The Book Of Scandal (37 page)

Evelyn pressed her hands to her abdomen as a tear slipped from her eye and slid down to her lip. She would just as soon die as lose another child.

She would just as soon die.

Finding someone who knew something about the Delicate Investigation and the matters purportedly revealed in the Princess of Wales’s scandalous book was quite easy.

Finding anyone who actually knew something firsthand, and not via secondhand gossip whispered in salons across Mayfair, was quite another task. In the space of one frustrating fortnight, Nathan had heard from various and sundry that the Princess of Wales was carrying another love child (the father rumored to be any number of men, including Lambourne); that the Prince of Wales had fathered the child she supposedly bore out of wedlock, and that they were, indeed, secretly but happily conjugal; that the Princess of Wales had fled England for her native Brunswick, a German principality, in spite of the political trouble with France brewing there; that the king had engineered the entire scandal to keep his son and his Whig sympathies from the throne.

Nathan had heard these tales enough times now to suspect bits and parts of each story were true, but none of the stories were completely true, as he explained to Darlington one afternoon. “And there’s nothing that would overtly point to Evelyn. It is a bit like looking for a particular leaf in a forest.”

“You’re looking in the wrong place,” Darlington casually suggested as he sipped from a pint of ale at the public house where they’d met. “Ask after Dunhill—not the prince or your wife.”

Dunhill. Nathan had tried so hard to forget him that he had overlooked the obvious.

“By the bye,” Darlington said, “I happened to see Wilkes a day or so ago. Perhaps he can help.”

“Wilkes?” Nathan said, surprised. “With Donnelly?”

“Donnelly is in Ireland,” Darlington said. “I’ve had a letter from him. Wilkes said he’d just come from Chichester. Paid a call to his mother, apparently.”

“Indeed? I would have sworn him motherless,” Nathan said with a wink, and made a note to call on his old friend just as soon as he had a free moment.

That evening, they were to dine with the Duke of Cumberland. Nathan knew Evelyn was not very keen on attending. He worried about her health, in truth. A night at the opera had fatigued her, and she seemed so pale of late. He supposed it was the London air—thick as molasses and rather putrid in its smell.

As for himself, he was hardly looking forward to the evening, either. He’d never particularly liked Prince Ernst, the duke. He’d found him disturbingly odd. Rumors of an incestuous relationship with Princess Sophia only increased Nathan’s wariness of him.

Evelyn was dressing for the evening when he entered her suite, lovely in a cream and gold gown. Kathleen was at her back, buttoning her gown as Nathan walked across the dressing room to kiss Evelyn’s cheek. “How beautiful you are,” he murmured appreciatively.

She blushed. “Thank you for that. I confess I’ve been feeling a little wan these last few days.”

“Never,” he said with a smile. “You are radiant. Will you join me in the green room later?” he asked as he continued to the door that adjoined their suites, where he paused for her answer. Her silhouette was elegant, almost regal, but she was uncharacteristically biting the corner of her lip. It seemed as if she hadn’t heard him. “Evelyn?”

Her head came up and she looked at him wide-eyed, as if she’d been caught at some prank.

“Are you unwell?” he asked, looking at her curiously.

“Unwell? No, no, I am quite well,” she said, and forced the smile again.

“You seem distracted.”

“Oh.” She fidgeted with her locket. “No, I…I suppose I was thinking of the evening. There will be so many people in attendance.”

“Friends of yours, I should think.”

She smiled wryly. “Surely you have been in London long enough to know that one never has friends, sir. I think of it more as if the vultures are circling.”

He smiled sadly—she had him there. “I shall join you in the green room,” he said again.

She nodded and watched him go out.

When the door had closed behind Nathan, Kathleen made a tsking sound of disapproval.

Evelyn sighed heavenward. “What is it, Kathleen?”

Her loyal ladies’ maid, who had been with her for as long as Evelyn had been old enough to employ such services, finished buttoning her. “It’s not my place to say,” she said with much superiority, and walked into the adjoining room.

Damnation. Evelyn had not told Kathleen of her predicament, but Kathleen knew Evelyn’s body and habits almost as well as Evelyn. She knew. Before long, everyone would know.

Evelyn couldn’t avoid the inevitable. She had to tell her husband.

The supper party was a raucous affair with more than three dozen from the highest reaches of society in attendance.

Evelyn and Nathan were ushered into the grand salon and announced, then served wine before supper. Evelyn was quickly swept up into the ladies’ inner circle with a cry of “Lady Lindsey! You’ve come back to us!” Several of the women looked at Nathan accusingly; more than one looked at him with a suggestive gleam in her eye.

Nathan kept his distance from that group of ladies and found himself standing with some of the men who surrounded Cumberland—men with whom Nathan was well acquainted from his own days of catting about the royal court.

Lord Moorhouse, a dandy with hair so meticulously curled that it had always annoyed Nathan, nudged Nathan with his elbow and tilted his wineglass in Evelyn’s direction. “It would seem you have reined the filly to your will, my lord.”

That remark startled Nathan; he looked pointedly at Moorhouse, who shrugged at his expression. “I beg your pardon if I have offended you, but there are no secrets in the royal salons. Your wife’s interests are well known by most.”

Nathan slowly turned to face him fully. “Is it your intent to provoke me, sir?”

“Not at all,” Moorhouse said with a bit of a smirk. “I merely misjudged your marital attachment after all these years.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast and wandered off.

Working to keep a surge of indignant rage in check, Nathan followed Moorhouse—he was well connected and Nathan needed men like him if he was to solve the mystery of who wanted Evelyn dead. When Moorhouse paused at a sideboard to pour more wine, Nathan forced down his pride and said with a derisive chuckle, “It wasn’t easy bringing her round, I’ll give you that, but I rather enjoyed the challenge.”

Moorhouse glanced at him.

Nathan smiled. “Frankly, I shouldn’t trust her in London at all, but seeing as how Dunhill has fled…”

Moorhouse snorted as he offered the bottle to Nathan, who had yet to take a sip of his wine. “You would flee as well, sir, if your life was threatened so openly.”

Nathan smirked. “How many cuckolds have guns, do you suppose?”

Moorhouse laughed. “I gather you’d like to see the shooter find his mark. Have patience, Lindsey. The coterie will catch up to him eventually, I’d wager.”

“The what?” Nathan asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“The coterie.” Moorhouse grinned and clapped Nathan on the shoulder. “There is the duke. You will want to bid him a good evening.” And with that, he sauntered away, leaving Nathan to wonder who or what was the coterie.

The question plagued him as he went through the motions of greeting the duke, who asked him bluntly if he intended to keep Evelyn in London among her friends, or in the country and away from any proper society.

And the question remained with him long after, when he had entered the gaming room for a round of cards and any bit of gossip he might glean, and even later, when Lady Fawcett sought his particular attention, hoping to soothe his tender feelings because of the well-known rift with his wife.

The coterie.

In the ladies’ retiring room, Claire sat on a divan while Evelyn stood behind a screen, retching into a chamber pot. “Dear Lord, I hope you haven’t come down with that awful fever that has circulated amongst the princesses,” Claire complained. “I’ve managed to avoid it thus far.”

“Something I ate, I think,” Evelyn said hoarsely as she wiped her hands on a cloth. “How is Harriet? I was hoping to see her.”

“I’ve sent her off to Italy for the winter with my mother to learn a bit of culture.”

Evelyn looked at Claire.

“What?” Claire asked with a smile. “Did you think I was going to foist her on you again?”

“You’ve never foisted her on me, Claire. I sought her out. I enjoy Harriet’s company and I am sorry I will not see her.”

“Really, Evelyn, you should have children and plenty of them,” Claire said with a sigh.

Evelyn didn’t respond—another wave of illness overcame her, and she quickly stepped behind the screen.

When she was steady, she came from behind the screen and to the basin to wash.

“Such rotten food in the country! And I thought it so wholesome there,” Claire said with disdain as she joined her at the basin to review her appearance in a looking glass. “You’re not going to remain at Eastchurch, are you? It seems so…rustic,” she said with a visible shudder.

Evelyn had thought so, too, a few short weeks ago. “I don’t know,” she lied. “Lindsey is very angry about…everything.”

“He seems the sort to be angry,” Claire said dispassionately. “I think the country suits him, however—he has that look of gentry about him.”

Evelyn couldn’t guess what that was supposed to mean, but she didn’t care for the way Claire said it.

“Dunhill will return, you know,” Claire said softly as she straightened the back of Evelyn’s gown. “If you can think of a way to come back to Princess Mary…”

“Has she asked after me?” Evelyn asked.

“Of course,” Claire said. “It’s dreadfully dull for them all without us, and the queen is so rigid,” she said irritably. “But the queen is quite displeased with you, Evelyn,” Claire added with a smile. “I suspect you’ll hear of it when you come to tea. She does not condone adultery.”

Evelyn gasped and swung around to Claire. “I did not commit adultery!” she exclaimed.

Claire laughed. “Oh really, Evelyn! Didn’t you? Thinking it is almost as criminal as doing it.” She linked her arm through Evelyn’s. “Oh, you mustn’t fret! I’ve been very circumspect in my remarks when you are the topic of conversation. I have never told another breathing soul that you asked me the very morning you were taken away which one I would choose, were I you.”

Evelyn glared at Claire. “I asked you which ribbon you would choose, Claire.”

Claire smiled. “Did you indeed? How odd—I remember it quite differently.”

Evelyn jerked her arm from Claire’s and strode across the room.

“Oh, don’t be in such a snit!” Claire said after her. “Everyone knew it! Everyone! Did you really think you had secrets?”

The door shut behind her, and Evelyn walked down the hall, her heart beating with anger and fury and shock. How had she ever believed she could be happy in this viper’s nest? How had she ever counted these people as her friends?

In the grand salon once more, Evelyn looked about for Nathan, and spotted him having a very intimate conversation with Lady Fawcett. He was smiling charmingly, a smile that would melt Evelyn, just as it was undoubtedly melting Lady Fawcett.

She felt a twinge of jealousy and turned away. His laughing with Lady Fawcett made her irritable—not only was her life in danger, but he’d practically thrown her to the wolves when they’d entered, letting them swallow her up while he went off to do God knew what, and now, with—

“Wine, madam?”

The gentleman who addressed her was a smiling Lord Ramsey, a friend of Dunhill’s whom Evelyn had met on a few occasions. “No, thank you,” she said, and looked at the crowd again.

“The country air seems to have agreed with you,” he said pleasantly. “You look very well.”

Evelyn did not answer. If she so much as looked at him, she knew tongues would wag.

Ramsey inclined his head; she could see him from the corner of her eye. “I thought you might like word of our mutual friend.”

“No,” she said instantly.

He chuckled low. “Come now, madam, but wouldn’t you? He was really rather saddened when you were so abruptly taken from our midst.”

Evelyn swallowed, hard.

“He had to leave London rather suddenly himself, I’m sure you’ve heard,” Ramsey continued unabashedly. “It would seem there is nothing delicate about the Delicate Investigation any longer.”

There was something about the tone of his voice that curled uncomfortably around Evelyn’s heart. She risked a look at him; Ramsey smiled at her, but his eyes seemed cold. She took a step backward. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“That’s the right answer, sweetheart,” he said, his pleasant smile belying the rancor dripping in his tone. “Were I you, I would maintain that answer, and particularly with your husband. His inquiries have made some people rather anxious.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, taking another step backward.

He laughed, caught her hand in his before she could jerk it away, and lifted it to his lips. “Excellent.” He bussed the back of her hand and dropped it, looked her over once more with eyes cold as ice, and walked on.

Evelyn’s pulse was suddenly racing, her face felt hot. She whirled around—and nearly collided with her husband.

Nathan caught her with a smile. “Steady, love.”

“Where have you been?” she snapped.

His smile faded. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes—everything!” she said, pressing her hand to her abdomen again.

His eyes darted to Ramsey. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I want to go home, Nathan. I don’t want to be here.”

“We can’t leave—”

“Can’t we beg off? We’ll tell Cumberland I am ill,” she said, a little frantically.

“Are you ill?” Nathan asked, clearly concerned.

“Yes! No, no, not like that,” she said again, and anxiously rubbed her forehead. “Perhaps just a bit like that—it’s too warm in here, and I can’t seem to think.”

He took her by the elbow and steered her to a settee, signaling a footman as he took a seat next to her. “Water for the lady,” he said when the footman appeared. “What is it, Evie?” Nathan asked, leaning slightly forward to look in her eyes. “What is it? Did Ramsey say something to offend you?”