The Rake and the Wallflower (17 page)

Mary’s jaw dropped to hear Catherine and Sarah described thusly.

“But this time would have been perfect if not for you,” continued Laura. “I would be married at last.”

“Hardly. What self-respecting gentleman wants a scheming wife? Hasn’t it sunk into your head yet that a man can lock his wife away if he chooses?”

“No one would do that to me. Everyone loves me.”

Mary shook her head. Laura had abandoned reality. Maybe there was a streak of madness in the family after all. God knew logic could not explain her delusions. “Gray hates you. He would flee the country rather than tolerate your antics. He called you a vulgar trollop, a madwoman, and a spoiled child.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why? You were standing right there. Everyone in the hallway heard him. But you never listen when you are scheming. He was fleeing your plots when you cornered him in that antechamber.”

“The only plotter was you, seeking to destroy my happiness.”

Mary shook her head. “You can’t duck this one by claiming innocence, Laura. Three hundred people watched you throw yourself at him. And hundreds more have heard the tale by now. You were the main topic of conversation in the ballroom. Most consider Lady Caroline Lamb a pattern card of propriety compared to you. They were already tired of your airs and graces, so don’t expect forgiveness.”

“Of course they’ll forgive me. They will see how you stole my beau.”

Mary’s temper snapped. “For God’s sake, Laura. He was never your beau! This is not one of your gothic novels where you can rewrite the ending to match your fantasies. You are ruined, and I’m betrothed. And there is nothing either of us can do about it.”

“There has to be. It isn’t fair that you will have the life of excitement and travel I want.”

“What excitement? What travel?” demanded Mary. “Gray stays on his estate except when business draws him to his shipping office. He left England only once in his life — for one week in Brussels to negotiate a contract. Hardly the high adventure you seek.”

“That’s a lie. His ships travel all over the world.”

“But he doesn’t go with them,” explained Mary patiently. “He employs captains to sail his ships and agents to arrange his cargoes. He prefers a quiet life at home.” She tried to imagine a sensitive bird lover who fainted at the sight of blood craving adventure, but the image would not form.

“I don’t believe you.” Laura surged to her feet, dashing her cup into the fireplace. “You are lying to spite me. You’ve always hated me because I am beautiful and you aren’t. But you’ll be sorry you interfered. Grayson may play your game tonight, but you’ll soon bore him. Within the week he will jilt you as publicly as he jilted Miss Irwin.”

“Another of your fantasies. Miss Irwin was just like you, trying to force an offer from a man she didn’t know. He refused.”

“Lies!”

“No. You’ve also ignored the fact that he’s been courting me since arriving in London. Who do you think sent me the peonies? They aren’t the first, either, as Barhill can attest.”

“I don’t believe you. You probably sent them yourself in a pathetic attempt to seem interesting — as if anyone would believe so dull and ugly a girl could attract a suitor. That stupid bird proves it. You draw weird little pictures like that all the time. But you won’t take him away. You won’t! He loves me and must despise the very thought of touching you.”

“Laura!” Blake stood in the doorway.

Laura’s bravado collapsed. Fear flashed through her eyes.

“In my study. Now!”

Laura stormed out. The moment the door closed, Mary sank into a chair with her head in her hands.

Had she ever known Laura? Gray’s voice echoed in her head. She has criticized you from the moment she first looked into a mirror.

Tonight had torn the scales from her eyes in more ways than one. The family had accepted Laura’s bouts of kindness and occasional benevolence as the real person, excusing her fits as childish whims she would eventually outgrow. But they’d had it backwards. Laura had manipulated them from the first, using smiles and a helping hand to screen her selfish determination.

But those fits defined the real Laura, the venal Laura. She craved excitement the way most people craved food. And she would do anything to find it, causing fusses and even scandal whenever she was bored. She wanted to be a goddess, waited on by an army of servants, worshiped by thousands of men, envied by every woman. She wanted to see the world, which she imagined to be an exotic place offering limitless adventure, though never discomfort. Some of her dreams grew from books, but most were the product of imagination — if only their mother had lived; if only their father had been a wealthy pirate or pasha or king; if only she had taken London by storm at seventeen instead of wasting precious years buried in the country. She used her belief that fate had abused her to justify any dishonor.

And she was growing worse. Gone was the girl who had helped Catherine distribute food and clothing to the parish poor, had run the household after Catherine’s first marriage, and had helped care for the Seabrook tenants. Gone was—

Voices interrupted. Mary wished she’d told Blake how thin the wall was. The last thing she needed tonight was another argument.

“Your reputation will never recover,” said Blake coldly.

“You exaggerate.” But fear trembled in Laura’s voice.

“Not at all.”

“Then why not blame Mary? It’s all her fault!”

“No! I am through with your spite,” he snapped. Something thudded — perhaps a fist on his desk. “Mary is blameless, as everyone in that ballroom knows. So far, they impute your tantrum to jealousy.”

“
Me
jealous of
her?
That mealy-mouthed ingrate. That—”

“Enough! I will not tolerate another word. There isn’t a soul in society who will support you now.”

Laura burst into noisy sobs.

Mary flinched. Laura often used tears to elicit sympathy, weeping inconsolably until her listeners were willing to forgive anything if only it would comfort her.

Donning a nightrail, Mary climbed into bed and clamped a pillow over her ears, but it did no good. The pillow was as thin as the wall.

“Tears do not affect me,” said Blake coldly, having let Laura wail for several minutes. “I’ve seen you produce them too often.”

“If you think to send me back—”

“No,” Blake interrupted. “I won’t choose the easy way this time. There will be no retreat to the country. You would shame the family by causing new scandal the moment you arrived. Thus you will stay under my eye.”

“You mean you will ignore this misunderstanding and do nothing to punish Mary for her interference?” Laura’s tears were gone in a flash, buried under fury.

“Mary is innocent, and if I hear another word to the contrary, I will lock you in your room for the remainder of the Season. From now on, you will behave like the proper miss you are not. At Catherine’s urging, I covered your perfidy once — something I would not have done had I known about your earlier crimes. I should have turned you over to Squire Baker when he offered for you last summer. Instead, I let you wheedle a Season from me — and look at how you’ve repaid me. No more cooperation, Laura. This time you will face the consequences. If any invitation includes you, you will accept it. You will maintain an even temper no matter what people say or how often they cut you. And you will not utter a word, even by innuendo, against Mary or Grayson. Is that clear?”

Laura agreed with alacrity, clearly believing that everything would be back to normal by morning.

Mary sighed. They could expect hysterics the moment the morning post arrived. It would bristle with cancellations.

* * * *

Gray found Nick in the reading room at White’s. The club would not be crowded for another hour, so they would have privacy for a time. He needed it. Too much had happened this evening — Laura, Mary, Turner…

His head was ready to explode.

“You are early,” remarked Nick once the steward delivered wine.

“I am betrothed.”

Nick bolted to attention. “What?”

“I have been courting a most charming girl for some time,” said Gray lightly. “She is delighted with my gifts, especially the Daurian peonies I sent round this morning.”

“Not that rose and gold variety!” exclaimed Nick. “They cost a fortune.”

“And worth every shilling, though these particular ones came from my hothouse. I spoke to her sponsor this afternoon and paid my addresses this evening. She accepted.”

Nick pursed his lips, eyes riveted to Gray’s face. “Whom are we discussing?”

“Miss Mary Seabrook.” He chuckled. “She is quite out of the ordinary and will make me a perfect wife. We share many interests.”

“Whoa.” Nick drained his glass and poured another. “Let’s try this again. Now that I know the public tale, how much of it is true?”

“You have always been a student of human nature, Nick.” Gray shook his head. “No one can take you in for long. It is true that I am betrothed. It is true that Mary and I are friends and that I’ve sent her flowers on two occasions, most recently the peonies. It is also true that I had considered offering, but was put off by her unscrupulous sister.” A slight stretch, but not much.

“I know you dodged the sister at the Oxbridge ball. I covered for you.”

“I should not have gone out that evening. It was too soon after meeting that footpad. Mary read me quite a scold for it.” He sipped wine. “As for the rest of the tale, Rockhurst will claim we spoke this afternoon.”

“Why would he lie to help a man of your reputation?” asked Nick idly.

“For Mary’s sake. And to make the sister appear jealous rather than mad. That way he can keep her in town. He has his own reasons for forcing her to face censure.”

“She must have tried to compromise you.” Nick shook his head. “Nothing else would explain that note of satisfaction you can’t quite hide. How did you befriend her sister, anyway? And when? You returned to London barely a week ago.”

Gray laughed. “Fate. As Mary pointed out yesterday, Lady Luck has not deserted me after all. She has been busy protecting my back. When I dodged behind a potted palm to escape Miss Derrick last week, I found Mary already there. Ever since, fate has placed her near at hand whenever I needed help. She saved me from colliding with a cart yesterday – hence the peonies.”

“What tale is this?” Nick shook his head.

“Later. Tonight when I sought refuge in an antechamber, she was already there.”

“Are you sure she did not plan this?”

“Positive. Mary would never scheme.” And Laura would die before sacrificing her reputation for a sister. But the details would make the rounds without his help. “On another note, Mary convinced me that my accidents are not so accidental.”

“I believe I raised that possibility last week.”

“You did. But there had been only one incident then. My hard head is now more receptive, particularly since Mary identified a suspect.”

“Why did you say nothing this afternoon?” He shook his head. “Or did you actually argue the nature of your accidents while arranging a questionable betrothal?”

“There is nothing questionable about my betrothal.” Gray glared.

“I beg your pardon.”

Relaxing, he continued. “I will admit to haste, but that is unavoidable. Yesterday she convinced me my mishaps weren’t accidents, but I did not wish to discuss it until I knew who was behind them. Mary revealed her suspect when I took her home just now.”

Nick was staring at him, laughter lighting his eyes. “How often have you actually met? I’ve not heard a word even from Lady Beatrice.”

“Let’s see.” Gray sipped in contemplation. “There was the potted palm at Lady Debenham’s; Lord Oxbridge’s library — I swooned at her feet that time; Coventry Street and the Albany fire, though we did not actually speak that day; Hatchard’s; Piccadilly, where she saved my life; and tonight, of course.”

“Quite a courtship.” Nick chuckled.

“Very. But enough teasing. In less than a week, I have been drugged, beaten, seen my rooms burn, suffered food poisoning, and been run down. Far too much for coincidence.”

“You say Miss Seabrook knows the culprit?”

“Miss
Mary
Seabrook. The dragon is the elder. Call her Mary. I don’t wish reminders of the sister.”

Nick nodded. “Between us.”

“Good. While we were waltzing, she spotted a young man consumed by hatred and furious that I had contracted a love match.” He managed the claim without a stumble, surprising himself. “Neither of us recognized him. I paid little attention, as I was intent on convincing society that our tale was true. But Mary discovered that he is Constance Turner’s brother, just up from Eton.”

“Leonard?” Nick frowned. “He does not seem old enough to manage such a variety of incidents. He can’t be above seventeen.”

“You know him?”

“We met at Watier’s a week ago.”

“Mary swears he hates me, and she is nearly as astute as you. In fact, she can read my mind even better than you can.”

“You haven’t been yourself lately.” Nick refilled their glasses. “If Turner is guilty, then he must have been planning this for three years. He is rather slow in his thinking, you must understand. Someone mentioned at the time that Constance’s younger brother would be devastated by her death, so I gather they were close. Perhaps he merely wishes to injure you.”

“If they were truly close, he should know that I had nothing to do with her death.”

“Hardly. She described your fictitious courtship to everyone she met. Why would she tell her brother any different?”

“Do you know anything of the family?” asked Gray.

“Only what I heard at the time.” Nick frowned in thought. “Constance was unstable — as was her mother apparently. The mother died when Leonard was a babe, so neither of them remember her. Their elder brother, Harold, was fifteen years Constance’s senior, a product of a first marriage to a dullard, whom he closely resembles. His difference in age and temperament explains why Constance and Leonard were so close. After the father died, Harold did his duty, but he cared little for either of them. Her chaperon that Season was incompetent.”