Elizabeth Kidd (11 page)

“Eh? Oh, yes. Take mine, for I shan’t leave tonight.” He took a key down from a nail in the wall concealed behind the bookshelf and handed it to Kedrington. “I’ll show you the door it fits.”

Kedrington waited only until the doors were closed on the last visitor, at which point, he and Mr. Campbell made his watchman’s rounds together before Robin showed him the rear door to which the key fit, and bade him good night.

“Just a moment,” Kedrington said, closing the door again. He reached into his pocket and extracted the key he had found on the body of the victim of the thugs they had interrupted two nights before. He held it next to Robin’s key, then tried it in the door. It did not fit.

“Where did you get that key?” Robin asked.

Kedrington smiled. “I’m afraid I robbed a dead man.”

“The man we found the other night? Did you find out who he was?”

“Not by name—but that is something else you may ask Hollister. Apparently the man was a former soldier—although not one of those who would have come through Leman Street. Perhaps he can make further inquiries. I’ll write down the name of the man at Bow Street whom I took into my confidence. He can give you the few other details there are.”

“Do you think he has something to do with—all this?”

“Very likely not. It was just a thought.” He smiled wryly. “No, it was just a feeling. You remember that prickling you get on the back of your neck just before a surprise attack?”

“All too well.”

“It was something like that. Besides, I am curious about the ‘lordship’ the other men spoke of. I’m sorry now that we didn’t take the big man to Bow Street ourselves; he might have revealed something.”

“Still, that is a puzzle Hollister will be interested to follow. You know how stubborn he is.”

“As you say, all too well. However, I think I would rather have his muscle on hand here. Ask him to have some other clever fellow run the dead man to earth.”

This agreed to, the two men shook hands.

“Thank you again, Duncan,” Robin said as the viscount slipped out into the dusk.

“Nonsense, dear boy. I’m looking forward to the mission!”

Robin grinned. “So am I—now!”

Chapter 9

Carey Fairfax sat on a bench in the little square off Gloucester Place where he had first met Elena Melville. Of course, he reminded himself, that had not been their first meeting, but he liked to think of it as such, for he was thus able to forget his earlier, clumsier—not to say embarrassing—efforts to impress her. Now they came back to him all too vividly, and he alternated between fond remembrance and acute self-loathing.

Attempting to redirect his mind toward the future and a more positive outlook, he glanced up at the corner of Elena’s house which was visible to him through the trees. He did not think she could see him from the house, and therefore it was not knowledge of his presence which prevented her from venturing out. Carey had earlier ridden his horse up and down the street, but when dustmen and fruit vendors began hailing him familiarly, he had given this up as being overly conspicuous.

He had then begun a circuit of the square and the nearby streets on foot, which had at least the advantage of his being able to converse with the same vendors and street workers, and since he enjoyed talking to all sorts of people, even when he was not feeling particularly gregarious, it was not long before they were all aware of his sad story and wished him the best of luck in winning back his lady.

But he had not yet contrived to see Elena in order to begin to attempt to do so.

Surely she must leave the house sometime. Was there possibly another door of whose existence he was unaware? He did not suppose she would go out by the kitchen, unless she knew he was lying in wait for her, and in that case, she should be more likely not to go out at all. He realized that he had very little familiarity with Elena’s habits and her daily activities when he was not with her to suggest them.

He was gazing at the upper stories again when a voice said, “’Ullo, luv. No luck yet?”

“Oh, Mary. How do you do? No, I fear I have not seen Miss Melville yet.”

The pert, round-faced little flower seller with whose father—the proud possessor of his own cart—Carey had struck up a conversation the previous day, sat down on the bench next to him, uninvited but not fearing to be turned away with a cutting word. That was his trouble, Carey reflected ruefully—children, domestic animals, and girls of the lower orders always seemed to be attracted to him, but he could not hold the notice, much less the affection, of someone so superior as Elena Melville. He felt very low.

“La, sir,” Mary was saying. “You do talk lovely. Most gen’lemen wouldn’t look twice at a poor flower girl, never mind remember ‘er name and talk to ‘er like she was a friend of ‘is.”

Carey had to smile at that. “Somehow, Mary, I cannot believe that you lack gentlemen admirers.”

“Oh, well,” Mary replied saucily, tossing her head, “Admirers is one thing and gen’lemen another, ain’t it? A clever girl can always find an admirer, but who needs ‘em, I say.”

When Carey immediately lapsed into gloom again, she said, “There was a nob what lived on this street not so long ago, me dad told me—number sixty-two. A royal duke, ‘e was. Would you be acquainted with him, sir?”

“At the risk of lowering myself in your esteem, Mary, I must confess I don’t know any royal dukes.”

“Oh, well, I don’t suppose you’d want to know this one—not that he was a bad sort exactly. Very fat and jolly, ‘e was. Bought flowers from me dad for ‘is lady, though I ‘ear they wasn’t married. I even saw him once or twice meself as a kid. ‘E had ever so many fine carriages and ‘orses. Mrs. Clarke, ‘is lady’s name was, now I remember it.”

“Good heavens, you don’t mean the Duke of York?” Carey exclaimed, interested despite his preoccupation.

“Aye, that’s the one.” She looked at him hopefully. “You sure you don’t know ‘im?”

“Every man in the army knew the commander-in-chief—by reputation.” Carey laughed. “And Mrs. Clarke, too—by reputation! What a bumblebroth that was!”

For a few minutes, Carey managed to forget his own troubles in telling a fascinated Mary the story of the disgrace Mary Anne Clarke had brought upon her lover, Frederick, Duke of York, the Regent’s younger brother, by selling army commissions behind his back.

Presently, however, Mary sighed and said she must go back to work before her dad caught her diddle-daddling.

“’Ere, sir,” she said, rising from the bench, “’ow about a bunch of violets for yer lady—or mayhap a few rosebuds in silver paper. Nothing like flowers to turn a lady sweet.”

Carey contemplated the posies Mary held out to him, then looked at the basket on her arm. He was visited with a momentary suspicion that her father had sent her off to find him with a full basket and the express purpose of soft-talking him into buying something. Well, he had nothing to lose. He reached into his pocket.

“How much for the lot?”

Mary’s face lit up. “The whole basket?”

“That’s right. How much?”

“Er—half a crown, sir?”

Carey handed her two florins. “Here you are then, and something to buy your dad a tot after work.”

“Oh, sir!” said Mary, blushing. She promptly concealed the coins in her apron and handed him the basket with a little curtsey. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now here is what you must do for me in return….”

* * * *

It was a small start, but Carey felt better as soon as he had dispatched Mary to deliver her basket of flowers to Elena’s door, along with a note that said simply, “I love you.”

Tomorrow he would send her another small gift—he did not want her returning his offerings on the excuse that they were too costly for her to accept—with the same message. He would not call on her again, only to be turned away, but he would not let her put him out of her mind, either. Sooner or later, she would have to see him, if only to beg him to stop.

It was a humbling plan, but he did not care a fig about that, so long as it brought him a word with Elena.

He was delighted when it took only a lace handkerchief, a bottle of Hungary water, and a tin of Chinese tea—all delivered by Mary in a basket of flowers—to bring her out of hiding three days later.

He was again chatting amiably with Mary on the bench in the square when he became aware of the gate creaking open. He looked up and saw Elena standing a mere six feet away. She looked the picture of a classical Greek maiden, but she was dressed in a very English rose-striped day dress and a green bonnet with artificial roses on it. Carey gazed at her in rapturous admiration, unable to locate his tongue. Mary obligingly scurried around Elena and out of the square, closing the gate carefully behind her.

“Dearest!” Recovering his speech, Carey rose and went to his beloved, taking her gloved hands in his. She lowered her eyes, but did not attempt to pull her hands out of his grip. He looked at her more closely and saw that her only color was in her dress and the flowers in her bonnet.

“My dear, you are looking quite pale. Have you been ill? I’m so sorry—had I known—”

She gave a watery little chuckle. “Doubtless you would have sent more flowers. The house already looks like a country fete….”

He smiled and squeezed her hands more tightly. It was all he could do not to kiss her there and then, for all the world to see, but he confined his ardor to his intense gaze. Elena ventured to raise her eyes to meet it, then lowered them again in confusion. It was not like Elena to show uncertainty, Carey thought, wondering again if she were ill.

“Tell me what the matter is, dearest.”

“Please, Carey, I only came to say you must stop this nonsense of sending gifts and hanging about my doorstep. It is very charming of you to be so—so persistent, but it will not serve.”

“It served to bring you here.”

“But this must be the last time. I have said good-bye, and I meant it.”

“But you have not said why. Do you not think you own me some explanation? Has it something to do with your family—your brother? Does he disapprove of me?”

Elena started, and her face turned even paler. Carey grasped her elbow as she sank onto the bench. He sat beside her, moving close, both to keep their conversation private and simply to be as near to her as possible.

“It
is
your brother! But he is not your legal guardian, and Melville approves of me. What possible objection could—”

“No, no, it is not that!” Elena fluttered her hands despairingly and took in a deep breath before continuing. “That is, not entirely. But he—my family—has led me to the conclusion that there is too great a difference between our cultures and our station…Mr. Fairfax…to ensure a successful union between us. There would always be misunderstandings, differences we could not reconcile….”

“But that is nonsense! And for heaven’s sake, don’t call me Mr. Fairfax, as if we’d just been introduced!” Carey said, failing to keep a peevish tone out of his voice. “There is nothing we cannot reach an understanding about—if only to disagree—if we but talk about it.”

“I cannot!” Elena said, her voice catching on a sob. She made a movement to rise, and Carey caught her arm. She pulled at it, but he would not yield. She sat down again.

Carey, seeing her lose her habitual calm for the first time, responded by taking it on himself. He made soothing noises in a low voice, then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She sniffed into it.

“Never mind, dearest,” he said gently “I will not press you. One day all this will come clear, and it will no longer matter—if only you do not send me away.”

“That day may never come. I cannot ask you to wait. You must not be seen to—that is, you must not be associated with me in any way.”

Carey resisted the strong impulse to demand an explanation of this extraordinary statement and instead changed the subject. Perhaps there was another way to wear down stone.

“I can wait. I already have enough memories of you to sustain my patience for a long time.”

He ventured to stroke her cheek and went on, “Do you remember when we went walking in the garden at Wyckham and you admired the roses? Bascomb was so taken with you that he immediately decided to name one of the new roses he had developed after you. So you see, you will always live at Wyckham in one way. And I will never give up hope that you will live there in all ways one day.”

When Elena said nothing more, he leaned closer to whisper in her ear. All the fond dreams of installing Elena as the mistress of his home and seeing her raise their children in the peaceful setting of the country where Wyckham stood, came out in words more eloquent than he had believed himself capable of. It was true that of late he had allowed these dreams to take vivid form in his mind as an antidote to the unthinkable possibility of Elena’s never setting foot in his gardens again, and this lent immediacy to his descriptions.

“…I will never forget those days, particularly not the day when you said that you wished you had had such a place to live in when you were a child, and that you could think of no greater happiness than to see your own children….”

“No!” She stood up so abruptly this time that Carey was unable to stop her. “No!” she repeated, “you must stopping remembering—stop hoping. You must find someone else to fulfill your dreams, Carey, for I cannot. Please do not continue to torture me so!”

With that, she picked up her skirts and ran toward the gate, jerking it open just as he caught up with her. She pulled away and ran into the street, where a shout brought her to an abrupt halt.

“’Ere, missus! Watch where yer goin’, can’t you!”

The hackney driver, busily bringing his plunging horses under control, was further able only to hurl a few breathless curses down at the foolish woman who had run into the street without looking where she was going. But when an equally heedless young man followed her, his curses rained down more loudly and fluently, finally catching the distracted gentleman’s attention.

Carey glanced up, muttered, “Beg your pardon!”, and took the horse’s bridle in his fist. He spoke quietly into the animal’s twitching ear for a moment, which served finally to calm him, but by that time, Elena was out of sight.