Fallen Angel (32 page)

In the lobby, he encountered Raggett, the proprietor. Rumour had it that the old man swept the carpets himself in the mornings to retrieve the gold which the patrons had carelessly scattered on the floor during the long night of play. And while they crept away to the house of 'Jew' King in Clarges Street to mortgage their estates, or to 'Hamlet,' the jeweller in Cranbourn Alley to pledge the family silver, he laughed all the way to Ransom, Morland and Co., the bank on Pall Mall. Deveryn completely discounted this scurrilous piece of spite. If Raggett was well-breeched, and it was safe to assume that he was, any fool could deduce the reason why. His pockets were lined from the astronomical fees which White's wealthy patrons paid over annually without demur, and from the atrocious prices for the most indifferent dinners he had ever had the misfortune to sample. The monotonous fare of roast beef, boiled fowl with oyster sauce, and apple tart to follow seemed to suit the older more staid clientele. His set preferred to dine at Wattiers on Piccadilly where the Prince Regent's
former French chef, Labourie, knew how to tempt the most fastidious palette.

In the downstairs lounge, he allowed himself a carefully bored perusal of the select company. Argyle was there with Worcester, those intimates of the Beau, and Sefton, already broaching his second bottle of claret, by the look of him. Deveryn heard a burst of laughter from the darker depths of the interior. As if on signal, he began to pick his way through a motley crew of peers of the realm. Though it was only the middle of the afternoon, half of them looked to have already started on what gave every evidence of becoming a long night of dissipation. His progress was slow, for having been out of town for more than a month he was greeted by many acquaintances and was compelled to exchange a few pleasantries before he finally reached the group by the table along the far side of the room.

"Speak of the devil!" exclaimed Toby Blanchard in feigned horror and speedily vacated his seat to make room for the new arrival.

"How are the ribs?" asked Perry Montford, of an age with Deveryn, but as dark as he was fair.

At the sly gibe, laughter, at Deveryn's expense, became general. He eased himself into the straight-backed chair which Toby held for him with exaggerated solicitude.

"Mending nicely, thank you," he managed with a grimace and snapped his finger to attract the attention of a passing waiter.

"Fell off your horse, did you?" Freddie Ponsonby's question was rhetorical. Everyone present knew that Deveryn had sustained his injuries at the notorious Falcon in Grantham defending a lady's honour from a party of drunken bucks who had tried to force their way into the viscount's chamber.

"What are you doing here, Freddie?" Deveryn asked affably. 'This is Tory territory. I thought Brooks was your natural hunting ground."

"I'm apolitical, old man," was the airy rejoinder. "I leave politics to the rest of the Ponsonby clan. I'm here as Max's guest."

Deveryn's eyes met those of his brother-in-law, the Hon. Max Branwell. A flicker of something passed between the two men.

Since he'd been laid up in bed for the last fortnight, Deveryn had been forced to take his brother-in-law somewhat into his confidence. Max Branwell, he mused, was a good sort. He'd confirmed yesterday that Dolly Ramides was more than willing to perform this small service for him. Though no money had changed hands, the tacit understanding was that he'd be generous for any inconvenience the lady might be put to on his behalf.

Max had laughed at that. "Good God, Jason, I think the lady cares more for the cachet of having her name linked with yours than she does about the monetary reward. When she heard that your motive was to protect the name of another lady, her disappointment was patent." Max gave his brother-in-law a sideways look. "I don't suppose you'll take me fully into your confidence?"

Deveryn would much rather not. He thought that he cut a ridiculous enough figure as it was without having to divulge that his bride of twenty-four hours had run away from him and shortly thereafter, he had been caught
in flagrante delicto
with her stepmother when he was as innocent as a newborn babe.

He remembered that he'd also been as naked as a new born babe and he shuddered.

A waiter appeared at his elbow.

"Champagne," he told him, "and lots of it."

His words were greeted with wild enthusiasm. When the noise had abated somewhat, Montford asked, "What are we celebrating?"

"The mounting of a new mistress," responded one young buck brazenly. Deveryn silenced him with a withering look from below slashed brows.

"What we are celebrating," he announced gravely, "is the dawn of a new era." He raised his glass. "Gentlemen, I give you 'the estate of matrimony.'" His strategy was well thought out. He meant to sow the seed in their minds that marriage was a distinct possibility in his immediate future.

Blank silence greeted his words. Only one gentleman was seen to follow the viscount's example. Max Branwell drank with gusto.

"The toast is not to your liking?" asked Deveryn blandly, taking in the startled expressions of his companions. He winked at his brother-in-law.

"I say old chap, you can't expect us bachelors to drink to anything so, well, downright decadent. Might as well ask us to drink to Napoleon's victories in Europe."

"Freddie," responded Deveryn reasonably, "Napoleon is old history."

"And so is the estate of matrimony."

A murmur of assent greeted this bald statement.

A thought occurred to Toby Blanchard. "I say, Jason. You're not thinking of getting leg shackled, by any chance, are you?
"

"And if I am?"* Deveryn held his glass up to the light and idly watched the bubbles of champagne float to the surface.

"What? After Grantham?"

"What about Grantham?"

There was no menace in the viscount's expression so that Freddie Ponsonby had no qualms in advising, "If I were you, I should wait awhile before offering for some eligible. When word gets out, it is bound
to
spoil your chances with fond mamas who are protective of their chicks."

"You might try for an orphan," interposed Max Branwell, studiously avoiding Deveryn's hard stare.

A protracted silence fell, each man lost in his own private
reflections.
It was assumed that Deveryn was bowing to parental pressure to beget heirs. It would happen to all of them sooner or later. Their days were numbered and they knew it. It cast a gloom on what had started out as a very jolly affair.

"Rotten luck, Deveryn," commiserated Montford gloomily, "to be caught with your
trousers
down just when you meant to do the honourable."

Max Branwell was seen to choke on a mouthful of champagne. He looked sheepishly over the rim of his glass at his stern-faced brother-in-law.

"Can't understand how you could be so negligent," speculated Blanchard. "T'ain't like you, Jason. I would have thought you would have known better than arrange a tryst in such a den of iniquity, and on such a night."

"So you might," agreed Deveryn smoothly. "Then of course, the lady in question was not there by invitation. You
need not look so surprised. Give me credit for some finesse. There was a mill in progress. What gentleman would arrange an assignation in such a place in those circumstances? Would you? Would I?" And he wished belatedly that he had obeyed his first, sure instinct to avoid Grantham like the plague and push on to
a
less notorious resting
plaGe.
Only the knowledge that the inns and coaching houses for miles around would be choked to the garrets had persuaded him to take the last two rooms in the infamous Falcon, to his eternal regret.

He could almost hear the wheels turning as his companions considered his words. It was Montford who finally challenged him.

"What sort of lady would brave the rowdies of Grantham just for the pleasure of your person?"

"An impetuous one," responded Deveryn.

"Cynthia Sinclair never struck me in that light," mused Blanchard. "I thought her rather cautious in a calculating sort of way, if you know what I mean."

It was Deveryn's turn to look surprised. "Cynthia Sinclair? How did her name get into this conversation?"

Freddie Ponsonby eyed his friend with faint suspicion. "The woman in your bedchamber. My cousin twice removed, Jack Ponsonby, silly young blighter, was one of the rowdies who burst into your room. He thought he recognized her."

It was what Deveryn had been afraid of.

"I'll wager there are more Ponsonbys in England than there are Smiths," remarked Max Branwell idly.

"Yes, the Ponsonbys are prolific, I'll give you that, in or out of matrimony," Freddie admitted freely.

Deveryn ruthlessly brought the conversation round to the subject of Cynthia Sinclair. With studied indifference, he observed, "Your cousin was mistaken. Mrs. Sinclair, as far as I am aware, was nowhere near Grantham on the evening in question."

"What are you up to, Jason?"

"I?" Surprise etched his voice. "Nothing at all."

"Are you saying that it wasn't Cynthia Sinclair with you that night?"

"Dear me," he responded languidly, "I must not have the command of the King's English I once thought I had. In a
. word, no!"

"But my cousin saw her," protested Freddie.

"What did he see?"

Freddie could not help the leer that spread slowly across his face. "A lot of bare skin, I'll give you that. The lady was as naked as the day she was born."

Deveryn visibly winced.

"Ribs troubling you, old boy?" his innocent-faced brother- in-law inquired with malicious enjoyment.

Deveryn returned a thin smile. As Max Branwell knew perfectly well, it was the recollection of Cynthia Sinclair's attempted seduction which had brought on an involuntary shudder. He did not think he would ever forget the chagrin of that night. It had begun when Cynthia had pushed boldly into his chamber and had begun to disrobe in spite of his protests. His amused tolerance had soon turned to an arctic coldness when he perceived the lady's heedless determination. He could not have felt more embarrassed if Maddie had been in the next room. And when the door had burst open, and he had leapt out of bed . . . The damning picture they must have presented was too disturbing to contemplate.

"She was a brunette; that much even Jack's friends vouchsafe," said Freddie thoughtfully.

"That point, I am willing to concede."

"But Freddie," demanded Montford earnestly, "did he get a good look at her face?"

Freddie's lip curled. "Would you, man, in similar circumstances?"

"Quite." Deveryn raised his index finger and gestured to the" footman to refill the glasses. Before he could avail himself of the refreshment, a silver salver was presented. He accepted a note of highly scented paper, quickly scanned the contents and slipped it wordlessly into his coat pocket. Within minutes, he had taken a polite leave of his friends and was strolling indolently out the front door.

His companions, all except Mr. Branwell, crowded the bow window, much to the disgust of Mry Brummel and Lord Alvaney.

"Good God!" said Montford. "Will you look at that? A lady in an open carriage on St. James Street in the middle of the
afternoon. What's the world coming to?"

They watched in stunned silence as Deveryn hoisted himself into the phaeton. He took the ribbons from the lady's hands, said something to the tiger who held the horses' heads, and took off toward Piccadilly.

"That was no lady," observed Toby Blanchard speculatively. "That was Dolly Ramides, the opera dancer."

"Good God. And she's a brunette."

"And impetuous, as Deveryn said. No other lady would dare show her face in St. James Street later than noon!"

Slowly, the gentlemen retired to their places at the far wall, ignoring the sour looks and grunts of complaint from the more staid members of the establishment.

"D'you think he was serious about getting shackled?" asked Montford.

"Of course. He wouldn't joke about a horrid thing like that."