses whinnied. Curses vied with groans, wails, and hooves clattering over cobblestones. But the passageway remained an island of calm.

Grayson swayed, bumping the wall.

Mary stared at his white face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m bleeding.”

His eyes remained on his wrist. Blood flowed from a gash, disappearing under his glove. The last vestige of color leeched from his face as his eyes rolled back.

Grabbing his chin, Mary forced his head up. He must be one of the unfortunates who could not handle the sight of blood. “Look at me, Grayson!”

He jumped.

“Keep your eyes on my face.” Releasing him, she used her handkerchief to wipe away as much blood as possible. “Where is your handkerchief?”

He fumbled in his pocket.

She tugged off his glove so she could bind his wrist, then replaced it, tucking the stained edge inside so the blood did not show. “Not quite the fashion, but it should do until your valet can look at it. I do not believe it will soak through. Now where is your carriage?”

“I walked from St. James’s Square.”

* * * *

Gray stared at his wrist. No trace of blood remained. But relief quickly changed to chagrin. Having finally divulged his most hated weakness in public, he would never live down the ignominy.

“You must think me the veriest coward,” he said, straightening so he no longer leaned against the wall. He glanced around, surprised to find himself in a narrow passageway.

“Not in the least. Blood affects many people adversely. Why blame you for something you cannot control?” She thrust her own handkerchief into her reticule. A package of books lay at her feet.

Should he explain? With most people, he would claim the lesser humiliation of dizziness from his illness. But Mary was different. When she’d touched his arm in the bookstore, her hands had sent ripples of pleasure to his groin. One reason he’d left so abruptly was his fear that she would note his reaction and start believing him a seducer of innocents.

Now he was again secluded with her. He ought to leave before they were spotted, but he had to make her understand. Something about Mary compelled confidences.

“My father—”

She looked up in surprise. “You cannot mean that he blames you.”

He nodded. Discussing his father was hard, but he could not stop now. “His passions are hunting and shooting.”

“Which you abhor.”

He shrugged, as though the admission were easy. But even his friends did not understand his aversion to sport.

“So the tale that he kicked you out of the hunt was twisted.”

“Very. I refused to ride with them, even as a youth. We argued often about it. In the end, I left.” He didn’t mention Rothmoor’s determination to change his mind, his charges of cowardice, or his conclusion that Gray was less than a man. Rothmoor hadn’t abandoned that suspicion until he heard exaggerated accounts of Gray’s raking.

“Do you avoid hunting because the blood bothers you or because you hate killing other creatures?” asked Mary.

“Both.”

“Which means you wouldn’t hunt even without your blood problem. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Gray stared, unable to believe his ears. He turned dizzy at the faintest hint of blood – had done so since childhood. He had disgraced his father by puking his guts out at his first kill, then fainting when presented with the fox tail. They’d carried him home on a litter like a swooning girl. Rothmoor had beaten him countless times, trying to turn him into a man. Yet no one had ever asked whether he would enjoy hunting if he could tolerate the kill.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” she asked softly, again laying that warm hand on his arm.

He led her to an alcove where they were out of sight of the street. The least he could do was protect her if anyone glanced this way, though it sounded like everyone was gawking at an accident. “What do you know about my father?”

“The Earl of Rothmoor never visits London. Supposedly he threw you out of the hunt for overriding the hounds. You responded by vowing to never set foot in the house again. But I cannot believe that is true.”

“It is true that I vowed never to set foot in the house again,” he admitted. “But my reasons had nothing to do with that particular argument. Rothmoor’s passions are horses, hounds, and whor— hunting.” He silently cursed himself for the stumble. “In his eyes, all gentlemen share those passions. My failure to join him in the field proves my cowardice. He blames my mother, of course. Her influence ruined me.”

She turned you into a damned girl
, Rothmoor had shouted during their final confrontation, his riding crop gashing the edge of a table. Gray had flinched, for it had too often gashed his flesh.
A mealy-mouthed, swooning girl. I’d hoped her influence would fade once she died, but it was too late. You will never be a man. My father would turn in his grave if he knew the earldom would end with a woman, as would every other Rothmoor. I never should have wed that lily-livered foreigner
.

Gray’s hands tightened into fists.

“Fustian,” she snorted indignantly, banishing his memories. “There is no shame in refusing to kill. Nor is there shame in hating bloodshed.” She pulled his sleeve down to hide her makeshift bandage. “The fault rests with Rothmoor for ignoring your nature. The brute should be shot.”

He nearly laughed. She understood. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but propriety forbade it.

“Have your valet check that when you return,” she ordered. “Some salve would not be amiss. I doubt it needs stitching, but I may be wrong.”

He wobbled, but shook his head clear. “Forgive me. I should not have forced my problems on you.”

“You didn’t. I was delighted to help. However, there are two things you need to know. The first is that you were so abstracted that you were nearly run down.”

“What?”

“Run down, Lord Grayson. Smashed flat by a delivery cart. Fortunately, I hauled you out of the way.” Her voice made light of the incident, but her cheeks had paled. “You should school yourself to ignore any potential injuries until it is safe to look.”

“I owe you more than I thought,” he managed through a new bout of dizziness. How fortunate that she was not prone to hysterics. But he found her competence puzzling. She had no trouble handling a crisis – she’d dragged a man twice her weight to safety without even dropping her parcel. So why did she consider herself inept and clumsy?

“You owe me nothing. Anyone would have done the same.”

“I doubt it.”

“We will not argue. More important than your near calamity is that it was no accident. The driver aimed his horses at you, and despite his claims to the contrary, they were under complete control.”

“What?” He thrust his bandaged hand behind him, then stared at her. “What exactly happened? I recall little of the affair.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” She glared.

“Very well. I remember nothing. Blood has that effect. Even if I remain conscious, my mind stops working.”

“So I thought.” She checked the passageway, but it remained empty. “When I left Hatchard’s, you were standing on the curb, head bowed. I thought you were fighting another dizzy spell.”

“It started with dizziness,” he admitted. “I stumbled, fetching up against a carriage. When it lurched forward, something sliced my wrist. That is the last thing I remember until you forced my eyes up.”

“You really should have stayed abed today, sir.” Her tone scolded. “If you hope to survive, you must recover from one scrape before falling into the next.”

“I will try,” he said meekly. “Now continue your story.”

“Before I could ask if you needed help, the cart driver whipped his team into a frenzy. Then he shouted that they were bolting. Vehicles scattered in all directions. He wove through the chaos, avoiding collisions, then aimed the team at you.”

“But why?” Blood drained from his face. The situation had been more dangerous than he’d thought. Only her composure had saved him from yet another accident. Lady Luck had indeed abandoned him.

“No, she didn’t,” said Mary firmly. He must have spoken aloud. “Think, my lord. If not for Lady Luck, you would be dead by now. In the space of a week you have been set upon by a thief, nearly burned in your bed, poisoned, and attacked by a cart. Since this last was no accident, one must ask whether any of them were accidents. I suspect someone is trying to kill you.”

“Impossible.” He held his head in both hands. “While my reputation is tarnished, I am still received. I have no enemies.” Yet he had felt those eyes more than once. And she didn’t know he’d been drugged as well as beaten.

“Are you sure?” she demanded. “There must be someone who wishes you harm.”

“Father would never abandon honor. Besides, he hates my cousin even more than he hates me.” He bit off a curse. Where had that admission come from? No gentleman suspected his father of murder.

“What about your cousin?” asked Mary, relentless to the end. “I take it he is next in line for the title.”

Gray shrugged. “He lives in Yorkshire and never comes to London. His estate is more prosperous than Rothmoor Park.”

“Many men covet titles.”

“Not Jamie.”

“Is there trouble with your business? Rumor claims that you have amassed a fortune from it. Some might resent your success. Do any competitors take offense that someone of your expectations has bested them in their own field?”

“No.” She was astute, though. She was asking the same questions Nick had posed. Perhaps he should examine the possibility more carefully. Peters had not enjoyed losing the contract to import Jamaican rum. Graves had recently lost two ships to a typhoon. Yet he could not imagine them blaming him. Nor could killing him help them recoup any losses. And his investors knew they made more with him in charge than with another.

“How about the girls who swear you ruined them? Lady Horseley claims nearly a dozen.”

“She exaggerates. There were only the two I mentioned earlier. One is married. The other is dead. Granted, tempers led to threats at the time, but both matters were resolved long ago.”

“Except for you,” she murmured in defeat. She glanced around. “I must leave. My carriage will return shortly, and I still must visit the apothecary. Are you recovered enough to make it home?”

“Quite. Thank you for everything.”

She nodded.

One thing was certain, he admitted as he bade her farewell. If she was correct — and he had no reason to doubt her word — then he had been a fool to ignore Nick’s suspicions. Yet few men could accept that their life was in danger.

Mary’s summary had been brutally honest, but he should have realized the truth days ago. He’d known the beating was deliberate. The eyes on his back had been enough to tip him off. The fire should have clinched it.

But he hadn’t wanted to know. It hurt to be a target of so much hate. Now stubbornness had cost him nearly a week. There was no telling what the villain planned next. The incidents would not stop until he was dead.

Cursing, he headed for Justin’s house in St. James’s Square. This explained Bow Street’s failure. He had hampered their efforts by employing different runners for each incident and not telling them about the other ones.

The rocket had probably been fired from a roof across the street — no one had looked up until the window broke. So the culprit must know how to aim the thing, at least over short distances. That boded ill if he had a second rocket. Thank God no one knew his current direction. He did not want attacks on Justin’s town house.

But Mary had opened his eyes. If every attack was deliberate, then someone had poisoned the fish at Funston’s — it had been stupid to stay there; the accommodations had deteriorated significantly in the last ten years. Perhaps the runner could find a witness among Funston’s staff.