Anne Barbour (22 page)

Her pulse hammering, Alison accepted March’s invitation to join him in the library. His eyes, she had noted, were impenetrable, their tawny brightness dimmed by the film of ice she had observed before. Her heart sank. Despite her brave resolutions of the morning, in a secret corner of her heart she had hoped against hope that he would accept her explanation of her actions and that they could still be friends, but watching him as he gestured her silently to a chair and took one himself, she knew that the next minutes would be even more difficult than she had envisioned. She jerked to attention as the earl spoke.

“Did you have something in particular that you wished to speak to me about. Miss Fox?” His expression was quizzical and, she thought, guarded. Drawing a deep breath, she opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment a commotion rose out in the hall. At the sound of Meg’s stifled sob, Alison and March jumped up simultaneously and ran out of the room.

There they found the girl seated on a small bench near the front door, surrounded by her friends and—good God—Jack Crawford! Meg sat, pale and whimpering, with both hands clutched to her stomach.

“What is it?” said March, glaring at Jack. “What has happened?”

An expression of alarm crossed Jack’s features as he observed March’s clenched fists, and he spoke hastily. “I was in my friend’s town carriage, when I came across the young ladies in Poultney Street. Lady Margaret appeared ill, so I took it upon myself to bring them—”

Mrs. Pargeter, who had also come into the house, interrupted. “We had scarcely begun our little expedition this morning, when Meg began to feel unwell. By the time we had completed only half our shopping, she was quite sick. She is feverish, I am afraid, and I wonder if she mightn’t be coming down with the influenza.”

“Oh dear,” said Alison, going immediately to Meg. “You spent a great deal of time with Rosamund Pinchot when her mother was so ill. I’m so sorry your outing was spoiled,” she added to the group at large, ignoring Jack. She assisted Meg to rise and assisted her up the stairs. “We must get you to bed at once. I know your friends will excuse you.”

Meg waved wanly to the group below, and soon, dressed in her night rail, she was tucked solicitously into bed. Being one of those persons who is rarely ill but suffers inordinately when sickness does strike, she felt perfectly wretched. Promptly expelling the contents of her stomach, Meg lay against her pillows moaning and complaining that her head hurt and that she felt as though she had been kicked by a team of horses. The doctor was sent for, and that gentleman arrived just as Lady Edith emerged from her room.

By the time Alison had explained to the older woman what was afoot, the doctor, a tall, thin man with a harassed air, had finished his examination.

“No, no, it’s nothing serious at all,” he hastened to declare. “She has only a slight fever, I do not think it is the influenza, just a slight upset. She will no doubt feel quite ill for a while.” He cast a mischievous glance at his patient, snuggled under her comforter. “She will think she is about to expire, but such is far from the case. I shall leave some drops to make her a little more comfortable, and she’ll be fine as fivepence before the cat can lick her ear.”

So saying, he made his farewells and took himself off in a bustle of advice and reassurances.

March, assured that his little sister was in no real danger, left the house in the wake of the doctor. It was only later that Alison had time to consider that by failing to reveal herself to Lord March, she was still in thrall to Jack and was obliged to set out for yet another excursion to the unsavory environs of Avon Street.

Thus, having satisfied herself that Meg was not seriously ill and slept soundly under the effects of Dr. Bentham’s medication, Alison crept from the house after everyone was abed. Jack was waiting for her at the corner of Royal Crescent and Brock Street and together they made their way through the center of town to a certain high stakes establishment in Avon Street.

Observing her clandestine departure from the house, and the meeting with Jack, March followed at a discreet distance. By the time he entered the High Flyer, a notorious gambling hall, where the play was known to be deep and dangerous, Alison was already seated at a faro table. Jack stood some distance away, watching. Jonas Pilcher, March noted with grim satisfaction, stood almost directly behind Alison.

Lord, she was lovely, he thought with a tightening of his throat. Even garbed as she was, in an outmoded ensemble of dark muslin, her face half-hidden under a drooping brown wig and a large, feathered hat, the purity of her features was still evident. In this pit of greed and debauchery, she managed to convey the pristine beauty of a Renaissance angel.

A servant brought a fresh deck of cards to the faro table, and March observed with a sinking sensation that they appeared to be identical to those given to Alison by Crawford the night before. Just then, a loud crash jerked his attention across the room, where he saw that Jack had apparently bumped into a waiter, causing him to drop a tray loaded with glasses. Realizing with a smothered curse that he had just witnessed an attempt at diversion, his gaze returned instantly to Alison. He could observe no difference in the cards that lay on the table near Alison’s hand, but he sucked in his breath as the man to Alison’s right picked them up and began dealing.

March gripped the handle of his walking stick with painful intensity, his eyes fastened now on Jonas Pilcher. The minutes crawled by with agonizing slowness until at last the little detective raised his head. His eyes searched the room until he found March and, his expression grim, he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

March nearly gasped as the sure knowledge of her duplicity stabbed through him. He had not realized how great had been his hope that, despite what he had learned, he would be proven wrong in his assumptions about Alison Fox. He could not believe that he was watching the woman whom, despite his best efforts, he had come to love, sitting at a grimy table in a den of thieves, cheating at cards! God, how could he want her so, knowing his original assessment of her character had been proven so painfully?

He grew cold with the realization of what was to come. His direction to Jonas had been to allow her to accrue a small pile of winnings. Then he was to exclaim in a loud voice that the cards were marked, following which, he would snatch hat, wig, and glasses from her. Among the gamblers here tonight were several men of his acquaintance who would recognize her instantly. Their wives traveled in the same circles as his aunt. By tomorrow, every lady of quality in Bath would be prepared to give Alison the cut direct. Aunt Edith would be devastated, but she would be at last brought to a realization of Alison’s true character and she would no doubt turn her off without a character.

His revenge would be complete.

He had known for days now that her ruin would bring him nothing but anguish, but he had not anticipated the full extent of the hurt he now experienced. In fascinated horror, he watched the unfolding of events at the faro table.

Chapter 17

So focused was March’s attention on the scene he had planned so meticulously, that when a cry sounded at the table, he knew an instant’s disorientation, as though the scene before him had fragmented into whirling kaleidoscope pieces.

He shook his head in momentary bewilderment, his gaze narrowing as one of the players abruptly rose from his seat.

“Oy!” he cried, holding up the hand he had been dealt. “These ‘ere cards ‘as been fuzzed!”

March’s gaze flew to Alison, who stared at the man in apparent bewilderment. The gambler caught her glance and he paused for a moment before flinging out a hand in accusation. “It was ‘er!” he continued loudly. “The mort! I saw ‘er messin’ with the pasteboards just before the deal. She switched decks!”

At this, Alison rose from her seat, her eyes wide in denial. Another man, seated next to her, grasped her wrist. “I thought there was somethin
’
funny about ‘er,” he snarled, reaching for her hat. “Let’s see what you look like, then.”

With one hand he wrenched the large hat from her head, nearly dislodging the wig, and, ignoring her frightened cry, he swept off the tinted glasses with the other.

Acting without volition, March ran to Alison’s side. With a single blow, he felled the man who had assaulted her. As the other players at the table stood paralyzed by surprise, he picked Alison up bodily and, gesturing to a befuddled Jonas Pilcher to follow, he ran through the room toward the exit, pushing past patrons craning their necks toward the now actively belligerent faro players.

Outside, he did not pause, but raced for the curricle he had left nearby in the care of Toby, his tiger. The boy leaped to attention and betrayed by not so much as a hair any surprise he might have felt at his master’s unorthodox behavior. He merely assisted in wedging the unresisting female into the front seat of the curricle next to the earl.

In truth, Alison was laboring under severe shock. She had been stunned at the faro player’s accusations, and when March had appeared from nowhere to snatch her from what appeared to be imminent danger, she had slipped into a sort of twilight of incomprehension. She knew she should protest the earl’s high-handed treatment of her, but she seemed without will or volition.

It was not until March climbed into the driver’s seat, after issuing a few brief instructions to Jonas Pilcher, that Alison came to herself.

“What ... ?” She twisted in her seat beside March. “What... ?” she repealed breathlessly, furious at her own inability to form a coherent sentence.

“Never mind!” shouted March, and Alison recoiled from the savagery in his tone. “We will talk very soon, you and I, but not just now, I think.”

Slapping the reins on the horses’ backs, March guided the curricle through the silent streets of Bath. He drove at a shocking pace. They would surely overturn at any moment, thought Alison. She clenched her hands in her lap to keep from crying out. Her fear, however, lay blurry and formless at the edge of her consciousness as her mind struggled with the events that had just occurred. How could that man have accused her of cheating? She had done nothing to the cards. Had Jack somehow ... ? And how had March appeared so suddenly? In her terror, she had breathed his name in a mindless prayer for succor, and like a genie from a bottle, he had appeared at her side. A hysterical chuckle burst from her. If she closed her eyes and wished this night away, would she awake to find herself safe in bed in Royal Crescent?

She cast a sidelong glance at the man next to her. She thought she had already seen the earl at his most forbidding, but now, with jaw clenched and golden eyes glittering in rage, he was truly frightening.

When they clattered up to the house in Royal Crescent, however, Alison found herself still mired in a panicky daze. She made no move to descend from the curricle, and gasped in shock when she was pulled unceremoniously from the vehicle. Grasping her arm roughly, March virtually dragged her into the house. He did not release her until they were in the library, where he thrust her into the nearest chair. He moved to close the door before returning to stand above her.

“Now, Miss Fox—or Miss Reynard—or whatever your real name happens to be, we will have our little talk.”

March almost trembled in his fury. His carefully crafted plan had crumbled before his eyes onto the grimy floor of the High Flyer. The moment for which he had waited so long had come and gone, and instead of relishing the triumph of Alison Fox’s exposure, he had saved her from it! Everything he had worked for was undone, and he had no one to blame but himself for the ruination of his grand design.

He felt sick with self-loathing. At the last minute he had been unable to watch Alison’s downfall. He could not bear that she should be shamed before those men, to say nothing of the danger she faced, so it was he who had been ruined—for love of a woman who deserved his undying hatred.

He observed almost with detachment the torment in her face. Her lovely blue eyes were wide with shock as she lifted one hand to him in petition. She was really very good, he thought tiredly. He waited for the tears he was sure would brim over at any second. Instead, to his surprise, a spark of anger lit her amethyst gaze. Her voice, as she replied, was husky but calm.

“Yes, my lord, a talk between us is long overdue. Please be seated, and I will tell you everything you want to know.”

Once more, rage boiled within him. He remained standing,
so
that she was obliged to twist her neck upward to look at him. “I have already discovered everything I need to know about you,” he grated. “I know that you are the harpy who is responsible for the deaths of my brother and his wife.”

Alison recoiled as though he had struck her. She gripped the arms of her chair and after a moment, continued tonelessly. “You are quite wrong, my lord. I am in no way to blame for their deaths. My only misdeed was in keeping my part in their tragedy from you for so long. I should have come to you immediately after... after Susannah ... I should have explained—”

“Explain!” The word exploded in a hiss of outrage. “What explanation can you possibly offer for what you did? You came skulking into London in disguise and bled Susannah white. When you had wrung her dry, you crept away again like the she-snake you are, leaving her to face her desperation alone.

Alison uttered a small moan, and her hands fluttered in her lap. “That is not the way it happened!”

March’s lips curved in a contemptuous sneer. “Then, do tell me, Miss Fox/Reynard—God, how fortuitously you are named, for you are an unprincipled vixen—how, precisely did it happen?”

Alison stared at him. Once more March observed a flush of anger rise to tinge her cheeks as she rose and moved to face him. “If,” she repeated in a voice of steel, “you will be seated, I shall tell you everything.”

Despite himself, March sank into a nearby chair. He said nothing, merely staring at her with empty eyes.

“My name,” began Alison, “really is Alison Fox.” A ghost of a smile played about her lips. “You are not the first to call me vixen, although I am used to hearing the word as a term of affection.”