Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (11 page)

Kenny, Mack, and Jamie knew his true identity, of course, but the other minor pawns in the game did not. If the plot fell awry, the authorities would still not
connect it to Michael Murray, poor connection of the mighty Earl of Bute, with rooms in the earl’s mansion.

“The wench escaped sometime in the night,” he snapped.

Kenny stood straighter. Mack scowled. They both said the same thing, “She canna have!”

“She did. I have just been sipping a lambswool with my good friend Mr. Dingwall. For all his sanctimonious airs, he likes a gossip with someone he thinks as righteous as he. This morning, the earl had him dispose of a pair of stockings and two garters. Red-striped stockings just like the ones that vixen wore. He brought them to show me.”

Kenny and Mack exchanged a glance. “So?” Kenny ventured. “She took off her stockings and garters.”

“There were bloodstains on the garters and sheets.”

“That’s nae surprisin’, is it?” asked Mack.

“Fool! The earl claimed she was his mistress. If that were true, she would hardly be a virgin, would she? More to the point, she is not in the house, and Dingwall assumes the earl was holding her against her will and she escaped.” He glared at the two men. “How did she escape?”

“Nae by the front,” Kenny stated with a scowl. “I kept close watch all night.”

“Mack?”

“Are ye saying I didna keep watch? I did. And nothin’ stirred except a damn cat.” He stuck out a hand, showing swollen scratches. “Unless she turned into a cat, she didna get out the back.”

Murray clenched his fists. “I do not like this. I do not like it at all. It feels wrong. Nothing can be allowed to go wrong now. Go find Jamie and arrange a tight watch on the earl’s house. Round the clock. I want to know everyone who goes in and comes out.
Everyone
. And every little thing Walgrave does.”

“It isna’ possible wi’ just the three of us,” Kenny protested. “Not wi’ all the other things in hand. The stone and the toy—”

“You can take turn and turn about. And I have recruited a bunch of street monkeys. They live like rats in the garden of an empty house in Abingdon Street, but they are sharp enough. They do not know anything of what is toward, of course, but they will take over the watch for a sixpence now and then, and report to me if anything particularly unusual happens. Perhaps things you will miss?”

Then, realizing his worry was making him harsh, Murray made himself relax. “Just a few more days, my friends, and our great enterprise will be under way. We cannot let a little detail spoil it now, can we?”

Trouble, Amanda had predicted.

Even in the coach that evening, she continued to forecast disaster, but when they arrived at Sappho’s, nothing could be more normal. Her house proved to be a terraced one on a fashionable street, and tonight for her entertainment, every window was lit.

As was usual, scattered groups of the lower orders hovered to gawk at the people arriving by carriage, chair, and on foot. The guests were being admitted by well-behaved servants.

Amanda and Elf shared a look and descended to enter.

In the elegant white-plastered hall, a maid and footman stood ready to take their cloaks and guide them to the stairs. Elf noted that though the hall was conventional, the paintings and ornaments were not. She studied a grimacing mask that appeared to be made out of beaten gold, wondering where it came from.

She could see, however, that her brother might find this place intriguing and congenial.

At the top of the stairs, another servant directed them to the drawing room, which already spilled the chatter of a well-behaved but happy crowd. At the door, Sappho stood greeting her guests. Elf needed all her self-discipline not to stare.

She was tall. Perhaps six foot. And though not dark skinned, her complexion was not English. Wide cheekbones and slightly slanted dark eyes made Elf think of a Russian count she had met who claimed Tartar blood.

Her heavy, thick, brown hair fell to her knees, merely held back by jeweled combs, and her outfit seemed almost medieval. Or perhaps Byzantine. She wore a loose bronze gown under a tunic encrusted with gold and jewels, and a great many unusual rings.

The peculiar thing was that Elf—correctly attired in corset, hoops, petticoat, and overdress—suddenly felt ridiculous.

Sappho turned and smiled at Amanda. “Lady Lessington, I am so pleased you could come.” If she was surprised, she hid it. “I think you will find people here you know.” She turned to Elf, and Amanda made the introductions.

Sappho’s dark eyes stilled for a moment. “Lady Elfled. An unexpected pleasure. I hope you will enjoy the evening. Please let me know, either of you, if there is anything I can do to increase your comfort.”

Then she turned to the next guest, and Amanda and Elf moved on into the room.

It was not a large house, so the drawing room and anterooms were pleasantly full with just thirty or so people. They would soon be a little crushed, but that was the sign of a popular entertainment.

The decor here was more ordinary, with furniture similar to that in most fashionable houses. The company, too, seemed quite normal except that some of the women shared their hostess’s taste for loose garments.

“If we were looking for the outrageous,” Elf murmured to Amanda, “I doubt we’d find it here. You might have warned me about her looks, however.”

“Why? She’s tall and foreign. At Mrs. Quentin’s she was dressed normally. Her dress tonight suits her better. I’m not surprised that Rothgar—”

“Hush.” Elf turned and greeted an acquaintance.

As she strolled through the rooms, she realized that the people she knew here were some of the most interesting of her acquaintance. Also, the strangers here seemed to be people she would like to know.

Very
intriguing.

She did wonder, however, why Rothgar had never invited Sappho to Malloren House.

Of course, she had never met Sappho in any of the more normal places. Either she didn’t receive invitations or chose not to attend. None of the people here were the most straitlaced members of society. Perhaps Sappho would be snubbed. After all, she could well have the taste for female lovers. Why else take the name of Sappho, the Greek poet killed for that amorous tendency?

A trio of female musicians played in one corner. Soon Sappho clapped her hands and commanded attention for the music. The three played very well indeed, and were soon joined by two vocalists who sang beautifully.

The music gave Elf opportunity to look over the company, spotting new people.

The Earl of Walgrave rather leaped to her eye.

Among the peacock colors of fashion, his black clothing set him apart. It was eccentric, really, to still be in deep mourning seven months after his father’s death.

Of course, it was mourning of the most magnificent type.

Tonight, his black coat and breeches were of brocade, heavily embroidered in silver, as was his dark gray waistcoat. His silver buttons and buckles glittered with what were doubtless small diamonds.

The dark magnificence suited him, and made those blue eyes even more startling. Elf’s memory of him in that black robe, his hair loose and wild, gave this elegance a strange new power to arouse.

She pushed that folly aside.
What on earth was he doing here?

A hundred suspicions flew into her mind, but she had to dismiss them. He couldn’t have known she planned to be here. She’d scarcely known it herself. And anyway, he’d be more likely to avoid Elfled Malloren than seek her out.

He surely couldn’t suspect the identity of Lisette.

So, could he be planning to strike at Rothgar through Sappho?

Trying to be subtle about it, Elf kept Walgrave under observation. He seemed his usual chilly self, listening to even a frivolous piece of music as if it were a funeral dirge. But when the piece ended, a young woman by his side turned and said something to the group nearby. Everyone laughed, and Walgrave . . . Well, perhaps he grinned before suppressing it. The lightness certainly lingered.

She observed him chatting to those around, and though his manner could not be called warm, it was far from the sneering disdain she was used to. The reactions of the others—at one point he made them laugh—showed he was not being unpleasant.

In fact, he reminded her too much of the man who had held her prisoner last night. A strange tightness in her chest almost made her dizzy. Perhaps Chantal had laced her too tight.

“Goodness,” said Amanda from behind her fan, “isn’t that Walgrave?”

Elf hastily looked away. Amanda had enough silly ideas in her head. “I can’t imagine why he’s here.”

“Perhaps for the excellent music. I confess, if I’d known, I’d have begged an invitation sooner. He is a fine figure of a man,” she added, still studying Walgrave around the edge of her fan.

“I never denied it.”

“A very shapely leg. Though it’s possible, I suppose, that he wears calf-enhancers.”

Elf looked at that leg, clear in black silk stockings and well-fitting breeches, and could remember it naked. “Don’t be foolish.”

“Ah! You know for a fact that his shape is all his own.”

“In those stockings, all the world must know it. I think men should wear skirts.”

Amanda chuckled, but before she could pursue the conversation, the poetry began.

After a while, Elf realized that all the readers were to be women. She glanced around to see if the men found
this strange, but none appeared to. As best she could tell, the work was very good.

Throughout it all, however, Elf’s attention largely stayed on Walgrave. Discovering her brother-in-law here was rather like discovering the parson in a brothel, and said equally much about character, but in this case creditably.

It was another indication that there might be more to the earl than she thought.

She remembered Chastity protesting that her brother had been quite a pleasant person before the events surrounding their father’s death. And Portia, who had known him in her youth, claimed him as a friend, a friend she’d trust. Portia, however, feared Walgrave’s hatred of Mallorens had become a sickness that could destroy all the good in him.

Was he only hateful with Mallorens, then? That hardly seemed fair. His father had been responsible for all the troubles, and Rothgar had sorted them out so Walgrave’s sister could marry Cyn. Admittedly, the old earl had ended up dead . . .

Her thoughts had caused her to stare. Perhaps he sensed it, for he glanced over. Immediately, any trace of lightness drained from him.

He raised his brows and gave her the look with which she was all too familiar. The one that saw her as an enemy, and an unattractive one as well. He certainly hadn’t recognized Lisette!

Elf was a tiny bit disappointed. What a fool she was. Had she actually expected him to be pining for his lost doxy, and instantly able to sense her presence?

Yes, she had.

What things she was learning about herself.

She wanted a hero, a dragon slayer. She wanted him decadently beautiful. She wanted him mad with lust.

For her.

For Lady Elfled Malloren, who was not without charms, but who had never driven any man mad with lust.

He looked away and smiled again for those around him, but Elf could sense an effort now. Portia was correct. The earl’s feelings toward the Mallorens were like a sickness, one infecting his whole world.

She began to wonder if he could be cured, for it was not in her nature to ignore a suffering creature . . .

When refreshments were served, Elf sought out her hostess and said, casually, she hoped, “How surprising to see Lord Walgrave here. Does he come regularly?”

“Moderately so, my lady. It offends you?”

“No, no!” Elf declared. “But I have always thought him more inclined to gaming and sportsmanship than to poetry and music.”

“Perhaps he is a more balanced person than you suspected. Or perhaps it just amused him, when his father was alive, to consort with people the Incorruptible particularly disliked.”

“He didn’t consort with my brother.”

Sappho smiled, perhaps in acknowledgment of the many layers to the statement. “Fort always inquires, before coming here, whether your brother is likely to be present.”

Elf had to suppress a spurt of outrage that this woman used his first name so easily. “Lord Walgrave does seem to have taken on his father’s dislikes along with the title,” she remarked.

“Not at all. He doesn’t dislike
me
.” Sappho halted a passing maid and took two glasses from a tray, handing one to Elf. “Men can be very foolish, my lady. A wise woman keeps out of their affairs.”

Elf sipped the excellent milk punch. “Really? What if a woman cares for the man?”

Sappho’s lips turned up slightly. “A wise woman does not care for men.”

“Are you saying you do not care for men?”

“Did I ever say I was wise? But men have codes quite adequately designed to manage their disagreements. It can be dangerous to interfere.”

“Men sometimes kill one another in those disagreements, codes or not.”

“True.” The notion did not seem to disturb her. “Whom do you wish to protect? Your brothers or Lord Walgrave?”

“My brothers of course.”

“I wonder.”

What on earth did the woman see? One-handed, Elf flicked her fan open and wafted it protectively. “I have no desire to see harm come to Walgrave either. His sister is married to my brother, after all. But if it came to a choice, I would choose my brothers.”

“Perhaps.” With that, Sappho moved on and Elf, impelled by some insane force, sought out her dangerous earl, Amanda by her side.

Elf had to admit that for her to be in the same room as Walgrave and not speak to him was close to impossible. It had been that way since their first meeting. The compulsion had resulted in nothing more than a string of barbed exchanges—unless one included the time as Lisette.

What would happen this time?

He stood in a loose group of people and she found it easy to move beside him. “How surprising to find you here, Walgrave.”

He started as if she had in truth jabbed him with a barbed weapon, then turned to face her as if she were an enemy. “How even more surprising to see you here, Lady Elfled.”

“This is my first visit.” Despite his tone, Elf determined to be calm and polite. Surely it was possible. “A pleasant event, is it not?”

“Indeed. But I wonder if Rothgar will permit other visits to this house.”

“Rothgar does not control my movements.” Already they were sparring.

“Rothgar controls any damn thing he can.”

“Then perhaps I cannot be controlled.”

His lips twitched into a sneer. “Doubtless true.
Perhaps you do serve a function—as a cross for him to bear.”

With difficulty, Elf resisted the urge to fall into a full-fledged quarrel. She took a calming sip of her brandy-laced punch and tried again. “Why so heated, my lord? In truth, I don’t think I’ve ever done you harm.”

He, too, collected himself. “How true. And in this company, to visit the sins of the brothers on the sister would be foolhardy.”

He bowed, and would have moved away had Elf not stayed him with a hand on his arm. It surprised her as much as him and she had to scramble for a reason.

“I wondered if you had word yet from Chastity and Cyn.”

He raised his brows. “I would have thought your brother more likely to write to you than my sister is to me.”

“Women are generally better correspondents. And anyway, Rothgar is out of town, so I am staying with Lady Lessington. If there are letters at Malloren House, I might not know of it. It was an impulse only, to ask you.” And a foolish one. She must sound like a babbling idiot.

He delicately removed her hand from his sleeve, rather as if it were a louse or some similarly unwelcome intruder. “You are overmuch given to impulse, I fear.”

“And you are overmuch given to criticism!”

As usual when they had these spats, he looked as if he’d like to throttle her.

“No,” he said tightly, “I have not received any letters. It is, after all, only three days since they left for Portsmouth, but I believe they planned to go onboard about now. They will doubtless send letters just before sailing. As you know, sailing can often be delayed. I will inform you as soon as I have any news.”

With that, he turned and walked away. In fact, he went to speak to Sappho, then left. Sappho glanced across at Elf with mildly amused interest.

Mild did not describe Elf’s feelings. Her hand tingled
where he had touched it, even if only to remove it from his person.

“I was wrong,” Amanda murmured. “It’s not Romeo and Juliet, it’s Benedick and Beatrice. If he ever discovers he’s kissed you, he’ll wash his mouth!”