Kate Moore (4 page)

4

At Lady Lacy’s Duke Street residence, Juliet dashed ahead of Susannah and rang the bell with insistent vigor. Her efforts produced a small, white-haired butler, with a goat-like beard, whose cravat was decidedly askew. Juliet brushed past him, leaving the man tottering and gripping the doorknob to retain his balance.

An instant later a decidedly unladylike shriek rent the air, and Juliet reappeared in the doorway holding aloft the highwayman’s card.

“He’s. . . . He must be an earl. His father’s a marquess,” she shouted.

Susannah turned to Tim Dachet with instructions about the luggage. Silently she cursed the young highwayman, whom she suspected of reading Minerva Press novels.
An earl? More likely an understudy in a melodrama.

“Here now, Miss,” said the little butler to Juliet. He was holding his head with both hands as if in pain. “Who are you to come bursting in at her ladyship’s door, shouting so a man’s head would split?”

Juliet drew herself up with haughty dignity. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where is my mama?”

“I’m Chettle, Miss,” said the little man. He peered more closely at Juliet. “Your mama’s out.”

“Out? She can’t be out. She knows we arrive tonight.” Juliet gave Susannah a puzzled look.

Susannah came up the steps and put out a hand to calm Juliet. “Mr. Chettle, no doubt her ladyship made arrangements for Miss Lacy’s arrival,” she said quietly.

Under her gaze the little butler straightened his shoulders. Then a second carriage drew up. Chettle muttered a
pardon me
and, abandoning them, descended to aid the new arrival, leaving in his wake the unmistakable odor of spirits. From the second carriage Lady Lacy alighted. She accepted her butler’s unsteady arm and began speaking to him at once in low, quick tones.

“That’s my mother?” Juliet whispered with a trace of wonder.

Susannah nodded. Evelina Lacy had changed little in ten years. Tall and golden-haired with beautiful blue eyes and a generous bosom, she looked little older than her daughter except for a softness under the chin. And she dressed with a degree of elegance Susannah had never seen in Berkshire. This night Evelina was attired in peach and cream from the feathers on her toque to the slippers on her feet.

When she saw Juliet, she stopped speaking and shook off Chettle’s arm. “Juliet, dearest. Is it really you? My little girl?”

“Mama?” Juliet stood still. Whatever memories she had of her mother, she was clearly adjusting her thinking to the elegant reality before her.

Evelina came forward with a rustle of silk and touched her cheek to Juliet’s. “How pretty you are!”

She stepped back, and mother and daughter regarded each other silently. With an awkward little laugh, Evelina spoke again. “I hope you don’t mind me being out when you arrived. I never miss the Duchess of Somerset’s ball.”

“We only just came, Mama,” said Juliet.

Evelina tugged at her long kid gloves and gave Susannah an assessing glance.

“Mama, this is cousin Susannah. Mrs. Bowen, that is,” said Juliet.

“Ah, Richard’s daughter. Lacy mentioned you, didn’t he? Widowed?”

Susannah nodded, and a crashing thump behind them punctuated her unspoken lie. The three ladies turned to find Tim Dachet standing sullenly over Juliet’s trunk.

“Chettle,” said her ladyship, assuming a sudden command. “See to your duties, and ring Mrs. Chettle for me, please.”

Mr. Chettle wobbled off, and his wife appeared in his stead. A stern-faced matron in stiff black skirts, she ordered the footmen about with surprising authority and settled the ladies before a warm fire in an elaborate parlor.

As they sipped tea, Evelina studied her daughter frankly and proclaimed her delight with Juliet’s beauty. “How fortunate that you favor me and not your father. We will have no trouble finding you a splendid husband. Why, only tonight there were dozens of eligibles at the duchess’s ball. I must tell you all about it.”

Susannah observed her aunt as she spoke. Evelina, it was plain, liked everything that her husband did not—warmth, comfort, extravagance, fashion, and talk. Susannah recalled that her aunt came from a large family, and that before her marriage Evelina had enjoyed all the popularity that prettiness and a substantial dowry could secure. She had not been happy in her marriage, and in the very season that had been so disastrous for Susannah, Evelina and Uncle John had agreed to live in separate residences—hers in town, his in the country. She had surrendered her children to her husband’s care.

Juliet, too, watched her mother closely and took in her mother’s description of the ball with obvious interest, but she had hardly forgotten their encounter with the highwayman. She turned the small white card over and over between her fingers.

At one of Evelina’s pauses, Juliet said, “Now, Mama, you must hear our adventure. We met the most dashing highwayman.” In a few breathless sentences she recounted the episode. “And it’s all a disguise because he gave me his card, and he’s the son of a peer.”

“What?” said Evelina. “A titled highwayman?”

“Well, look at the card, Mama.” Juliet held out the card and Evelina reached for a pair of reading spectacles.

“Francis William Arden, Marquess of Warne,” she read. “Warne? You cannot have met Warne for I saw him tonight at the ball, and heard the most intriguing
on dit
—”

“Not the marquess, Mama,” interrupted Juliet. “Our highwayman was quite a young man. You must read the handwritten note.”

“‘
With my father’s compliments’
,” she read. “Well, what does that mean?”

“It means,” said Juliet patiently, “that the highwayman is Lord Warne’s son. It is romantic beyond anything. I wonder why he must go in disguise holding up coaches on the heath?”

Susannah thought the name Warne familiar and tried to recall where she might have heard it. If the highwayman was truly a young lord, perhaps he had been acting on a wager. She accepted the card Juliet now thrust in her hands. Its message was written in a neat schoolboy hand by someone who had mended his pen well.

A new thought occurred to Susannah.

“You know, Juliet, a marquess or any father may have several sons, and, of course, all cannot inherit equal wealth. Perhaps our highwayman is a younger son.”

“But, my dears,” said Lady Lacy. “Lord Warne is not married. He has no sons at all.”

Susannah and Juliet both stared.

“But he must have, Mama. Our highwayman was a gentleman.”

Evelina shook her head. “I’m sure he’s no connection of Warne’s.”

“Perhaps an impostor, acting on a wager,” Susannah suggested.

Juliet turned on her. “Susannah, you do spoil everything. He must be Lord Warne’s son. He had his card.”

“If your mother is right, he can be neither Lord Warne’s son, nor a gentleman,” Susannah countered. “And you are not likely to see him in town.” She knew Juliet was thinking the young man would find them. Confound him for being mysterious. Nothing could be more appealing to one of Juliet’s temperament.

“Well, I will look for him. You have no sense of romance, Susannah. In some ballroom he will find me.”

“It might be wise to listen to Susannah, Juliet dear,” said Evelina. For the first time she looked uneasy about their story. “You must not offend Lord Warne. He’s a dangerous man, quite implacable. You know he’s called the Iron Lord. He drove his father to an untimely death.”

“How?” asked Juliet.

“Well, I hardly know the details. Warne has avoided the
ton
for years, but he is utterly merciless. He bought up his father’s vowels and gave them to the moneylenders. The older marquess was quite unwell and in no shape to flee. It ruined dozens of families when the old man went bankrupt.”

Again Evelina cast a speculative glance at Susannah. “Wasn’t your father one of the men who was ruined when old Warne’s West Indies bank failed?”

Susannah flushed. She had heard little of her family after they cast her off. “Yes, I think so.” Uncle John must have mentioned Warne in connection with her family’s ruin and her parents’ death in a carriage accident.

“Still,” Evelina pointed out, “Warne is rich as Croesus, and tonight I heard him say that he will choose a bride this season. It could be you, Juliet dear. Imagine a daughter of mine a marchioness and rich as an empress.”

“Oh, I’d never want to meet someone that old,” said Juliet.

“Old?” said Evelina. She straightened her chin, pressing her hand up against its softness, and Susannah suggested a new topic, diverting her aunt’s attention to Juliet’s well-cut wool gown.

“Did Lacy give you enough for your clothes, dear?” Evelina asked. “We should see a modiste tomorrow.”

Later, by the fire in the comfortable room that had been assigned to her, Susannah took stock of the day. She stretched her toes toward the coals. If the highwayman did not seek Juliet out, if Evelina did indeed know some acceptable gentlemen, and if no word of their adventure came to the ears of the implacable Lord Warne, Juliet might marry wisely yet.

Susannah thought of her uncle’s list of suitors. Lord Warne’s name was not there though he had greater rank and wealth than any gentleman on the list. Apparently, Uncle John had remembered what Warne had done to Richard and the others. A dangerous man her aunt had said, a man who terrified the
ton
and yet meant to pick a bride from among them. Susannah suddenly pictured a sneering dandy moving down a line of white-gowned misses shaking his head. Did the man think choosing a bride was like . . . choosing a hat?

5

Kirby switched the valise from his right to his left hand and let himself into the lodging house. Though it was well after midnight, lights were burning in several rooms. The residents were theatre people who hardly kept shopkeepers’ hours. He made his way up the open oak stair, a relic of an earlier era of elegance, past number one where Draycot, the actor, was obviously entertaining a large party, past number two, where the sounds suggested a more intimate gathering, and up to the landing he shared with Mrs. Hayter. Light seeped from under her door, and he prepared himself for the likelihood that she would call to him. It was through her kindness that he’d got the room.

They had met at the theatre, where she was one of the backers of the company. And without asking what his other business in London was, she had helped him find the masks, wigs, and cosmetics he needed to put his plan into action. No, she would not scold or nag him; she would probably want to be sure that he’d had something to eat. He
had
eaten at Staines, hours ago, but now his stomach grumbled at the thought of food.

Until this very moment he had forgotten. Tonight he’d felt that rush in his veins like one felt at the opening of a play. He had delivered the first two cards, and soon word would get to Warne. The plan was going to work.

And the plan had led him to Juliet Lacy. He had seen her at the edge of the crowd at Staines, seen the bright curiosity with which she looked about her, her eagerness for life and adventure, and her dismay at being restrained by her strict companion. On the spot he decided that she would be the next recipient of a card and had followed them out of Staines, waiting for the opportunity to hold up their coach.

The other robbers had never been part of the plan, but the thrill of thwarting them, of rescuing Miss Lacy and giving her cause to think well of him went beyond anything he had anticipated. He wanted to be alone with it.

Mrs. Hayter’s door opened.

“Mr. Kirby,” she whispered. “We have not seen you all day. You must be needing a bite to eat.”

Kirby faced his own door. His stomach growled again, not a polite anticipatory note, but a full, rolling rumble. He thought of Odysseus in the hall of King Alcinous. “Belly must be filled,” the hero had said. Kirby laughed and turned to face his neighbor.

She stood in the entrance to her suite looking quite unlike her daytime self. Her deep red hair, usually elaborately curled, was pulled back in a loose braid under a lacy cap. A jade silk wrapper heightened the white of her skin, and her gray eyes sparkled with tears. For a moment he simply stared. Though he knew her to be close to his mother’s age, she looked young and hurt, and the heroic impulse that had come to life in him earlier made him step forward. “Mrs. Hayter, what is it?”

“Oh dear,” she said. “You must not note these tears. It’s . . . it’s just a novel I’ve been reading. Do come in, Mr. Kirby.” She brushed her cheeks with the back of a small white hand and stepped aside, pulling the door open for him.

Kirby entered her apartments, set his valise on the floor, and shed his greatcoat. Mrs. Hayter’s two little maids came forward to take the coat, and his hostess led him to a seat in her sitting room, a room furnished with the opulent remains of a more splendid time in her life. Kirby thought about her tear-brightened eyes.

A maid brought a tray with a supper of claret, bread, and cold meat pie, just as if he’d been expected. When they were alone on a gold damask sofa, he turned to Mrs. Hayter. “You’ve not been reading in here,” he said. “The light’s too dim. Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “First, you must eat.” She poured some claret and put the glass in his hand. To please her he drank a long swallow of the wine and ate a few bites of the meat pie.

She sat at the other end of the low backless sofa with her feet tucked under her, toying with the end of her braid, watching him politely. At last she began, “You will think me very foolish, Mr. Kirby—”

“Kirby,” he corrected her. “It’s my given name.” In truth it was his mother’s name, but as all
his
names were his father’s, too, he refused to use them.

“Kirby, then,” Mrs. Hayter said. She straightened a little and adjusted the tie of her wrapper under her breasts. White, full breasts, Kirby noted. He took another swallow of wine and felt it loosen his limbs.

“How very unconventional,” she said. “I like that.”

“So you will tell me what’s troubling you?” he asked.

She nodded. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she groped for the pocket of her dressing gown. Kirby put down the wine glass, scooted across the space that separated them, and offered his handkerchief, which she accepted with a tremulous smile, pressing the linen to her eyes.

“Do you ever miss your parents?” she asked, her wet gray gaze catching his.

He straightened abruptly and looked away. Mrs. Hayter had spoken of Warne as if she knew of him, and no one must guess his connection with the peer before his plan had time to work.

“My mother,” he said.

“She must miss you and worry to think of you in this wicked city alone.” Mrs. Hayter reached out and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“She’s dead.”

His companion gave a little gasp, and the hand holding his tightened. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to grieve you.”

“It’s been three years,” Kirby replied. “I can speak of her.”

“Tell me,” his companion invited. She pulled his hands into her lap and held them between her own.

Kirby thought fleetingly that it had been his intention to comfort her, but it would be a pleasure to tell someone about his mother, and Mrs. Hayter was looking at him with such sympathy and interest in her shining gray eyes.

So he told her about Ellen Kirby, the vicar’s daughter, the scholar, about her love of Homer and Shakespeare, about her quick laughter, her determination to provide for him, and her years of humiliation at the hands of cloddish employers.

“She was widowed young, your mother?”

Kirby nodded, letting the lie stand.

“So you did not know your father?” Mrs. Hayter looked at his hands, which she stroked lightly with her own. “But your mother told you of him, how fine he was and how much like him you are?”

Kirby looked sharply at her, but her head remained bent over their hands. He supposed it was a guess. Any mother would tell her son that about an absent father. Hadn’t Penelope told Telemachus how like he was to the missing Odysseus?

But Ellen Kirby had said nothing of her husband until she lay dying. Then she had shown her son clippings and letters, a history of his father’s life. Her Odysseus, she called him. She made her son promise that he would present himself to his father in London. Well, Kirby had made the promise, and he would keep it, but in his own way. He wanted nothing from the highborn lord who had abandoned them to live in luxury and sin, indifferent to his wife’s suffering, his son’s powerlessness—except revenge. He would leave a trail of cards, exposing every episode of his father’s infamous conduct.

“I am not at all like him,” he told Mrs. Hayter.

At that she raised her glistening gray eyes to his and lifted her soft white hand to his face. With one finger she traced the sharp peak of a brow and the narrow blade of his nose, and touched the corner of his mouth.

Looking down at her, Kirby could see the tops of her breasts, white against the green silk, like foam against the sea, and he had the oddest feeling that she wanted him to pull the dangling ribbon that held her wrapper in place, to spill the soft white flesh into his hands.

His pulse pounded and his male flesh rose. She had withdrawn her hands from his, and his were lying in her lap. He stood abruptly and realized that even in the dim light she could not mistake the state he was in. He had meant to offer comfort and was about to offer insult.

Her head was bowed again as if to spare him any embarrassment.

“I beg your pardon,” he whispered, and turned and fled.

As soon as the door closed behind her guest, Molly Hayter rose and took a candle into the little vestibule and knelt beside the valise her maids had moved to one side. With swift, silent efficiency she explored its contents. There was nothing there to surprise her except a bit of brown paper wrapped around some cards. She opened the little package and removed one of the cards.

“What a very poor liar you are, my friend Kirby,” she said. “I knew you for his son the minute I saw you.” She restored the remaining cards to their package and the contents of the valise to good order and strolled back to her sitting room.

She stopped before the large gilt mirror that dominated the wall above the mantel and gave a little tug on the ribbon that secured her wrapper. The silk slipped away, revealing full white breasts with rosy peaks. Molly studied them dispassionately. She turned the small white card over and looked at it again.

“So you mean to pay your father back, young Arden. Well, I can help you, truly, I can.”