Lord Ruin (26 page)

Together, they returned to the salon. From almost the moment Cynssyr walked in, the dynamic of the room changed. The men seemed less charming, the women more flirtatious. And everyone wanted at least one word with him. Many hoped for nothing more than to later say in passing that they had been speaking to Cynssyr, you know. And he held thus and such an opinion, or he had listened most carefully, or that the cut of his coat might never be duplicated. She knew because she’d overheard or even been party to many such breathless accounts. Cynssyr awed just about everyone. Men and women alike vied for his favor. And of all the brilliant sycophants surrounding him, it was to her, Anne Sinclair, that he revealed himself. Such an awesome, overwhelming circumstance could not last, Anne thought. How could it? How would she bear it if it did not?

With the salon concluded and the last guest was seen off, Anne went upstairs while her husband closeted himself with Hickenson and the morning’s post. Her present life, she decided, was lived on borrowed time. An interlude to be savored whilst she struggled to protect her heart. She dressed for her calls and met Cynssyr on the landing. He, too, was heading out for the evening. He wore a frac of hunter green, buff trousers cut close to the thigh—he had the legs for it—and carried a greatcoat and beaver hat. Hickenson paced at the bottom of the stairs clutching a leather case to his chest.

“Where to, my dear?” Cynssyr asked her.

“Portman Square. Then to Mrs. Withers.”

“I’m to Whitehall. Come. I’ll walk you to your carriage.” He tossed a look backward as he caught up his coat and settled it over his broad shoulders. His hand stayed on the back of her arm all the way outside. Hickenson trotted behind but discreetly found his way to the duke’s coach. True to his word, Cynssyr waved off the footman to help her up himself. He turned away, frowning. “With the duchess, Henry,” he called to the postilion waiting in position at the back of Cynssyr’s coach. “You’re not to let her out of your sight.”

“Aye, your grace.” He jumped down and ran to Anne’s carriage.

She reached to straighten the lay of his cravat over a stiff collar. His beauty had become as familiar as if it lived in her, a part of her. “Cynssyr,” she said softly.

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “I shall be home early tonight, unless the sessions keep me late.” She knew what that meant, or thought she did, and it made her smile. He smiled in return, murmuring, “You are a minx.”

When the carriage door closed on her, she fell against the seat, eyes closed, hearing the echo of her husband’s voice. If she wasn’t careful, she would find herself just as helpless as all the other women in love with Lord Ruin. If she did not find a way to stop herself from feeling, she saw nothing in her future but heartbreak.

Mrs. Withers and her husband lived on the border of Mayfair, not one of the best addresses, but nevertheless a good one about thirty minutes from Aldreth’s, under normal circumstances. Tonight, with another of the prince’s lavish entertainments open to the public, traffic clogged the streets, and the drive was over an hour. She could have walked faster.

A rotund servant showed Anne to a parlor decorated in unrelenting pink. Polly Withers sat on a chair like the stem of some pale rose doomed to break in a strong wind. A spray of egret plumes dyed a faded ruby adorned her hair, her fingers moved nervously around a gold chain. She was delicate with sharp elbows and parchment-pale skin wrapped tight around vein and tendon. Her youth came as a surprise, much younger than Anne. Emily’s age. Seventeen or eighteen at the most. With her waiflike features she ought to have been pretty and was not.

“Duchess,” she said in a lisping tone Anne at first thought an affectation but soon understood to be her normal speaking voice. Anne’s calling card rested on a table, aligned at a precise diagonal to Polly’s chair.

She still wasn’t accustomed to the precedence she now took, nor the rapt attention paid her as Cynssyr’s wife. “Do sit, please.” She waved to head off another curtsey but found herself gazing at a crown of champagne curls. Mrs. Featherstone was also a blonde.

“Your grace. An honor to meet you. May I offer you tea?” Nerves and fatigue haunted eyes of a lovely golden brown.

“Tea would be splendid.” The parlor was immaculate, nothing out of place, no brick-a-brak to lend character to the room, just a vase of blush roses on a sidetable and over the mantel a portrait of a stern, be-wigged man. Exactly the sort of spare look the house in Bartley Green took on once Anne had sold everything that might fetch a pound or two.

“My husband should be here shortly. Tea?” Polly served enthusiastically but without attention to detail, leaving the cakes just out of reach and, without asking, adding a large amount of cream to a dark tea Anne knew she’d never be able to drink. “What lovely dishes,” Anne said of the rose-painted service.

“Thank you,” Polly said as the door opened to admit an elderly gentleman. She peeked over her shoulder.

“Duchess,” he boomed in the manner of the hard of hearing. Anne extended her hand to the man in the portrait, expecting to be introduced to Polly’s father-in-law, for he was several decades Polly’s elder, sixty if a day. His dry hand trembled against hers. “Mrs. Withers,” he said sharply, “you are remiss in making introductions.” He bowed. “I am Mr. Withers, madam, at your service.”

“Sir.” Anne looked at Polly uncertainly. Surely this man wasn’t her husband? But Polly had wilted onto her seat as though all her strength had just drained away.

Withers released Anne’s hand. “I have already told your esteemed husband what happened to my wife.” The sparse gray whiskers that covered his cheeks disappeared entirely at his jowls. “This interview isn’t necessary. Ask me if it’s not a complete waste of time.”

“Do have a seat, Mr. Withers,” Anne said. He gave a curt nod and sat by Polly, one hand gripping the other over his paunch, trying, Anne realized, to hide the tremor of his right hand. “Cynssyr and I appreciate your allowing me to visit your very charming wife. The duke,” she added with deliberate emphasis, “hoped Mrs. Withers might recall something else.” She looked at Polly. Busy pouring tea for her husband, she might have been his grandchild rather than his wife. “I assure you not a word of what she tells me will find its way to anyone but Cynssyr.”

Some of the tension left the man’s shoulders. “My wife is a foolish girl, as you’ve no doubt divined.” Polly gave him his tea. He pressed his right palm into his belly and accepted the cup with the other hand. “Had she better wits she would never have been tricked.”

“I’m sure it’s true,” Polly said, retaking her seat. “I did believe the fellow to have been sent by Mrs. Halifax.” She darted a look at Anne. “Eugenia is my bosom friend, and if she. . . .” She caught sight of her husband’s scowl and left the thought incomplete.

“She allowed herself to be overpowered.” From that point on, Anne heard little more from Polly. Her husband’s version was not remarkably different from Mrs. Featherstone’s, if lacking in detail. Occasionally, he lifted his hands, and she could see the tremor had become more pronounced. She listened politely, nodding as appropriate. Had she ever seen a couple less suited than these two? He was far too old for Polly, a man long past his youth and well past his prime, too set in his ways to adapt to a child-bride and too resentful of her youth.

Anne could not help making the comparison to her own marriage, certainly hers was also a match of opposites. But Cynssyr didn’t treat her like a child, and he never condescended to her as did Withers to Polly. She felt an unexpected but familiar shiver streak along her spine and knew it for desire. Lord, but she didn’t think Withers had ever made his wife feel passion like Cynssyr roused in her. Much as she and Cynssyr were mismatched, the fact was, he could have made her quite unhappy, and he hadn’t.

“And now,” the man concluded. “You know all there is to know. Mrs. Withers will see you to the door.”

“Oh, but she’s not finished her tea.” Under cover of refreshing Anne’s untouched tea, Polly leaned forward and spoke softly. “One of them was from the country. The north. He’s in service somewhere here in London.”

Anne, who had given up hope of learning anything new, forced herself to calm. “In service?”

“In a fancy house, I gathered.” She glanced at her husband. “He made disparaging remarks about his employer. Thought him a dullard. A vain dandy.” She laughed, a weak, joyless sound, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. “Aren’t all the dandies vain?”

Anne spoke softly, too. “Is it possible the other man was his employer?”

“In truth, I thought so.”

The parlor door opened to admit the butler. “We are not at home,” Withers bellowed.

“Begging your pardon, sir.” The card on the salver the butler extended to Mr. Withers was Devon’s. “The earl of Bracebridge.”

Withers took the card, silver eyebrows arching. His hand trembled. “You don’t say?”

Devon strode in before a refusal could be offered. Hat under one arm, he went straight to Polly. “Madam.” He bowed, taking her hand but quickly releasing it.

“My lord,” she said with a dainty sigh and an uncertain glance at Anne. “Will you have tea?”

“How gracious, but, thank you, no.”

Withers stuck out his hand. He, too, gave Anne a sideways look. “Honored, my lord. Honored by your visit.”

“What is it, Dev?” Anne asked. She could hardly help but be aware of a new undercurrent of tension. Though she didn’t know why, plainly Devon’s visit had some special meaning.

“There’s been another abduction. Late yesterday evening.”

“Is she all right?” Polly breathed.

“Never mind that,” Withers rumbled. “Have they caught the man?”

“No, to both, I fear. The physician does not expect her to survive.” He gave Polly an assessing look then addressed Anne. “It was Cynssyr who found her. He is with her now, or was when he sent me to fetch you.”

Polly shivered, clasping her arms around her waist. “Take her home, my lord. She should be with the duke at a time like this.” She sounded, for some reason, accusing.

“You are, madam,” said Devon his voice a bit too smooth, “quite right.” He took Anne’s arm. “Shall we collect your things, Duchess? I’ve sent your carriage home,” he said when they were on their way out. “I’ll take you in mine.” He held her arm as they walked down the stairs. Devon’s curricle was at the curb, but he’d been lucky to get the spot. Carriages jammed the streets every way one looked. None were moving with any dispatch. Raising his voice to be heard over the din, he said, “Damn Prinny and his wretched parties.” He helped her into his coach, a handsome vehicle with green leather seats. After thirty minutes they’d not even made it out of sight of the Withers’ home, and Anne felt the beginnings of nausea. The biscuits were in her carriage.

She concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. “Really, I think we ought to walk.”

Devon cursed and threw open the door. “You’re right.” To the coachman, he called out, “Make your way home as best you can.” He took Anne’s arm. “Pull up your cloak. For certain we’ll have rain before we make Queen Anne Street.” At first, she didn’t mind the cold for the fresh air settled her stomach. A quarter of an hour later the damp had penetrated her heavy cloak and frozen her nose, hands and feet. Devon glanced at the sky and walked faster. Sure enough, moments later fat raindrops hit the street and pounded onto rooftops and carriages. The downpour forced them to refuge in a doorway. He kept an arm around her, shielding her from the worst of the wet. Anne huddled close and didn’t demur when he took off his coat and put it around her shoulders.

At last, the rain lessened. Devon lightly touched her nose to wipe away a drop of rain. “Shall we?” She was too cold to do anything but nod. His arm stayed around her as they navigated the now rain-slickened streets. She was glad of his warmth. They reached Cyrwthorn fifty minutes later. Devon led an exhausted Anne up the steps, ignoring Merchant hovering in the doorway awaiting dripping hats, cloaks and coats. He turned and put his hands on her shoulders. “Will you be all right, Anne, or shall I stay?” Water puddled on the marble floor.

“It’s kind of you to offer, but, no.”

He let his palms slide off her shoulders. “I’ll be at home. You’ll send if the need arises?”

“I will. And thank you for fetching me.” She turned to Merchant when Dev had gone. “He’s in the parlor?”

“One worries, your grace, when the dark humor strikes him so deeply.”

The parlor door was ominously closed. The implications of her having no fear gave her pause. It seemed amazing, and absurd, that she had ever believed him nothing more than a heartless rogue. She opened the door. The room stank heavily of cigar and the fireplace coals were long dead. Cynssyr sat on an armchair pulled up before the fire, close enough that he could flick his ravaged cigars onto the ashes with minimum effort. A bottle of scotch sat unopened on the table beside him. Without turning to look he said, “Forgive me, Anne. I am not in the mood for company.”

She bent down at the fireplace. “I won’t disturb you long.” With practiced hands, she added more coal and restarted the fire. She stayed by the fire, hoping to take off the chill of her walk. Right now he seemed every inch the man she thought she’d married. Arrogant, harsh, intimidating and beautiful beyond description. She pasted a smile on her face. “There, you see?”

His eyes followed her as she rose. Their sad, faraway expression made her think of faded roses and letters written to parents who would grieve forever after. “How went your interview with Mrs. Withers?” he asked.

“Mostly a waste of time, I’m afraid.” Her chest felt tight. She wanted to hold him in her arms and take away his pain, but she could not make herself move. Instead, she said, “Mr. Withers did most of the talking. I dared not ask anything important of her, for with her husband there she would have been forced to lie. Either to me or her husband, and that would not have been fair.”