Lady Dearing's Masquerade (24 page)

“Charming. Quite charming,” drawled a male voice.

Dear God. Sir Digby Pettleworth. What was
he
doing here?

“Good morning, Sir Digby,” she said icily. “I trust you intend only a short visit. Else I shall have to summon Charles to escort you to the door. You do remember Charles, my footman?”

“Of course I do.”

His manner was far too calm, considering the violent manner of his ejection from Rosemead three years ago. Livvy bit her lip. Sir Digby Pettleworth was not a brave man. If he showed no fear of Charles there might be an unpleasant reason for it.

“What brings you here?” she ventured.

“Ah, I thought you would wish to know! In fact, I have every hope that today you will not spurn my expressions of admiration as you did three years ago.”

He sauntered into the room. She remained seated at the harp, noting that he had put on flesh and now sported a gaudy diamond in his cravat.

“And why would you think that?”

Whether it was her aloof manner, or a desire to prolong the moment, he halted.

“Why, not long ago I learned that you have ended your long-standing liaison with Arlingdale and are seeking a new protector.”

“Ah, you have read that piece in
The Morning Intelligencer
. I would advise you not to heed what is written there too closely.”

He smirked. “My information is more direct than that.”

How she hated the self-satisfied popinjay with his diamond pin, his sallow complexion and his potbelly. But he had a dangerously spiteful tongue. He’d used it against Harriet Debenham once; he would not hesitate to use it on her.

“If you wish to tell me something, I will listen,” she said, digging her nails into her palms.

“I will tell you how I know you have broken with Arlingdale. I was there, at the Pulteney, the night
Le Mariage de Figaro
premiered at the King’s Theatre,” he replied, speaking each word with relish. “I saw quite a different gentleman follow your maidservant up the back stairway.”

She felt sick, but she lowered her eyes so he would not see it.

“I know the man who visited your room that night,” he continued with a delighted wink. “And, my darling lady, it was
not
Arlingdale.”

Chapter 18

“It disappoints one to know that such an upright and moral gentleman should be subject to the same base urges as lesser men,” Sir Digby mused, envy lacing the mock regret in his voice.

Livvy clasped her hands tightly in her lap, suppressing the angry retort that rose to her lips. She instantly comprehended the situation. Sir Digby was not merely seeking revenge for her earlier rejection; he was jealous of Jeremy and wanted to topple him from the position of respect he now held.

He was an insect. But it was wise not to antagonize a wasp.

“W-what gentleman are you speaking of?” she asked, intentionally allowing a nervous tremor into her voice.

“Why, Sir Jeremy Fairhill, of course.”

“You must have been mistaken.”

“No, I could not be. Perhaps you were not aware that for some time now I have been a member of the Foundling Hospital’s General Committee? I see Sir Jeremy every Wednesday. I could not possibly be mistaken.”

She allowed some of her dismay to show. “I will admit Sir Jeremy visited me. He only wished to assure himself, for the good of my children, that I was not consorting with Lord Arlingdale.”

“Who do you think would believe that?”

“Anyone who knows Sir Jeremy would believe it.”

Annoyance crackled from his eyes. She bit her lip, wishing she had not triggered his envy.

“Then his reputation must be safe,” Sir Digby continued, composing his features. “Nevertheless, I cannot in good conscience keep the Committee in ignorance of his doings. It will be my unpleasant duty to bring it up at the next meeting.”

“But—but that would cause such a stir.”

“It is terrible to contemplate.” Sir Digby shook his head. “Who knows? They might decide they can no longer place their trust in one who threatens the institution’s good name.”

She looked down, hiding her fury, hoping he would take it for despair. She needed time to decide what to do.

He took a step toward her. Another breeze brought a whiff of the vile pomade he used on his hair.

“And as for the woman who led him astray . . . well, they could hardly be expected to entrust her with the care of our poor young innocents.”

If he had a soul, what a sad, repulsive thing it was!

She mastered the urge to call Charles and have the slimy creature cast down the steps. She needed time to get word to Jeremy; this was a matter they needed to address together.

“But surely the Governors would do neither of those terrible things,” she said plaintively.

“If the Committee does not act, I might feel obliged to publish my findings. In the public interest, of course.”

She felt sick. To report such gossip—it was unthinkable behavior for a gentleman. Yet the threat had come so easily to his lips . . .

“I should hate to be driven to such extremes,” he continued. “My dear old father-in-law would be so shocked and disappointed. He thinks the world of Sir Jeremy; one hates to think what he might do in the bitterness of his disappointment. Or of all the Cits who would follow his example.”

Jealousy dripped from his voice, but Livvy knew he spoke the truth. Tobias Cranshaw was indeed one of the Hospital’s most influential benefactors.

“A dreadful outcome, don’t you think, my darling?”

She kept her eyes down so he would not see the hatred in them. “Yes . . . most dreadful.”

“One that should be avoided at any cost.”

“But—what do you mean?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“I could ensure that Sir Jeremy’s brief indiscretion remains a secret. And that those dear little children remain in your loving care.”

She was unsurprised by the lascivious light in his eyes. Perhaps she could use his swaggering confidence against him.

“And in return? Surely you cannot be suggesting . . .” She stared up at him, wide-eyed.

“In return you shall allow me to be your friend. Your advocate on the General Committee. Your protector.”

As if she were fool enough to trust him! The vindictive scum would not stop with making her his mistress; if she allowed it, he’d bilk her of her jointure, strip her of everything: independence, dignity, even the children.

He took another step forward and put a hand on her shoulder. Her skin crawled.

“I—I shall have to summon Charles if you continue, sir!”

“Do not dare!” he said, more roughly than before.

Something in his voice stung her like a foul memory, but at least he removed his hand from her shoulder.

“If you summon that damned footman, it will be all the worse for you and your precious Sir Jeremy,” he growled. “Tell me. Do we have an understanding?”

He slid his hand back onto her shoulder. This time she endured it.

“You must give me some time . . . I cannot think . . . it is all so complicated . . .” She looked up, trying to look desperate. “Please, give me a week and I will give you your answer.”

A week to get word to Jeremy and find a way to deal with this snake.

Laughing, he released her shoulder and walked toward the door to the corridor. “A week?

No, my darling. I wish to have your pledge of cooperation.” He shut it. “Now.”

She thought furiously. Though flabby, he was a big man, possibly strong enough to overpower her. There were still the open French doors . . . but fleeing would not help.

“Oh dear,” she blurted, inspiration striking her. “I cannot—what I mean is—the French lady, you know . . .”

He goggled at her for a moment.

“My monthly visitor,” she explained meekly.

“You are lying!”

“No, indeed I am not!”

A look of fastidious horror spread over his features, and she went limp with relief. He believed her. Perhaps her ploy would gain her some time.

“When
will
you be ready to cooperate?” he demanded.

“By Saturday,” she said, stretching her lie as far as she dared.

“Very well then, you shall engage your usual suite of rooms at the Pulteney. I shall meet you there at ten o’clock in the evening on Saturday.”

She nodded, lowering her head.

“I shall look forward to it. But in the meantime, I hope to see further proof of your compliance.”

Her heart sank. “You—you do?”

“I would be very disappointed if you ran with this tale to Sir Jeremy, for both your sakes.”

He stared down at her hand. It was useless to hide her ring now. It seemed he knew everything already.

“What do you wish me to do?” she asked.

After a pause, he replied. “You shall end your disastrous liaison with Sir Jeremy. You shall meet him at the Foundling Hospital this Wednesday after the weekly meeting and tell him in person. A pity you cannot cry off in a letter, but I do not think he will believe it.”

She kept her gaze averted, calculating quickly. A day and a half. Enough time to get word to Jeremy. Not enough time for him to reply or come to her assistance.

“No tricks, please,” said Sir Digby in a bored tone. “You shall compose a letter to him under my direction. Now.”

Obediently, she went to her writing table. Sir Digby stood over her, a hand on her shoulder, and dictated the short letter, merely requesting Jeremy to meet her on the Hospital grounds after the meeting. When she’d finished sealing and directing the letter, Sir Digby took it from her.

“I shall hire a messenger to ensure its timely delivery,” he said, smiling. “If I hear that you have made any additional communications to Sir Jeremy, or that there has been any sort of slipup, I shall be obliged to publish my information. Perhaps I should also tell you that I have a friend who knows the entire story. He will not hesitate to make it public should anything happen to me.”

Another enemy? A sense of helplessness stole over her. She and Jeremy had talked of winning the support of decent people: his relations, his friends. They’d been so naïve. They’d never considered the dregs of society like Sir Digby, or the mischief they could wreak with their depraved whisperings.

“I understand.” She allowed her head and shoulders to droop, to hide her frustrated anger.

“I shall be looking forward to Saturday,” he gloated.

He turned and left. She straightened up and took a few turns around the room. She felt ill. There was no time to speak to Jeremy before Wednesday, and she needed a plan.

She sat down, willing herself to think. Sir Digby’s weaknesses were simple; he craved good living and gossip, and feared poverty and physical violence. Offering him anything—her self or her money—would only lead to more trouble. Was there a way she could threaten him without causing a scandal?

He also had an unknown ally.

She got up again and paced, holding back tears of desperation. Something was eluding her.

Do not dare!

His angry voice echoed in her mind. It was after she’d threatened to call Charles that Sir Digby’s veneer of politeness had cracked. His raised voice reminded her of something. She stopped pacing and tried to imagine Sir Digby’s voice amplified and slurred with drink.

She shook with anger as it came to her. Now she knew why he hated her so much, and why he was so ready to publish damaging gossip. He must have done so before, probably more than once. He had ruined her reputation, and now he threatened not only her and Jeremy, but the Foundling Hospital itself. And she would stop him, though the cost might be high.

Sir Digby Pettleworth was the Turk.

* * *

“Follow me, my lady.”

Livvy followed the supercilious butler through the Bromhursts’ quietly elegant residence in Grosvenor Square. He conducted her to the library and left her there, promising to convey a message to his mistress. By not taking her directly to the Lady Bromhurst’s drawing room, he was probably passing a judgment on her social standing. Or perhaps she was just early.

She had not paced about more than a few minutes when a fashionably dressed, matronly woman appeared in the doorway.

“Lady Dearing?” the lady asked, eyebrows lifted over clever gray eyes that held curiosity but no hint of welcome.

Livvy curtsied.

“I am Lady Bromhurst,” the lady announced. “What is the meaning of this visit?”

Livvy squared her shoulders. “In truth, I wish to speak to Lord Bromhurst on a matter regarding the Foundling Hospital, but I thought it more proper to inquire for you first.”

The lady scrutinized her critically for a moment.

“You are pale,” she said, her voice just degrees above freezing. “I trust you are not ill.”

“Thank you, I am quite well. But there is a problem I must discuss with Lord Bromhurst. I hope you will be kind enough to arrange for us to speak.”

Another quick scrutiny, and Lady Bromhurst nodded. “Very well, I shall see if my husband has finished his breakfast.”

Livvy paced again. Lady Bromhurst’s chilly demeanor was just what she expected. However, she seemed a sensible woman, perhaps, once one got to know her, as kind as her husband.

A few minutes later, both the Bromhursts entered the room, wary expressions on both their faces.

“This is a surprise, Lady Dearing,” said Lord Bromhurst. “I had thought we were dining together at Russell Square tomorrow.”

“I had to come. I have news which affects all of us. Jeremy is at Fairhill. I could not get word to him in time, so I hope that you will be able to help me.”

“Help you?” Lord Bromhurst echoed, his eyebrows twitching fiercely. “This sounds serious. By all means let us sit down so you may tell us what’s amiss.”

“Do you wish me to leave?” Lady Bromhurst asked primly.

Livvy glanced between her hosts.

“No, my dear,” Bromhurst returned. He turned to Livvy. “You may trust my wife to be discreet.”

She nodded. “Thank you, but I should also like to be sure no one else hears what I have to say.”

Lady Bromhurst closed the door. “Are you satisfied?” she asked, as if Livvy were behaving in a needlessly theatrical fashion.