Dangerous to Kiss (48 page)

He touched a hand to her cheek. “Are you all right? You look rather pale.”

Her smile was meant to reassure. “I’m fine, Stephen, really. This won’t take long. When I’m finished, I shall wait for you in the carriage.”

He gave her a long look, nodded, and entered the library. Like a sleepwalker, Deborah remained where she was, trying to fight off the potent atmosphere that seemed to be saturating every particle of her being. She
gave herself a mental dressing-down. It was only a house after all. There was nothing to fear here. Breathing deeply, she began on her pilgrimage, beginning with the rooms of state on the ground floor.

Perfection, cold perfection-those were the only words to describe the house. Her father’s personality seemed to be stamped on every room. Not a thing was out of place. There was no dust, not a scratch on any piece of furniture, not a chip or a crack on any of the porcelain. It looked as though the rooms had never been used. She tried to imagine Quentin and Jason running through these rooms, and failed. But when she thought of herself and Stephen, she could remember how it was very well. They had been afraid to put a foot out of place, quite literally. She remembered sitting for what seemed like hours, without speaking, without moving a muscle. Their place had been in the nursery and schoolroom on the top floor, or better yet, in the cellars where their father never ventured.

As she moved through each successive room, a feeling of panic began to grow in her. She had the strangest sensation that she was that young girl again, and she was locked in time with no hope of escape. She had awakened from a dream, and it was gradually receding. There was no Gray, no Quentin, no Channings or Sommerfield. The Graysons were only a figment of her imagination. She had never loved or been loved. In another moment, even the memory of the dream would fade.

“No!” she cried out. “No!” And picking up her skirts, she ran for the stairs that led to the nursery. She flung herself into that room as if the furies were after her and came to a sudden halt. The room was choked with furniture and odds and ends that she recognized had come from Strand House. She didn’t know what she’d hoped to find in that room, but whatever it was, it was there no longer.

She knew she was imagining things, but she couldn’t help what she was feeling. It seemed to her that something malevolent stalked her in that house, some shade from the past that had bound her with invisible threads that were as hard to resist as iron manacles. She wanted
to pick up her skirts and make a dash for freedom, then she would be off and running, running, running …

You run from things, you know you do. Some things have to be faced.
Gray’s words filtered into her mind and the panic receded a little. She could fight the house’s spell. She was stronger now. Gray had done this for her. As if in answer to that thought, pictures of another house drifted before her eyes.
Sommerfield.
It, too, was stamped with the personality of its owner. It was an old house, solid, battle scarred, but it radiated warmth and benevolence. Without the least difficulty, she could picture hordes of noisy children marching through its hallowed halls, leaving their footprints on the parquet floors, or their grubby fingerprints on the highly polished surfaces of the oak furniture. Her mind wandered over that house and finally focused on the huge, stuffed war horse in the Great Hall, and she found herself smiling. If anything in that house personified Gray, it was that stuffed war horse. It, too, was battle scarred, but it stood there proudly, a lonely sentinel guarding the house. Warwick was its name, Old Warwick, and Gussie had told her that they would never part with it. If it were not for Old Warwick, the course of the Graysons’ fortunes would have been far different.

She stood there for some time with a smile on her face, looking at everything, looking at nothing, thinking of Sommerfield and what it represented. Gradually, the image faded, and with it her smile.

If it were not for Gray, the course of Quentin’s life might have been far different. “Mine too,” she said, her voice anguished, “mine too.” Her name had been cleared and there was no need for subterfuge now. It was public knowledge that she was Lady Deborah Montague, and she could come and go as she pleased. She should be ecstatic. She was free, but she didn’t feel free. The past was still taking its toll on her. If she were truly free she would not be so afraid.

As if her thoughts were not torment enough, she heard Gray’s voice as he had last spoken to her:
It seems we both made a mistake. I hope you find what you are looking for. But I see now you won’t find it with me. I
could never be happy with a woman who was forever questioning my integrity. And you have questioned it once too often. If you don’t commit yourself to me now, this is the end for us. Be very sure I mean that, Deb.

He didn’t understand. It wasn’t
him.
It was the ghosts of Belvidere. It was her father and the power that was invested in him. How could a woman fight a man and win? Her mother had tried and lost.

You will never hear my mother or sisters speak like that. Doesn’t that tell you something, Deb?

For a long, long time, she remained motionless, veering between black despair and tremulous hope. She was no longer that frightened girl who had been so easily intimidated. She was stronger, but was she strong enough? And what was the point of so much anguished debate anyway? Gray would never take her back now. He had made it impossible for her to work her way back into his good graces. In the last three days, while he had stayed on at Kendal House, spending every spare minute at the Foreign Office, she had gone down to Sommerfield with Quentin and the rest of the Graysons. She could not remain there much longer. She had a brother now, and it was expected that she would go to him. She wouldn’t, of course. She would set up her own establishment and be perfectly happy doing whatever took her fancy.

On that happy note, she marched out of the nursery and descended the stairs. The house’s spell was strong, but hers was stronger. “Old Warwick,” she told the Greek columns and marched on by. “Old Warwick,” she told her father’s eyes as they followed her down the stairs. She was crossing the hall to the front doors when Stephen came out of the library.

“How was it?” he asked.

Her smile was brilliant. “It’s smaller than I remember.”

“No ghosts?”

“No. That’s over and done with now.” Suddenly conscious that he seemed preoccupied, she said in a different tone, “What’s wrong, Stephen? What happened in there?”

“Nothing much. It was just as I anticipated.”

“Then why the long face?”

“It’s our sister, Elizabeth. She’s a little mouse, afraid of her own shadow. I fear that her life with her mother and that guardian of hers is going to be no better than ours was with our father.”

“But that is intolerable. What’s to be done?”

“With your permission, I intend to buy them off, or threaten them into letting Elizabeth come to us. It could cost us a packet, you know.”

She went up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “We must do whatever is necessary to bring matters to a right and proper conclusion,” she said.

He grinned. “I was hoping you would say that. It’s best if you wait out here. This could become very unpleasant.”

“Oh no you don’t. I’m coming with you.”

He bowed. She curtsied. Arm in arm, they swept into the library.

Gray spent his days at the Foreign Office and his nights at his clubs. As far as possible, he tried not to think of Deborah. His first instinct had been the right one, and now he regretted that he had not held to it. She would never overcome her fear and distrust of men. Her father had seen to that. If the old bastard were not already dead, he would be tempted to put a bullet in his brain. And besides all that, he and Deborah had got off to a bad start. It would always poison her mind against him. He had faced the truth and finally come to terms with it, and that was that. It was time to get on with his own life.

A fortnight after Deborah and his family had removed to Sommerfield, he went to the King’s Theater and afterward mixed with the performers in the green room, imbibing the obligatory glass of champagne. This ritual was the time-honored way for gentlemen of rank and fashion to acquire a mistress. The scantily clad opera dancers flirted and paraded themselves, showing off
their lithesome bodies in hopes of attracting a rich protector. Gray had a flash of recall-Deborah, hanging on to her shift as if her life depended on it. That’s when he had removed her drawers.

His absent smile was noted by one of the opera dancers, and she left the young lordling who, she knew, was on the point of offering her carte blanche, and sauntered over. She knew of Lord Kendal, knew of the house in Hans Town that had stood empty for more than four months, and she did not see why she should not be its next occupant. She wasn’t thinking only of Lord Kendal’s wealth and title. She was thinking that she would be the envy of her peers. Kendal exuded power and something that his finely tailored clothes and natural charm could not hide. He made her think of a sleepy, tawny lion that would turn savage when roused. The thought excited her.

Five minutes’ conversation with Miss Clarke put Gray in a foul mood. He realized that he had been premature in thinking he was ready to take a mistress. It wasn’t that the girl didn’t appeal to him. He would have had to have one foot in the grave not to be affected by that lithe body and the sultry look in those violet-blue eyes. It was the crushing weight of guilt that put a damper on things. He felt as though he were betraying Deborah, which was utter nonsense. That episode of his life was over and done with. He would never take up with Deborah again, not even if she were willing. A man had to know that his woman was committed to him come what may. She wanted a man who would be her lapdog, and he was not that man.

Thoroughly incensed that he could not bring himself to make the offer which he knew Miss Clarke would jump at, he made his excuses and stomped out of the theater. His empty, lonely house held no appeal for him, and he walked the short distance to his club in St. James’s. In the reading room, he came upon Lord Lawford. Had the old codger not seen him, Gray would have removed himself to another corner of White’s where he could get drunk in private, but Lawford had seen him
and had waved him over, and Gray was obliged to answer the summons.

Lawford was drinking port, and after requesting one of the waiters to bring another glass, Gray found himself drinking port too, when what he really wanted was strong spirits, something to dull the edge of his black humor.

“I have been hoping to run into you,” said Lawford.

“Oh?” said Gray. He grimaced as he drank the port.

There was a shrewd look in Lawford’s eye. “That business of Philip Standish—he
was
your murderer, was he not? That story you told at the Foreign Office, that Standish lost his life while trying to save Lady Deborah, it
was
pure fiction from beginning to end. Am I right?”

Gray hunched down in his chair. “Confidentially?” he said.

“Need you ask?” There was a faint reproach in Law-ford’s tone.

“No. I beg your pardon. Your help in unmasking him was crucial. It was Standish, as you say.”

“Why the secrecy? I would have thought you would want the whole world to know.”

“I met his father,” answered Gray. “He has enough grief to bear without me adding to it.”

“Ah. The vicar?”

Gray shrugged. “He made a great impression on me.”

Lawford smiled. “Do you know, Kendal, I always liked you and now I’m beginning to see why.”

At least someone liked him, thought Gray peevishly. His own family had abandoned him and carried Deborah off to Sommerfield. He wasn’t sorry that Deborah had friends to support her at this time. It just seemed callous that no one spared a thought for him.

Appalled, he looked at the glass of port in his hand. He was beginning to think that port and champagne were a lethal combination. In another minute or two, he would be wallowing in self-pity, telling anyone who would listen to him the sad story of his life with Deborah.

There was a commotion in the vestibule as some
young gentleman cried out that he had won the bet that was wagered in White’s famous betting book.

“What’s that all about?” asked Gray indifferently.

“That,” said Lawford, “was a bet on Eric Perrin’s new flirt.”

Gray’s lip curled. “Who is the lucky lady?”

Lawford smiled. “His wife, Lady Helena.” Lawford nodded, answering Gray’s blank look. “I see from your expression that you did not know Perrin has been hopelessly in love with his wife these many years?”

“Perrin?”
said Gray. “If he was, he never showed it. He made a spectacle of himself, parading his mistresses before Helena. I felt sorry for her.”

“And I was sorry for Perrin. Lady Helena was hardly aware of his existence. What was the poor man to do?” When Gray did not answer, Lawford laughed. “Don’t look so morose,” he said. “I have a premonition that you will be as lucky as Perrin.”

“I am not Perrin,” said Gray. “I don’t have his patience.”