“Don’t worry, Aunt Margaret, I am at Rex’s back,” Daniel said, promptly falling asleep against the cushions.
They shook him awake when they reached Royce House, enough for him to stumble toward the stairs. “Didn’t sleep a wink last night, you know. Good night, all. Lovely evening. Uh, what opera did we see?”
Dodd brought a tray into the parlor, but the countess was tapping her foot after a single cup of tea. “I think Amanda needs her rest, also. Tomorrow we have tea at Princess Lieven’s, then a reception for the Ziftsweig delegation at the Austrian embassy.”
Rex rose when Lady Royce did, but stayed Amanda with a smile. “Amanda and I need to speak of our progress.”
“Surely you can speak in the morning. I think you have made quite enough progress with her.”
Rex’s cheeks grew warm. “I meant her case.”
The countess raised her eyebrows.
Rather than let the two strong-willed Royces battle over her, Amanda stood and curtsied. “I am a bit weary. I, ah, hardly slept last night, either. I will bid you farewell, my lord. My lady.”
The countess waited for Amanda to leave the room before turning to her son. “As for you, Jordan, you need to know that you cannot have your cake and eat it, too.”
He could not have any, for Verity had eaten the last one on the tray while his attention had been on Amanda, and how her gown hugged her curves on the way out. He swallowed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning if you do not intend to marry the girl, you cannot dally with her. You can keep your bachelorhood, or you can warm yourself at the fire I see burning between you. Not both. I told you, I will not let Amanda’s heart get broken, or her virtue given to anyone but her rightful husband.”
She was right, Rex knew, but he could not help feeling insulted. “Would that you had stood up for me that way, just once in my life.”
“I stood up for you all your life. I hired Nanny Brown and I selected your tutors. I fought to keep you from the army, then insisted you were put on the Aide’s staff when I lost the battle. I—”
Rex interrupted. “You know him, the man they call the Aide?”
“Do not underestimate me, you silly boy. I know a great deal. I know your grades at school and your accomplishments in the military. I have spent my time, and my influence, with the authorities and their wives, defending your reputation, demanding you and your cousin be rewarded with advancements for your contributions. I did not cross you off my list like an unwanted guest at a dinner party. I will fight with every fiber of my body to keep you safe, but not at Amanda’s expense. I will not let you be a heartless fool like your father. Do you understand?”
He bowed. “Good night, madam.”
She stared back at him. “You called me mother.”
“You called me a heartless fool.”
He acted like one, too. He stayed awake for hours, thinking of the countess’s words, yet still wanting what he could not have. He wrestled with his conscience, but lost the battle. He pulled on his robe, but not his slippers, to make less noise. Then he slowly opened his door, thanking the countess’s efficient household that the hinges did not squeak.
Amanda knew she was a fool without anyone telling her so. She’d had all the happiness she’d asked for in one night; more, she expected, than many women experienced in a lifetime.
It was not enough. She knew Rex did not love her, although she believed he did care for her. He was definitely attracted to her, but that was not enough, either. His mother might demand an offer of marriage out of him, but that was ridiculous to contemplate for a woman in Amanda’s position. No matter what the countess said, no matter how many jewels she found in her coffers, no one married a murderess.
She could not force Rex to love her, Amanda admitted, but she, sure as Eve talked to the snake, could make him make love to her. Tonight she wore a different silky nightgown, one trimmed with sweet little forget-me-nots she had embroidered on the bodice herself. She smiled. The night rail looked anything but sweet when paired with her mother’s sapphire necklace. Amanda tiptoed to her door and peered out into the hall.
Lady Royce was
not
a fool. She had a footman stationed in the corridor.
Chapter Twenty-five
L
ady Royce’s plan—one of her plans, anyway—ap-peared to be working. Soon invitations to the countess included ones for Miss Amanda Carville, and their escorts, of course. All but the highest sticklers welcomed the party from Royce House, and one or two of those who refused to countenance the countess’s questionable guests actually canceled their evening plans altogether, rather than offend Lady Royce. She was on too many charitable committees, behind too many worthy foundations, too big a contributor to political causes. Besides, as her son was quickly learning, too many people actually liked his . . . mother.
As for the others, what a coup it was for a hostess to have the latest scandal broth brewing right on her doorstep. The ladies vied to have their invitations accepted, sending round notes and reminders. They stopped inviting Sir Nigel after the countess declared she would not attend any function where the barrister was present. No one wanted to be excluded from her ladyships’s elegant dinners; no one wanted to be in her black books. An official of the high court was nothing to a peeress of the highest social standing.
The beau monde was happy enough to have the dangerous cousins and the killer among them. Then, too, if Lady Royce claimed Miss Carville was innocent and not bachelor fare as they’d heard, they would believe it, also. The countess was known to be the most upright of matrons, with nary a whisper of wrongdoing in all the years apart from her peculiar husband. Loyal to a fault, she would never hear a word against Lord Royce, either, the
ton
had soon learned. What, believe that scurvy, scrimping Sir Frederick instead of one of their own? Never.
Amanda was treated with courtesy, if not warmth. She sat beside the countess and made pleasant conversations without being pushing. She did not encourage the gentlemen, would not dance or go off alone, and she wore somber colors. The polite world agreed that she was a prettily behaved miss. But they had always thought so, they told each other and the countess.
Everyone watched to see Rex’s behavior toward the young lady. He felt as if he were a canary in a flimsy cage surrounded by hungry cats, all of whom were sharpening their claws. He could not dance with Amanda, take her out to the balconies, or find hidden paths through darkened gardens. He could not sit beside her all night, keeping her safe from the tabbies and the gossips. He could not stare at her, admiring her poise, her charm, her luminous beauty. He could not even tuck an errant blond curl back under her bonnet, not without having the banns called.
So he took a page from Daniel’s book and disappeared as soon as he saw the ladies seated at whatever affair the countess decreed they attend. That is, Rex tried to escape the scrutiny and the speculation. Instead, he found himself swamped with gushing misses, all wanting to declare they had not killed Sir Frederick, just so they could be thrilled and chilled by looking into his startling eyes. Young men wanted to know what he called the knot in his neckcloth. He called it a knot. They dubbed it the Rexford Knight Fall, in honor of his quest to rescue the lady.
Older men pressed him to join their political parties, their committees to reform this or to bolster that. He nodded politely without committing himself. Older women met the same fate: no promises, no encouragement. They bored him to tears, every one. Worse, he was wasting time, Amanda’s time. The men on his list of suspects or conspirators did not attend the same gatherings as the countess. Lydia Burton certainly did not.
Daniel went where the countess directed, but was better at finding the card room or the refreshments table or an empty library with comfortable sofas for a nap. He had no title, no fortune, so had no metaphorical bull’s-eye painted on his back. Every time a female spoke to him, he found a new itch to scratch.
“Why the devil can’t they tell the truth?”
“What, they should say your neckcloth is a shambles, your dotted waistcoat is dotty, your conversation is dull, and dancing with you is a torture that their poor feet will never recover from? Be happy they lie and say it was a pleasure.”
After a few days of this, both cousins rebelled. The countess allowed them to attend the theater instead of a rout party, where Daniel enjoyed the farce, and Rex enjoyed watching Amanda laugh as if she had no cares in the world. And he got to hold her hand where no one could see. They also went to view the Egyptian Exhibit and the new waxworks, where no one told lies. Of course, no one was alive, but Daniel and Rex found that a relief. On pleasant afternoons the cousins dutifully accompanied the ladies’ carriage to the park, but both gentlemen rode off as soon as Lady Royce’s friends gathered around, halting the flow of traffic behind them.
Rex’s elusiveness seemed to add to his appeal as a man of mystery, a dashing soldier with a doubtful reputation. His pursuit by matchmaking mamas and their desperate daughters was merciless, which amused Daniel as much as the mummies had. Showing as much sympathy as his cousin, Lady Royce reminded Rex that a betrothal announcement in the newspapers would end the chase immediately.
Amanda decided she had been seen enough. She’d rather stay at home with a book, one with a happy ending.
Almost every morning Rex had a real gallop in the park, before the fog lifted, and before the paths were clogged with the dandy set showing off their ensembles, or Corinthians showing off their highbred horses.
After his ride Rex often went to assist Inspector Dimm. Daniel disliked going to Bow Street, saying he had rashes for hours afterward, but Rex found the work interesting, the criminal mind a fascinating study. As for Dimm, the Runner was thinking of taking a holiday, his first in dog years, because the crime rate was so low. He was winning commendations and collecting rewards for all the convictions, plus making the streets of London safer. If he could only figure out how Rex could tell the guilty from the innocent, he said, he’d be a happy man.
No news came from the Aide, or Major Harrison, or whatever name the man was using that week. No messengers accosted the viscount; no messages awaited him at McCann’s. All Rex could do was go over his list and call on the last remaining names, with little success.
Robert Vincent, Esquire, was indeed another lawyer, a solicitor who freely admitted drawing up some papers for Sir Frederick Hawley’s prospective investors, but he did not recall the names or the amounts. His clerk had handled the petty details. No, the clerk was no longer in the lawyer’s employ. He had emigrated to Canada. And no, Mr. Vincent did not have a copy. Lord Rexford could show all the warrants he wanted, his large cousin could glower until the cows came home, but a recent fire in the office had destroyed all of the files. Yes, he had invested some of his own money to finance a sailing venture.
“For what? Surely you must have asked what the ship was fetching?”
“I believe it was gold. Stolen gold. Gold from a sunken pirate ship that was recently discovered.”
“You gave your gold to find gold?” Daniel was incredulous, but he was not itching.
“Hawley had the charts and records of the sightings, official ones, from the navy. It was all a hum, of course. No one knows where the
Black Speculator
went down.”
With the name of the ship, Rex and Daniel could return to some of the people they had questioned before. Lydia Burton’s door was closed to them, of course, but White’s was not, and Lords Havering and Hove were both still dining there nightly.
Havering admitted he’d invested. Hove slapped his knee and laughed. He’d turned down the opportunity to bring back doubloons and bullion that existed only in a madman’s pipe dream.
George Cuthbert had met with a hunting accident and was being sent to recuperate at his family’s plantation in Jamaica. Now that Rex knew the right questions to ask, he discovered that Cuthbert was suspected of stealing maps and charts, old ones at that, from the Admiralty offices.
Joseph Johnston of the shipping business would not see them. He left by the back door of his office when they went in the front. He took refuge in his house, with six dock-workers guarding every entrance. No matter, one of his captains enjoyed the rum the cousins bought for him. What else was a sea dog like him to do, stuck in harbor? Yes, rumor had it they were to sail on some secret mission, but he was never ordered to outfit the ship for a journey, so here he sat, growing barnacles instead of rich. The
Black Speculator
? He laughed so hard he almost spilled his drink. Who would believe that old legend?
The banker, Breverton, had gone on a sudden vacation in Scotland, and Lysander Cord had moved out of the Albany, without a forwarding address. At least Roger Vandermere was still in Fleet Prison, but had no more information to add.
Bowdecker, the belligerent drunk, had been struck by a coach last week and was not expected to recover. Added to Cuthbert’s injury and the fire at the law offices, Bowdecker’s accident was looking highly suspicious.
By now Rex was having a hard time deciding which were the pigeons being taken, and which were the hawks doing the plucking. He could not tell the honest investors, if there was anything honest about the shady transaction, from those who had helped concoct the scheme. All he knew was that they were all left with nothing by Sir Frederick.
Then Murchison related a bit of information he had unearthed in the emigré community. Sir Frederick’s former valet, Brusseau, not only had a brother, but the brother was known to travel to France, by the light of the full moon.
“I knew it! I knew they were involved with smuggling,” Daniel swore when Rex told him at breakfast the next day, forgetting all of his other theories. “With all that money and havey-cavey treasure hunts, there was bound to be a French connection.”