Maggie MacKeever (20 page)

At least she hadn’t hit him. Ned walked with her down the quiet hallway. “You’re caught up in a dangerous game. I don’t want you to end up like Amélie Morel.”

Julie tried to pull out of his grasp. “I won’t hang myself.”

Could she be so unaware of her own danger? “Are you sure Amélie Morel did so? It’s not difficult to stage something like that.”

Julie stared at him. “You think—”

Ned released her. “I think I can’t keep you safe if you won’t tell me who your master is.”

“And I know I can’t keep you safe if I do tell you.” Julie pulled the hood of her cloak up over her bright curls and slipped out into the night.

Chapter Twenty-One

Lust wants whatever it can’t have.
— Pubilius Syrus

Almack’s Assembly Rooms were abuzz. Not only was Lord Saxe on the premises this Wednesday eve, he had brought with him Sabine Viccars, his rumored
inamorata
and the current object of the Czar’s erratic interest; and while Sally Jersey might have liked to refuse her admittance, the other Lady Patronesses were curious as
to what had prompted their favorite flirt to grace these august premises. Not one among them imagined for an instant that he had come to survey the most recent entries in the matrimonial sweepstakes. Frankly, no one cared. The sight of the baron in knee breeches was enough to make even the haughty Mme de Lieven think she might swoon.

Lord Saxe was himself curious about his presence here. Freed of his official duties for the evening — the Allied Aggravations were dining with Lord Liverpool and he had begged off — Kane had anticipated a leisurely opportunity to puzzle out the mystery that was Sabine. Instead here they were at Almack’s, which was hardly to his taste. Or, he would have thought, to hers. In response to his inquiry about what game she was playing, Sabine responded that she was embarked on counterintelligence, and he should watch to see how the thing was done; and then set about scotching certain rumors by means of a few well-placed utterances, chief among them ‘how very tiresome’ and ‘doubted the fidelity of my own ears’, casual references to her ‘dear Ned’ and the foolishness of those who believed every
on-dit
that they heard.

“And we are interfering why?” Kane asked, as they ascended the grand staircase.

“Because we can.” Sabine appeared oblivious to the curious
glances being cast their way. “If the gossip is permitted to go on, Ned won’t be able to deny the rumors without embarrassing the girl. Which his cousin is counting on, no doubt.”

In that case, Hannah would be annoyed that Amélie Morel had gone and hanged herself just as speculation was starting to gain momentum, thereby stealing the spotlight from Ned. Kane wondered if Mme Morel was in a place to know that some good had come from her demise. Sabine had a certain momentum of her own, and an admirable way of making her way through a crowd. She was elegant in sea green gauze tonight, and a white satin cap graced with ostrich plumes. Ladies and their feathers. Kane wondered idly how many he had crushed.

Feathers, that was, not ladies. Lord Saxe didn’t dally where hearts might be involved.

The large ballroom was profusely lit by wax-lights; decorated with gilt columns and pilasters, classic medallions and mirrors. Around the perimeters ranged sofas, the lady patronesses having their own throne at the upper end. The space reserved for dancing was marked off by silken ropes.

A country dance was ending. With a skill that might have been envied by the great Wellington, Sabine determined that Madalyn Tate was present, arranged an introduction, and left Kane to enjoy a
conversation with Lady Jersey while she bore off her startled
quarry — a young woman with a plumpish sort of figure, an abundance of dark curls, and a roundish sort of face; neither pretty nor an antidote, just an ordinary sort of female wearing a pink and white striped confection that gave her an unfortunate resemblance to a peppermint stick — to the adjacent tea-room for a private conversation over sour lemonade.

“Maddie Tate isn’t what I would have chosen for Dorset.” Lady Jersey had noted the direction of Kane’s gaze. “Although since he
was in the military, he might be capable of keeping her hellions in line. The twins look like angels, which proves that appearances can be deceiving. I can’t imagine where they get
their wayward natures, for both Maddie and their father were unfailingly well behaved. Although that may be the answer. All those repressed high spirits have come out in their offspring.”

“Ah,” commented Kane.

Lady Jersey was perfectly content conversing with herself, so long as one of the most handsome gentlemen in the room strolled by her side. “Maddie’s papa arranged her first marriage and is on the look-out to make her another. She will marry not to her own advantage, but to his.”

“And so he is conniving with Lady Dorset.” Since Kane was here, he might as well shove in his own oar. “However, it won’t serve.”

Lovely, lovely gossip. Lady Jersey was in bliss. “Nonsense! I had it from Hannah herself. By way of Barbara Watson and Ada South, admittedly, but they swear every word is true.”

“I don’t doubt your sources. However, the truth is
. . .
” Over her shoulder, Kane saw Sabine return to the ballroom. Madalyn Tate trailed behind, hectic color in her cheeks. “To use the word with no bark on it, Lady Dorset has not recovered from the shock of her son’s death. One dislikes to suggest the dowager might be in her dotage, but the fact remains that she’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Her desire to see Ned leg-shackled has clouded her perceptions. These things happen, alas, when women approach a certain age.”

Lady Jersey twinkled at him. “And no one knows more about women than you.”

Kane accorded this coquettish salvo the attention it deserved,
which was none, but managed to convey to his companion that he held her in the utmost admiration.
Sabine paused behind them, raised an eyebrow. Ever so slightly, Kane shook his head.
“We must pity Lady Dorset rather than condemn her for misguided notions,” he said. “Of course the knowledge of her failing faculties will remain among ourselves.”

Of course it would do no such thing. “My lips are sealed,” Lady Jersey breathed, and then went off to share these delicious developments with a hundred of her closest friends.

“I told Mrs. Tate that Ned had his heart broken in the Peninsula,” remarked Sabine. “And that I would be surprised if he ever got over it. What a pair of liars we are.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a diplomat.” Kane offered her his arm.

“Which is to say the same thing.”

Sabine tucked her hand through his elbow. They strolled around the perimeter of the ballroom. Kane said, “So Ned had his heart broke?”

“I deemed it sufficiently melodramatic to appeal. Mrs. Tate is now aware that I will go to any lengths to prevent this entrapment taking place. Of course she thinks I want Ned for myself. How generous we are to furnish the biddies so much to cluck about.”

Kane made no comment. She surveyed the dance floor. “The grandest ball of the war was held at Cuidad
Rodrigo.
The largest house in the city was appropriated for the occasion. Da
mask satin hangings hid the damaged walls, and a sentry was stationed to stand guard over the carpet that covered the hole in the ballroom floor.”

Sabine was almost as skilled at misdirection as Kane was himself. “Would you care to dance? I daresay you remember how. Even though it’s been some time since you were so green a girl as to consider dancing at Almack’s the pinnacle of social success.”

Her glance was ironic. “Don’t you know it’s considered bad manners to refer to a lady’s age? Let us leave this place before I fall into lamenting my lost youth.”

The street outside was crowded. Kane waited in silence until his carriage made its way through the crush. He instructed the
coachman to drive around until told otherwise, handed Sabine inside and settled on the opposite seat.

Kane watched as she pulled off her cap and gloves, pressed her fingers to her temples. Had Alexander bedded her? If not the Czar was truly a madman,
for only a madman wouldn’t desire a physical relationship with Sabine. As if privy to his thoughts, she said,
“The Czar wants to move Russia’s borders several hundred miles west, thus reviving Poland but making it subordinate to St. Petersburg. This is not to be viewed with alarm by the other European powers, you understand.”

 She didn’t want to discuss their expedition to Almack’s? Kane promptly decided that they must. “Lady Dorset may be a harridan, but she has the right of it. Now that Ned has come into the title, he must wed.”

“For the sake of the succession.” Sabine responded. “As must you.”

At least she was sufficiently aware of Kane to realize he
had
a title. “I have several younger brothers who are capable of stepping into my shoes should the need arise.”

Sabine smiled. “Piffle. You are waiting for Clea to grow up.”

What did one say
in response to so outrageous a suggestion? Silence seemed the most prudent course. Too, Sabine’s smile had temporarily robbed Kane of his breath.

She drew her cloak more closely around her, as if it were insufficient to ward off chill. He retrieved the carriage rug and draped it across her lap. “Your teeth are chattering. I would never forgive myself if you took ill on my watch.”

She buried her hands in the rug’s warmth. “Blame it on this wretchedly damp English weather. You are the consummate diplomat, are you not?”

“The consummate liar, you mean. Oddly enough, this time I spoke the truth.”

Sabine tilted her head and studied him. “How appalled you look. Don’t take it so to heart. Sometimes as one ages one becomes less adept.”

Kane disliked the amusement he heard in her voice. “I promise you, my abilities are not in question. Should you have an interest, I would be pleased to demonstrate.”

“Of course you would,” she responded. “You are extremely unfaithful and wholly unrepentant and a marvel of discretion at the same time: that most unusual paradox, an honorable roué.
Many a woman will try to attract your interest, despite  knowing she cannot hold your heart. The challenge for you, I think, will be when one does not.”

She’d noticed that he’d noticed her lack of reaction to him. “I’m surely not so shallow,” Kane responded, his pride stung.

Sabine let her head rest against the back of the seat. “No, you are not. I am weary and consequently being cruel.”

An odd notion, that a woman should be cruel to him. “You don’t speak often of your husband,” Kane remarked.

She didn’t react to the change of subject. “Frances was all that is kind and good.”

“Was Julian Faulkner also kind and good?”

“Julian was a golden lad.” Sabine closed her eyes. “He was all high spirits and longing for adventure and the devil take the hindmost. It wasn’t in his nature to think of the
future, or worry about responsibilities, or consider his eventual position and his wealth; he lived for the present and trusted tomorrow would take care of itself. He had a tremendous thirst for
knowing
— always wanting to see what was over the next hill and to understand how it came to be there. And he possessed a profound loyalty to his friends.”

“Of which you were one.”

“I was. Francis was another. We grew up together, we three. I alone am left. If Miss Wynne is kin to Julian, I must make sure that things are well with her.”

Julian Faulkner had no monopoly on loyalty. “Might she be a by-blow?” inquired Kane.

Thoughtfully, Sabine regarded him. “It’s possible, I suppose. But had he known about her, Julian would have made arrangements for her care. From what you’ve told me, the girl grew up on the streets.”

“So it would seem.” The girl was a thief. Who had spent time in Newgate. And who Ned had been kissing, if not worse.

Ned wanted to rescue her. Sabine wanted to know more about
her. Clea wanted to become her bosom-bow. Julie Wynne was having a profound effect on a great many people, and her timing so inconvenient it must surely have been planned.

Beneath Sabine’s fine eyes lurked faint shadows. Kane leaned forward and withdrew her hands from beneath the rug.

She did not pull away from him. The pulse beneath his fingers was sure and steady and perhaps a little faster than it had been a moment past. “What monsters do you see, I wonder,” Kane murmured, “when you close your eyes at night?”

Sabine raised an ironic eyebrow. “Are you offering to help me sleep? Despite believing that passion is ephemeral, and one night’s feast the next morning’s stale crumbs? You will have seen the inside of more boudoirs than you can count.”

Kane raised her hands to his lips. “Perhaps. The question is, I think, whether I will see the inside of yours.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

It is less to suffer punishment than to deserve it.
— Ovid

Drury Lane was crowded to the rafters (or if not the rafters, since none were in evidence, its arched ornamented ceiling); from galley and pit to luxurious private box. The audience was less interested in the entertainment than in each other, and anxiously awaited the arrival of the Distinguished Visitors, who were engaged with Lord
Castlereagh and expected afterward to honor Mr. Kean by observing his Othello. Lady Georgiana was in alt tonight, the current rumor that Lady Dorset had gone out of her head proving a more effective restorative than any nostrum; and took great pleasure in informing anyone who would listen that dear Hannah had always been
strange
. A few of those present observed that Mr. Kean was in especially fine fettle — if his face and person were not consistent with the character, he nonetheless delivered bursts of energy and emotion hitherto unsurpassed, or so said Mr. William Hazlitt, whose opinion could be trusted on such things — but the rest might as well have been at the Olympic Theater, watching a performance of trained dogs.