A Good Rake is Hard to Find (15 page)

Rather than look offended, Mainwaring shrugged. “That's disappointing, but not unexpected. Though I suppose club business is club business, and not being a member…”

To Freddy, he said, “I'll see you later, old chap. I hope you have a very interesting meeting.”

Then, before Freddy could protest, he continued, “Oh, and I'll just drive your curricle to Brooks's for a trice. I've gotten much better at handling the reins, so have no fear.”

“How the devil am I supposed to get to Half Moon Street?” he called after his friend. Archer was going to kill him if Mainwaring so much as scratched his curricle, he thought with a sigh. Never mind he hadn't precisely given his permission for his ham-fisted friend to drive the thing in the first place.

Deciding to catch a ride with one of the other club members, he hurried into the dressing room and quickly put his clothes and boots back on.

Just what, he wondered as he tied his cravat, was so important that Gerard had felt it necessary to call a meeting of the entire club? Especially when they'd all been together only the night before.

It was damned strange.

When he stepped back out into the main room of the saloon, he found his cousin in deep conversation with Payne, who closed his mouth as soon as Freddy approached.

“Ah, cousin,” Gerard said into the pregnant silence. “I will see you and Lord Payne in Half Moon Street in a quarter of an hour.”

With that, he bowed and strode toward the door leading out to St. James Street.

“You'd best not tell your friend Mainwaring anything about club business,” Lord Payne said as soon as Gerard was out of earshot. “Otherwise Sir Gerard will get it into his head that you're not loyal. And he has a particular disgust for disloyalty. As do I.”

Unruffled by the other man's threat, Freddy grunted something that could have been an assent or a suggestion that Payne go jump in the Thames.

Turning his back on the other man, he went in search of a more palatable member of the club to give him a lift to his cousin's house.

He'd spent quite enough time with Lord Payne that morning to last a lifetime.

*   *   *

“What a lovely ode to motherhood, Mrs. Jeffries,” Leonora said, grateful that the lady's fifty-stanza-long epic was finally complete. “I especially liked your metaphor comparing the stars to God's daisy chain.”

After her meeting with Freddy's mother and sister-in-law that morning, she'd been forced to hurry her preparations for the literary salon. Though she opened her father's drawing room to artists and philosophers of all sorts each week, she usually had some new writing of her own to read. That had proved impossible since Freddy had come back into her life, however.

Fortunately, there were plenty of other attendees who were more than willing to share their own work. When she'd first started, she'd needed to request things personally before the salon, but now so many vied for the center of attention at her weekly meetings that there were usually more than enough pieces for other writers to present.

It was just bad luck that Mrs. Jeffries, whose work was generally cheerful, would be about the ghost of a small child returning to warn his mother of her own impending death.

Today, it seemed, she was unable to escape reminders of her own sorrowful secret.

She'd hoped that Freddy would put in an appearance, but thus far he'd not shown up. Which was just as well, because she wanted some time alone with her thoughts before she saw him again. The meeting with his mother and Perdita that morning had left her feeling exposed, and she needed to consider just what the impact of their charade would have on the people closest to them.

So far, she'd been focused so keenly on proving the truth about Sir Gerard that it hadn't fully sunk in that when she and Freddy ended their betrothal this time, it would affect their friends and families, as well. But the visit that morning had left her with a heavy heart. And she was no longer positive that the ends would justify the means.

Turning her attention back to the salon, she glanced around the room of attendees. “We have a quarter of an hour left,” she announced to the gathering in a cheerful voice that belied her mood. “Does anyone else have a contribution? Perhaps you, Miss Arnot? I believe you were working on a sonnet sequence when last we spoke.”

“It's not quite finished, Miss Craven,” said the timid lady, her customary powder and patch harkening back to the days of her youth. “But I believe it will be ready next week.”

“Then, if no one else has a contribution, let us have some refreshment,” Leonora said with a smile of relief. Miss Arnot was a nice lady but her poetry tended to be rather tedious and after Mrs. Jeffries's performance she was in no mood for it.

As the tea tray was brought out and glasses of cordial and sherry were handed round, Leonora allowed herself to relax a little as she stood near the front window, surveying the group at large.

She'd started the weekly meetings of writers and intellectuals not long before she and Freddy parted ways the first time. It had proved a godsend in the aftermath, when she'd desperately needed a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Now the gathering boasted some thirty or so members, though the number was often in flux, with people joining and dropping out from week to week. Month to month. With creative people, there was often a tendency toward following the dictates of the muse, so Leonora wasn't very rigid in her rules for the membership. She considered the changing numbers to be a boon rather than a detriment. After all, the unexpected was often the very thing that made poetry and parties entertaining.

Her reverie was interrupted then by a familiar voice. “I hope you don't mind that we stopped in, Miss Craven,” said Corinne, Lady Darleigh, whom she had met at Sir Gerard's home the evening before. “We were so intrigued by the idea of an artistic salon, we couldn't pass up the opportunity to attend.”

“Indeed,” said the mousy woman at her side. Mrs. Brown, Leonora remembered. She'd met her last night but they'd exchanged nothing beyond greetings.

“I'm pleased you decided to come,” Leonora said with the enthusiasm she reserved for new members. “I hope you enjoyed the offerings this afternoon. They vary from meeting to meeting, of course, but are always entertaining.”

A blatant lie, but she could hardly cast aspersions on the other writers in her group. It wasn't their fault their verse wasn't quite what she enjoyed.

“Millie,” Lady Darleigh said to Mrs. Brown, “why don't you go get a cup of tea while I speak with Miss Craven. Didn't you say that you were famished earlier?”

With a nod, Mrs. Brown moved over to the other side of the room and the tea tray.

Left alone with Lady Darleigh, Leonora raised her brows. “Is there something you wished to speak with me about, Lady Darleigh?” she asked, curious what the other woman could want from her on so brief an acquaintance.

Sometimes near strangers attempted to trade on her popularity by asking her to send their writings to her editor. Or worse, to read their work. For the most part, she eschewed such involvement. Mostly because she knew how fragile a writer's spirit could be. The world was hard enough on a writer's spirit, she reasoned, and she would not be the one to tear down someone else's work. Whether they asked for it or not.

Somehow, though, she knew that Lady Darleigh's request wasn't related to poetry at all.

“I'm afraid I wasn't very subtle,” the pretty blonde said with a rueful smile. “Is there somewhere we can be private?”

To Leonora‘s surprise, the other woman was trembling visibly.

“My dear lady,” she said softly, taking Lady Darleigh's hand and leading her to a little parlor the butler used for storing unwanted guests.

Once they were seated on two very uncomfortable Elizabethan chairs, she said, “Please let me know what it is that troubles you. I should hate to think that it's something I've done.”

“Not at all,” the other woman said with a watery smile. “I shouldn't have come here if you were the cause of my misery. I am not such a glutton for punishment as that.”

“That's a relief, at least,” Leonora said truthfully. “Now, you really must tell me what it is you want from me.”

Lady Darleigh took a deep breath. “I … that is to say, my … I mean,” she began, and stopped, unable to complete the thought. “I didn't think this would be so difficult,” she continued with a frown. “You see, Miss Craven, it's just that I'd like to ask for your assistance. I wish to help my husband sever his membership in the Lords of Anarchy.”

Leonora's breath caught in her throat. She'd been expecting some plea or other, but not this.

“My dear Lady Darleigh,” she began. “I don't know why you believe I have the sort of influence that will help your husband, but I can assure you I only met Sir Gerard last evening. And I'm not even sure he likes me. Which to my mind makes me the least likely person who could help in this situation.”

“Perhaps so,” Lady Darleigh responded, “but I know that you and Lord Frederick Lisle are investigating your brother's death. And I very much fear that what happened to him will happen to my own husband.”

Leonora's eyes widened.

What fools they'd been to think their true reasons for getting close to the Anarchists would not be discerned at once. Her mind raced, searching for something, anything, to tell the woman seated across from her that would correct her assumption.

Finally, she decided just to pretend ignorance. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Lady Darleigh.”

The blonde's eyes sharpened. “Please, Miss Craven,” she said, her mouth white with anxiety, “do not pretend ignorance. I have guessed your true purpose, but I am confident no one else has. My husband told me he found the two of you in Sir Gerard's study last evening. There were any number of anterooms between the drawing room and his study. You chose that particular room because you were looking for something.”

Stunned, Leonora shook her head. Was there no end to the amount of intelligence the other woman had gleaned from one night's acquaintance?

“Your brother was kind to us,” Lady Darleigh continued. “He and my husband intended to leave the club together, but Sir Gerard threatened me. So my husband decided to wait. And when he saw what happened to your brother—which was no accident, no matter what Sir Gerard says—he decided to keep his suspicions to himself.”

This was just the sort of thing Leonora had hoped to learn during her visit to Sir Gerard's home last night.

“What do you know, Lady Darleigh?” she asked in a low voice, leaning in to keep her voice from being overheard. “What happened to my brother?”

“It is because of that I wish my husband out of that awful group,” Lady Darleigh said cautiously. “He has met with several accidents, Miss Craven. All of them either while driving or while in the company of club members. I very much fear that something like what happened to your own brother will also happen to my husband. And I cannot, will not, let that happen!”

Leonora nodded, not daring to speak lest Lady Darleigh stop.

The other woman continued, “He seemed to have some new bruise or bump each time he came home. Lord Darleigh swears it's nothing serious, but I don't like it. They are supposed to just drive to some tavern in Dartford, show off their driving prowess and their expensive coaches, but there is more to the club than that. Things that have nothing to do with driving.”

“What?” Leonora couldn't stop herself from asking.

“For one thing,” Lady Darleigh said with a frown, “there are the prizefights.”

Leonora thought perhaps she'd misheard. “Fights?” she asked. “As in fisticuffs?”

“Precisely,” Lady Darleigh said, frowning. “Soon after my husband joined he arrived home one evening with two broken ribs and a black eye. He told me he'd been set upon by thieves on his way home from the club. But the next day Sir Gerard visited our home and told me that I should be proud of my Robert for proving himself to be such a strong fighter.”

Shaking her head at the memory, she went on. “It was as if the devil himself had come to call,” she said with disgust. “As if I would be pleased to learn my husband was engaged in fisticuffs with those other men. Gentleman Jackson's is bad enough, but this was a private fight. One my husband hadn't seen fit to tell me about.”

“Why wouldn't they just use Gentleman Jackson's saloon for their bouts?” Leonora asked, puzzled.

“After I hounded him about it, my husband finally admitted that they fight in private because it is agreed upon by the participants and the audience that there will be no rules of fair conduct.”

Leonora gasped. “That's barbaric!” She thought back to a time the year before when her brother had come home with a black eye. At the time he'd excused it as a souvenir from a bout at Jackson's but he'd been a member of the Anarchists at the time.

She hadn't thought it possible to be more disgusted with Sir Gerard Fincher, but clearly she'd been mistaken.

“What do you know about my brother's death, Lady Darleigh?” she asked quietly. She was torn between needing to know, and wishing to protect herself from what she knew would be a chilling story. Still, she had to know. “Please.”

With a nod, Lady Darleigh continued. “Two weeks ago my husband overheard Sir Gerard and another club member talking, and what they said made it abundantly clear that your brother died in the most horrific of circumstances.”

“How so?” Leonora asked, her fists clenched against the other woman's words.

“He was set upon, Miss Craven,” said Lady Darleigh, her eyes bright with tears. “They overtook his curricle on the Dover Road, beat him and tossed his body to the side of the road. I'm not sure which members did it, but my husband is sure of what he heard. Sir Gerard was congratulating them on a job well done. And he also said that he'd hidden your brother's curricle somewhere safe.”