Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (7 page)

* * *

A
few hours later
, Grey, Kathryn, and Lady Grenville were being carted through Hyde Park in a cabriole barouche for all of London to see. Kathryn had initially been reluctant to join, which was understandable after his near disastrous exit, but Lady Grenville’s enthusiastic urging had practically thrust her out the door. Now the ladies seemed elated to be enjoying the fine weather.

He, on the other hand, could not remember a time when he had felt more ridiculous. The not-so-subtle hints of his colleagues as they rode by did not escape him. He was noticed, and he was being laughed at. Why had he not elected to ride his horse whilst the ladies rode in the phaeton? He might have retained an ounce of pride that way.

Grey silently cursed himself and every self-proclaimed comedian who ventured to tip his hat in Grey’s direction. At the same time, Kathryn kept up a lively conversation about poetry. He was quite impressed with her dedication really, as she refused to let the subject go. With how little he knew about it, keeping up conversation with an enthusiast was challenging. An experienced fabricator could only conjure up so much.

Lady Grenville was no help, either. She sat back with a small smile, occasionally conversing with acquaintances who passed by.

He tried to change the course of conversation to Kathryn’s family, her childhood home, and her thoughts about society—he even lightly touched on their history—all in order to see what she could remember.

If he had read her correctly, she could remember nothing clearly and everything vaguely, as though looking at her life through its reflection in a puddle someone had just stomped through. It might take some time before things came into focus, time he did not have.

On three separate instances during their troll through the park, Grey noticed a man in a black coat and black hat riding a chestnut mare. The same man was in very different sections of the park at the same time as they happened to be passing through. None of the other dozens of riders or carriages had passed by them more than once. Grey would have noticed. He was hoping for a few to return to comment or make another gesture so he could beat the humor out of them.

Grey watched with a tightened jaw as they left Hyde Park. The black-clad man was mounted by a large, silver birch tree just far enough away as to be unrecognizable. Grey could do nothing to him, and the sod knew it. He sat cockily in the saddle as Grey watched him until the barouche disappeared down Upper Grosvenor Street.

That evening, Grey was still thinking about what he had learned. As proven by the brazen appearance in Hide Park, Grey was not seen as a threat, which was the intention. He had spent a decade building a reputation as a man who cared about nothing except vice and fights. Half of it was true. In this, at least, Grey had the upper hand.

Still, the man was confident. He was after Kathryn, and he was not afraid of going through Grey to get to her. Either he didn’t expect Grey to fight for her, which was highly likely, or he figured his skills were better than Grey’s, which was highly stupid.

Grey peeked out from an alley to get another glimpse of the shadow across from Grenville House. The rain had been coming down in sheets, and Grey had been watching the shadow observe Kathryn for hours in it. His hat’s only use at this point was to help cover his face should he be noticed. His hair was as soaked as everything else, down to his drawers. Thick, black curls stuck to his head as drops of rain trailed down his cheeks and jaw. He was seconds away from actually wringing out his soggy beaver hat when the shadow moved.

Grey’s eyes narrowed as the man stepped out into the street and began walking through the rain as though out for a Sunday stroll. A carriage rumbled down the street, slowing to block Grey’s vision for a moment then pressing on. Grey was ready to follow the man all night, but when the carriage moved away, he was gone.

Grey cursed violently. There was no way he could catch that carriage, especially in this weather and with no one else on the road to slow their progress.

He searched the spot where the carriage had slowed, making positively certain he could not have disappeared back into an alley or doorway. He found no possible avenue of escape.

Grey stepped out into the street, massaging his neck. In a few quick strides, he crossed the street, his boots splashing through puddles with every step. Once on the other side, he leaned heavily against a post, wiping water from his face with his hands. He could see slight impressions in the mud where the man had paced then disappeared into the hackney. The man most certainly had taken the carriage. There was no possibility of him jumping from there all the way to an alley. It was unfortunate the shoeprint could not tell him more than he already knew about the shadow.

Grey glanced up, studying Grenville House to see what the fellow might have been looking for. He could see light in a few windows, but no silhouettes. The curtains were drawn, as they should be in such dismal weather, and the windows all appeared closed, locked, too. If Lord Grenville had chosen the staff, even the upper floors would be secured.

Thunder roared overhead, urging Grey to call it a night. His nosy friend wouldn’t be back anytime soon, and Grey needed sleep. He had a busy season ahead of him. The best way he could figure to keep Kathryn safe was to keep her with him, and the safest way to keep her with him was to keep her with a great many other people, as well. It looked as though he had a terribly large pile of invitations to save from the fire.

* * *

T
he next month
, Grey’s social calendar was filled to the point of exhaustion. The season was in full swing, and there were soirees, balls, musicales, and luncheons to attend. When they were not attending those, they were shopping on Bond Street or strolling Rotten Row. When he was not with her, he had three Bow Street Runners watching her house.

As he had predicted, it was not long before the
ton
was whispering about the possibility of a match between them, the respectable kind and the not-so-respectable kind alike. When he received a private invitation to tea from his mother, he realized rumors were progressing a bit more quickly than he had anticipated, and he was progressing far more slowly.

He found the dowager in the morning room, perusing her gossip columns and sipping tea. She was sinking further into decline every day. He could see it in her fragile hands wrapped around the teacup and her ever-thinning body swallowed in muslin.

“Ah, Grey, my dear,” she said, smiling when he walked in. “Please, come and sit. Would you care for some tea?”

“Thank you.” Grey pulled out a chair and sat down, accepting the steaming cup his mother offered him. “Has your physician been by recently?” he asked, hiding his concern with a casual tone.

She shook her head.

Grey watched her soberly then said, “I shall send for him.”

“No,” she said, lifting a staying hand. “I can send for him if I need him.”

“You need him,” Grey said.

“I know when I need a physician or not, Greydon,” she replied. “That isn’t why I asked you here.”

Nor was it why he had come. He needed someone to keep Kathryn’s name from being muddied since Matthews’s incompetent Runners on Fleet Street hadn’t been able to handle the job.

“I only wanted to ask you about a certain rumor.” The dowager reached for the newspaper and handed it to Grey.

Grey’s brows drew together as he read the underlined excerpt. “‘
The Marquess of A seen being a model gentleman with Lady K at Mrs. G’s ball, Vauxhall Gardens, Lady R’s dinner party, and more
,’” he read soberly. It was just as Saint Brides had instructed. “I don’t see anything—”

“Two more down,” she interrupted, waving a finger at the paper.

He scanned the page, noticing another underlined excerpt. “‘
The Marquess of A, London’s most desirous rake, may have found his new slice of cake in Lady K
.’” Grey’s jaw tensed.

When he lifted his eyes from the paper, he found his mother watching him intently.

“Is it true?” she prodded. “Have you taken that poor girl’s innocence?”

“No,” he replied, sounding far more defensive than he ought to. Grey swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

“What
is
true?” she asked.

“I have been courting her quite properly.”

“Are you attached?” Her eyes were hopeful pools peering at him from across the heirloom tea table. It wrenched at his heart to lie to her, to know that he was raising her hopes, only to dash them again.

“You could say that,” he replied, only slightly consoled by the half-truth. “However, if her name is smeared with a mere mention of my interest, I cannot continue.” He had warned Saint Brides of this thing exactly, but did the man listen? Of course not.

“Leave it to me,” she said briskly as she snatched the paper from his hands.

“What do you mean?” he asked, feigning a hint of surprise.

“If you are acting honorably, there is no reason for you to cease your courtship over some silly rumors. Rumors can be silenced.”

“So then her reputation is secure?” He raised a brow. “You can manage the venomous tongues of the ton?”

She smiled triumphantly. “My dear, I am one of them.”

Of course, she was one of them and with no small amount of influence. She would use every ounce of it, too, if it meant Grey might marry and finally give her a grandchild. He had known all of this before he had come here.

“I want to see her soon,” the dowager voiced softly. “It’s been a very long time since I have seen her.”

K
athryn decided
on a light pink evening gown with delicate lace along the collar and hem and pearls at her neck and ears in a classic fashion. Her hair was pinned in a neat bundle with light blue and pink ribbons weaved throughout.

“Oh, my dear,” her mother sighed, “you look positively radiant. If only your father were here to appreciate how lovely you have become.”

“I am sure that would be unnecessary.” Kathryn studied her reflection in the mirror critically. Although she had filled out, she was still child-sized compared to most of the other ladies. Half the male population gawked at the voluptuous ones, which had her extremely perplexed as to why Ainsley was paying her any attention at all.

The man was jaw-dropping when he chose to be. During those rare moments when he was not irritating beyond belief, she might think he could have anyone he wished.

“I wish Papa were here.” Kathryn raised a brow, still eyeing her wanting figure. “I could use his advice.”

“About what, my dear?”

“About Lord Ainsley,” she mused.

“How so?” Lady Grenville asked as she examined Kathryn’s gown, tugging here and smoothing there.

“I think he’s courting me.” Kathryn frowned. “I want to know why.”

“Did you ever think he may be attached to you?” the matron asked with a small smile.

“No,” she replied. “His eyes are too cold, even when he seems to be enjoying himself, which is usually when we disagree. And sometimes…” Kathryn’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Sometimes, I think he says things just to egg me on, like he’s teasing me.”

Lady Grenville sat on a short sofa by the window, patting the spot beside her until Kathryn settled there. “I see, and what does he see in your eyes, dear.”

“I am grateful to him,” she said, deciding anything else she felt was because the rake had saved her like a hero in the night. Not to mention, he had a smile that sent whorls of heat curling through her. Those feelings were simply a result of the situation.

“Are you falling in love with him?”

Kathryn sent her a blank look. “
Love?
I have absolutely no intention of loving any man, especially him.”

A wry curl twisted the matron’s lips. “You have been spending enough time with him.”

“That you practically shove me out the door if you so much as hear a carriage slow would have nothing to do with that, I am sure,” Kathryn said sarcastically. “If anyone other than Ainsley showed up, the gentleman might have been offended having me shoved at him without so much as a ‘how do you do.’ Luckily for us, no one else is interested, and Ainsley doesn’t seem to mind your uncouth enthusiasm.”

“I know you are attracted to him,” Lady Grenville said, undaunted. “You can’t hide that.”

“Half of the female populace is attracted to him,” Kathryn said. “The rest are blind or simple.”

Lady Grenville sighed deeply, ruefully. “Is it so difficult to imagine you could fall in love?”

Kathryn propped her elbow on the arm of the settee and rested her cheek in her hand. “I don’t even know who I am. How can I love anyone if I hardly know my own mind? How can anyone love me, for that matter?”

“Your past has nothing to do with your present.” Lady Grenville gripped Kathryn gently by her shoulders, turning her on the settee so they were face-to-face. “You don’t need to know who you were in order to know who you are.”

Kathryn arched a brow.

“Kathryn, you are a different person than you were a year ago, and you were a different person three years before that. People change; they evolve. Be who you are now. Accept who you are, and the past won’t matter.”

“Now would be the time to lament not becoming a pirate or highwayman and having numerous adventures in my past now that it doesn’t matter.” Her brows knit. “Then again, maybe I did.”

“That’s not what I said,” Lady Grenville chided. “I am only saying it’s possible for you to fall in love, and if he is attached to you, then he is attached to
you
. He wouldn’t crush the spirit of a woman he is attached to. He isn’t the kind of man your uncle is.”

“Is he not? He has a past, too, you know. A horrid one. Anyone can behave for a couple of months, but how long before he is his old self again?”

“People change, Kathryn,” her mother said softly. “Accept who he is now and allow him to shuck his past. He wasn’t so lucky as to have forgotten his, and it’s full of so many terrible things.”

“Lucky is not the word I would have used,” Kathryn muttered.

“I think he would feel very lucky if he could have taken your place in that alley,” Lady Grenville said softly. “A man with a past like his would likely give anything to forget it.”

* * *

G
rey arrived back
at Ainsley Place his usual brooding self and stalked straight to his study. After pouring an early splash of port, he plopped down in the chair behind his desk, swirling the contents of the glass.

Nick had mentioned he ought to drink less; hence, the port instead of scotch.

He hated port.

When this was all over, he would never speak to Kathryn again. Hell, he might leave England, after all. He could shock everyone and meet with Byron in Italy, though his opinion of Byron was very similar to his opinion of port.

He set the glass down carelessly on his desk, pulling out a paper and tobacco. Sprinkle, roll, lick, and he was lighting it from a candle on the corner of his desk. His mind worked as he sat back lazily in his chair. The end glowed red, and a puff of smoke followed. The automatic action repeated over and over again whilst he lost himself in his thoughts until he nearly burned his fingers mindlessly by grabbing the tiny stub to exhale.

He needed to do something more. Grey couldn’t get anywhere near the shadow without abandoning Kathryn, which was undoubtedly precisely what the bastard had intended. Every time Grey had him within his grasp, he slipped through his fingers. The shadow was toying with him, and Grey was not fond of being anyone’s plaything.

He dropped what was left of the cigarette into his port. Then he strode out of the room, down the stairs, and toward the mews at the back of the house. His hand flexed and his jaw ticked as he began formulating the minor details of his plan and plan B. Always have plan B.

He walked the long line of stalls until he reached the end where a narrow hall led to three doors. He opened one hesitantly. Finding no one inside, he quickly slipped in.

Less than five minutes later, a dusty hostler in worn clothes with an overgrown beard and bushy eyebrows stepped stiffly out into the hall. He glanced in both directions, massaging his protruding midsection before placing a wide-brimmed hat on his head. Then he was set in motion. He walked purposefully out of the mews, not breaking his awkward stride until he caught a hack on Brooke Street. It was only a three-minute walk from Ainsley Place, but it took five with a stiff leg.

Grey directed the hackney to Old Nichol, the East End. He took a good portion of dirt from his pockets and smeared it across his cheekbones, taking care not to dislodge the beard held on by fresh adhesive. By the time he arrived at his destination that ought to be set nicely. He rubbed the rest of the dirt over his shirt, tan trousers, and his hair.

The hack slowed to a stop, and Grey eased himself out, stretching painfully to give the driver a few coins. Then he began walking slowly through the streets, taking extra care of the one leg and pausing to stretch it every so often.

This was one of the worst slums in London—in Grey’s opinion,
the
worst—and it worked hard to keep the title. The stench from the sewage along the streets nearly gagged him as he stepped around bodies sitting along the wall or doubled over, retching. Soldiers were begging for food, some missing arms or legs, others blinded by shrapnel or fire. The rest were cowering in the corners, nursing opium or laudanum, depending on what they could get their hands on.

The sight sent his stomach roiling. He had fought beside these men. He had led them, encouraged them, charged with them into battle. They had been idealists looking for glory, as he had been. All of them had expected they might die or be injured. What they had not expected was their own government to leave them to rot in the streets once they had outlived their usefulness.

Grey tightened his jaw, forcing himself to remember every one of them. He could do nothing about it tonight, but he would begin another act for the invalids of war as soon as he could get pen to paper. Eventually Parliament would see reason. For the veterans’ sakes, he hoped it was sooner rather than later.

Grey started to hobble a bit as the street began to narrow, and the buildings took on an even more seedy appearance. Most of the windows were covered with fabric or wooden boards, and the bricks were covered in muck.

Along a decaying building to the right, a familiar figure leaned idly in the doorway. His shifty talents had been very helpful in the past if the purse jingled to his liking. Thanks to Grey’s deep pockets and the fact that the bugger lived in the slums, the purse always seemed to be plenty.

“Finkel,” Grey croaked, smiling. “I thought I might find you here. Heard any interesting tales since last we spoke?”

“Oh, Cap’n,” Finkel started ominously. “I ’ear fings all the time. I could tell you somefin’ if I’m provided wiv some coins for a fine night a fun.” He flashed a gap-toothed grin, his breath heavy with gin and rot.

Grey did not move or change from his pleasant smile. After sitting in a stinking French prison and working in the slums of St. Giles for Matthews, Finkel was only mildly repulsive.

“A night of fun, Finkel? Who do you think I am, a bloody lord?” Grey laughed, wheezing breathlessly. “If your story is worth an interest, my employer may be willing to pay a little something. Lord knows I ain’t got one quid to my name what’s not his!” Grey laughed in the same fashion again.

“What’s ’e willin’ to pay?” Finkel asked, greedy-eyed.

“Ten pounds ain’t out of the realm of possibility.” Grey reached into his trouser pocket to draw out a pouch of coins, but he held it up close to his chest. “First, the news.”

“Somefin’ specific, or is ’e out for anyfing?” Finkel asked, licking his lips eagerly.

“My employer is real interested in that Grenville miss, but she seems to be in some hot water. Not sure if she’s worth it,” Grey said in a raspy voice, stopping to scratch under his scraggly chin now that the adhesive had set. “Do you know who is after the girl or why?”

Finkel stiffened, his eyes narrowing to regard Grey more closely. “If I knew, it would be worf ten quid, indeed. I fink maybe fifty.”

Grey shook his head. “That’s a tough bargain, Finkel. I ain’t got fifty with me, and he may send me to someone else or let me go altogether if I go back empty-handed.” Grey knit his brow and sucked in his lips pensively then pulled out another purse. “I don’t want to lose my job. I can offer you all I have. Twenty quid.”

Finkel stared hard at the pouch. “Deal,” he agreed firmly. “A bigwig, Lord Bexley, ’ad ’is eyes on the chit for monfs. ’Ad me followin’ the girl ’till she got wise. Baggage sent Runners after me. Cost me a good payin’ job.” Finkel’s nostrils flared angrily.

“That’s who, but you haven’t said why,” Grey said hoarsely then coughed, cursing himself for not ending the little bastard’s life at the Garson’s.

Finkel scowled childishly at Grey. “I ain’t got a clue, yeah? ’E never felt a need for me knowin’ nofing.”

“Anything else you
do
know? A stranger who might have taken your place?” Grey grumbled, shaking his head and massaging his thigh. “For twenty quid, I have to give him something. If I lose my job, you lose a good flow o’ coin.”

“There’s always strangers,” Finkel muttered bitterly. “All I can fink is Bexley ain’t interested no more. She’s set up as anovver lord’s bit a muslin now.”

“What’s this?” Grey asked, almost forgetting to disguise his voice. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

He thought back to his last run-in with Bexley and wondered how likely it was that the earl was out for vengeance. Bexley had very nearly ruined Kathryn, and then came Grey, practically barging in on a white horse to save her.
Damn and blast!
He ought to have left good enough alone, but no, he’d had to go back. What had he said about leaving Kathryn alone? What drivel had he spewed about killing Bexley with his bare hands if he didn’t? Bloody hell, all the drunken sod would have to do was recount the story precisely as it had happened to one set of ears. It wouldn’t take much imagination to draw unseemly conclusions and shred Kathryn’s sparkling reputation to bits.

“Sure as a nun’s tight fit,” Finkel confirmed vulgarly. “Marquess o’ Ainsley’s mistress now. ’E’s been keepin’ close to ’is doxie, right an’ tight. Ever since they was seen alone togevver in Covent Garden monfs back.”

“Were they?” Grey muttered, his throat constricting.
Covent Garden? Impossible!

His mind whirled with flashbacks of the evening. Who could have seen them? He had been careful. He had swept the area. There hadn’t been a soul in sight. How long had he stood, speaking with her? How long had he held her inside the carriage?