Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (75 page)

“Soon, Joliffe. Very soon.” A pause had ensued. Then, “I'm not a patient man.”

Joliffe had heard tales enough of the man's lack of patience—and what usually transpired because of it.

He was desperate all right. But Mortimer had too weak a head to be entrusted with the news.

Joliffe concentrated on the woman seated across the darkened pit. “We'll have to do something—take an active hand.” He spoke more for himself than Mortimer.

But Mortimer heard. “What?” He turned to Joliffe, a shocked, somewhat stupid expression on his face. “But…I thought we'd agreed there was no need to be openly involved—to actually
do
anything ourselves!”

His voice had risen.

“Shh!”
came from all sides.

Exasperated, Joliffe grabbed Mortimer's coat and hauled him to his feet. “Let's get out of here.” He sent a venomous glance across the theatre. “I've seen enough.”

He pushed Mortimer ahead of him to the exit.

Immediately they gained the corridor, Mortimer turned on him, clutching his coat. “But you said we wouldn't need to kidnap her.”

Jollife eyed him in disgust. “I'm not talking about kidnapping,” he snapped, wrenching his coat free. He looked ahead, his features hardening. “For our purposes, there's a better way.”

He glanced at Mortimer, contempt in his eyes.

“Come on—there's a certain party we need to see.”

B
Y THE TIME
Em took her seat at the breakfast table on Friday morning, she was considering visiting Harry herself. Not that it would do any good—but she felt so helpless every time she looked at Lucinda's face. Calm and pale, her guest sat toying with a piece of cold toast, her expression distant.

Em swallowed her snort. Feeling dejected herself, she poured a cup of tea.

“Are we going anywhere today?” Heather, seated further down the table, fixed big hazel eyes almost pleadingly on Em.

Em slanted a glance at Lucinda. “Perhaps we'll just have a quiet day today. A drive in the Park in the afternoon. We've Lady Halifax's ball tonight.”

Lucinda's smile was perfunctory.

“Greenwich was such fun.” Heather struggled to invest her words with conviction. Lord Ruthven had arranged an outing yesterday to the Observatory, hoping to lift Lucinda's spirits. He and Mr Satterly, who had made one of the party, had battled valiantly but to no avail.

Lucinda shifted in her chair. “It was very kind of Lord Ruthven to arrange it. I must send a note around to thank him.”

Em doubted Ruthven would appreciate it. The poor man had pulled out all stops but it was clear Lucinda barely saw him. Not that she made reference to what was occupying her mind. Her composure was faultless; those who did not know her would detect nothing amiss. Those who did saw the superficiality of her smiles, which no longer reached her eyes, mistier than ever and distressingly remote. She was naturally reserved; now, despite going amongst them, she seemed to have withdrawn from real contact.

“Perhaps,” Heather ventured, “we could go to the museum? We haven't seen Lord Elgin's marbles yet. You said you'd like to.”

Lucinda tilted her head. “Perhaps.”

Helpless, Heather glanced at Em.

Em shook her head. She had originally thought Heather too young, too immature, to sense Lucinda's silent woe. Over the last few days, she had realised that Heather both saw and understood, but with the confidence of youth had imagined matters would work themselves out somehow. Now, even Heather's confidence was flagging. She was as concerned as Em, which worried Em all the more.

The door opened; Fergus appeared at Em's side and presented a silver salver.

“The mail, ma'am. And there's a letter just hand-delivered for Mrs Babbacombe. The boy didn't wait for a reply.”

Em picked up the white, sealed packet, painfully aware of the sudden tension that had gripped Lucinda. One glance at the scrawled direction was enough to tell her it wasn't from Harry. Helpless to do otherwise, she handed it over without comment, trying not to watch as, the seal broken, the expectation that had momentarily lit Lucinda's face died.

Lucinda frowned as she read the short missive, then, grimacing, laid it aside. She looked down at her toast, now stone-cold. With a tiny sigh, she reached for the teapot.

Em was beyond social niceties. “Well?”

Lucinda glanced at her, then shrugged. “It's an invitation to some houseparty in the country.”

“Whose?”

Lucinda frowned. “I can't immediately recall the lady.” She sipped her tea, glancing down at the note. “Lady Martindale of Asterley Place.”

“Martindale?” Em started to frown, then her face cleared.

“Oh—that'll be Marguerite. She's Elmira, Lady Asterley's daughter. She must be helping out. But that's wonderful!” Em turned to Lucinda. “
Just
the thing! Some fresh air and genteel fun is precisely what you need. Elmira is one of my oldest friends although we haven't met in ages. She'll be getting on, now. When's this party to be?”

Lucinda hesitated, then grimaced. “It starts later today—but the invitation's just for me.”

Em blinked. “Just for…?” Then she blinked again, her face clearing. “Ah—I see!”

Lucinda looked up. “What is it?”

Em straightened. “Just remembered. Harry's a close friend of Elmira's son—Alfred, Lord Asterley. Been thick as thieves since they were at Eton together.”

She watched as Lucinda reached again for the note.

“Oh?”

“Indeed.” Em's eyes glazed as she considered the possibilities. “Always hand-in-glove in mischief. Got sent down together any number of times.” For a moment, she remained sunk in thought, then flicked a glance at Lucinda, busy scrutinising the invitation. “You know,” Em said, sitting back in her chair, “it's probably not surprising that the invitation's just for you. I can see how it would have been—Elmira had a last-minute cancellation and asked Alfred if he could suggest someone suitable to fill the gap.” Em hesitated, then added, “And Alfred and Harry
are
very close.”

The more Em thought of it, the more convinced she was that Harry was behind the unexpected invitation. It would be just like him to manoeuvre to get Lucinda into the country, free of mentors, admirers and step-daughters, so he could make amends for his behaviour away from all interested eyes. Very Harry indeed.

Em snorted.

The atmosphere around the breakfast table had altered dramatically. Instead of resignation bordering on the morose, speculation now tinged the air. Varying degrees of calculation and decision were reflected in the ladies' expressions.

Pushing her plate aside, Heather put their thoughts into words. “You
have
to go.”

“Absolutely,” Em agreed. “Heather and I are more than capable of entertaining each other for a few days.”

Lucinda, reanimated but still frowning, looked up from the invitation. “You're sure it's acceptable for me to go alone?”

“To Asterley Place? Of course!” Em dismissed the point with a wave. “It's not as if you were a young girl making her come-out. And you'll find plenty there you've already met, I don't doubt. Very fashionable, Elmira's parties.”

“
Do
go.” Heather leaned over the table. “I'd love to hear all about it. Maybe we'll all be invited next time.”

Lucinda glanced at Heather's eager young face. Her hesitation was pure prevarication; if there was any possibility Harry had organised the invitation then she had no choice but to go.

She straightened and drew in a breath—a surge of revivifying hope came with it. “Very well. If you're sure you can manage without me?”

Em and Heather vociferously assured her they could.

 

A
FTER LUNCHEON
, Em retired to the morning room, her mood one of pleasant expectation. Sinking onto the
chaise,
she cast a contented glance about her, then relaxed against the cushions and, slipping off her slippers, swung her feet up. Propping her head on a cushion, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

And wondered if it was too early to feel smug.

She was deep in dreams of white tulle and confetti when the click of the door latch had her blinking awake.

What was Fergus thinking of?

Prepared to take umbrage, she turned her head—and saw Harry enter.

Em blinked again. She opened her mouth—then caught sight of the white flower in Harry's buttonhole.

He
never
wore buttonholes—except at weddings.

Harry saw her arrested expression and inwardly grimaced; he should have left the buttonhole off. But he had dressed with inordinate care—it had seemed the right touch at the time.

He was determined to do this right. If they'd had the sense to stay at home yesterday, the ordeal would be over by now. Reining in his impatience, he closed the door and turned to face his aunt just as she managed to catch her breath.

“Ah…”

“Precisely,” Harry said, no trace of the languid in his tones. “If you don't mind, Aunt, I'd like to see Mrs Babbacombe.” He met Em's slightly protruberant eyes. “Alone.”

Em blinked. “But she's left.”

“Left?” All expression drained from Harry's face. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. “Left to where?”

Em put a hand to her spinning head. “But…to Asterley, of course.” Eyes widening, she sat up. “Aren't you going?”

His wits reeling, Harry stared at her. “I've got an invitation,” he admitted, somewhat cautiously.

Em flopped against the cushions, a hand at her breast. “Thank heaven for that. Only reason she went.” Recalling the point, she turned to glare at Harry. “Not, of course, that that'll prove any use—it's plain as a pikestaff
you
didn't organise to have her invited.”

“Organise…?”
Harry stared at her as if she'd run mad. “Of course I didn't!” He paused, then asked, “Why the devil did you think I did?”

Lips prim, Em shrugged. “Well, there's no reason you couldn't have—I'm quite sure Alfred could have got another name on Elmira's lists if you'd asked him.”

“Elmira?”

Em waved. “I know Marguerite issued the invitations but it'll still be Elmira's party.”

Fists clenched, Harry closed his eyes—and stifled the explosive anger building within him. His father was older than Em—and suffered from the same, oddly selective memory. Em clearly recalled his connection with Alfred but had totally forgotten that his mother, Elmira, had been dead some eight years.

The parties at Asterley Place were, these days, rather different from those Em recalled.

Harry drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes. “When did she leave?”

Em frowned somewhat petulantly. “About eleven.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. “She'll be halfway there by now.”

Grim-faced, Harry turned on his heel.

Em stared. “Where are you going?”

Harry glanced back, his hand on the knob, his expression hard and unyielding. “To rescue Boadicea from a gaggle of lecherous Romans.”

With that, he departed, shutting the door behind him, leaving Em staring in bemusement at the uninformative panels.

“Boadicea?”

 

H
ARRY STRODE THROUGH
the door of his lodgings, ripping the white gillyflower from his lapel and tossing it onto the hall table. “Dawlish! Where the devil are you?”

“I'm right here,” came in mumbles from down the corridor. Dawlish appeared, an apron over his street clothes, silver spoons and a polishing rag in his hands. “Now what's yer trouble? I thought as how you'd gone to settle it?”

Harry ground his teeth. “I had—but apparently I should have made an appointment. The damned woman's gone off for a quiet sojourn in the country—to Asterley Place.”

He had rarely seen Dawlish so dumbfounded.

“Asterley?”

“Precisely.” Harry shrugged off his greatcoat. “And, no, she hasn't changed her lifestyle. The damned female has no idea what she's blithely heading into.”

Dawlish's eyes grew round. “Gawd help her.” He took the coat from Harry.

“I sincerely doubt he can.” Harry stripped off his gloves and threw them onto the table with the gillyflower, then turned to the stairs. “Come on—stop standing there like a gawp. We'll need the greys—she's got more than a two hours' start on us.”

As Harry pounded upstairs, Dawlish blinked, then shook himself. “With you fired up and the greys in their usual mood, we should be able to cut that in half easily.”

Harry didn't hear. He strode into his bedroom; it was the work of a few minutes to throw a selection of clothes into a bag. Dawlish came in as he was shrugging into a bottle-green coat; he had already changed his ivory inexpressibles for buckskin breeches.

“No need to kill y'rself,” Dawlish advised, picking up the bag. “We'll make it on her heels.”

Frowning, Harry led the way out. “We'll get there a full hour after her,” he growled.

An hour in which she, a total innocent, would have to fend for herself in a house full of wolves, all of whom would assume she was willing prey.

 

L
UCINDA DESCENDED
from her carriage before the steps of Asterley Place and looked around. The house bore a relatively recent fa
ade, Ionic columns supporting the porch roof, classic geometric lines delineating the long windows. It stood in a large park, directly before a long sloping lawn leading down to the shores of a lake. Glimpses of gardens tantalised on both sides; the subtle scent of roses wafted over a brick wall. Wide stone steps led up to the porch; as footmen came running to assist with the baggage, Lucinda unhurriedly ascended to find her host, hostess and their major-domo waiting.

“Welcome to Asterley Place, my dear Mrs Babbacombe. Can't say how delighted I am to see you here.” Lord Asterley, a gentleman of average height with a tendency to corpulence, severely restrained, bowed, then shook Lucinda's hand.

Lucinda smiled in return, recalling now that she had met his lordship during her earlier weeks in the capital. “I must thank you for your invitation, my lord. It was most…opportune—and appreciated.” She couldn't suppress the hope that welled within her; anticipation lit her eyes and her smile.