The Pleasure Trap (4 page)

One by one, gentlemen at various tables got up. “I agree,” said one. Others said the same. A hush descended as everyone waited to see what would happen next.

The country squire blustered, then shouted, “This is not the end of it!” and he stormed out of the room, followed closely by his cohorts.

At the lectern, a shaken Leigh Fleming said, “I think my authors need time to come to themselves after that ugly scene. Refreshments will be served directly.”

Ash’s claim to fame lasted all of five minutes. Everyone wanted to shake his hand and tell him what a fine fellow he was. It did not take long, however, before people wandered away to greet the real celebrities of the symposium—as was proper—Leigh Fleming’s bevy of authors.

From a passing waiter’s tray, Ash plucked a glass and set it to his lips. Lemonade. When the next waiter came up to him, he placed the untouched drink on his tray and asked him to fetch something stronger. Coffee, however, was the strongest brew they served at this hen party, and Ash politely declined it.

“That was well done,” said a voice at his elbow.

Ash turned and acknowledged one of the gentlemen who had helped him stare down the rowdies’ ringleader. “Thank you for your help.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Jason Ford was in his late twenties, had done his bit for king and country in the Spanish Campaign, and, after a short stint as an agent with Special Branch, had set up on his own as an investigator working on commission.

“Well, Jason,” said Ash, “are you here as an investigator or are you an admirer of Gothic literature?”

Jason gave a self-conscious laugh. “I don’t have much time for reading.”

“Too busy tracking down criminals?”

“Hardly. The cases I take on are beneath the notice of the police or Special Branch. Sometimes I work for barristers; sometimes I’m hired by private citizens.”

Ash bared his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. He was thinking of Colonel Shearer. “Let me guess. You’re here to try to discover the identity of this Angelo fellow?”

Jason nodded. “He has stepped on the toes of some very important people who want me to warn him off.” His gaze traveled from one group of people to another. “Why does everyone seem to think that Angelo is a female?”

“If you’d read his stuff, you’d know.”

“Oh,” replied Jason, who didn’t seem to be any the wiser. “And why do all these authors use pseudonyms? I’m going to have the devil of a time finding out who is who.”

“That’s the general idea, so I’m told. Authors guard their privacy.”

“Do you think Fleming knows more than he is telling?”

“You’re the investigator. You tell me.”

Jason sighed. “I think they all know more than they’re telling, both Fleming and his bevy of authors.” He looked at Ash with puppy-dog eyes. “The publisher of the
Herald
? He’s a friend of yours, is he not? Brand Hamilton?”

Ash forestalled the next question. “And you want me to ask my friend if he knows who Angelo is?”

“If it’s not asking too much.”

Ash didn’t hesitate. Not only was Jason Ford a veteran of the Spanish Campaign, but he had sustained an injury that had lamed him in one leg. Ash was always happy to give a helping hand to men who had served their country. As a result, his estate in Richmond was well stocked with former soldiers who had fallen on hard times.

“I’ll see what I can do, but he won’t be back in town for a few days.”

Jason wasn’t finished yet. His eyes scanned the crush of people. “Do you think that heckler hit the mark? Is it possible that Angelo is one of Mr. Fleming’s authors?”

“Anything is possible.”

Jason sighed. “I don’t much relish the idea of threatening a lady.” He squared his shoulders. “I say, Denison, if you find anything out, you
will
let me know?”

“If you’ll return the favor.” To the question in the young man’s eye, Ash responded, “I have my own reasons for wanting to find out who this Angelo is.”

The interest in Jason’s eyes turned to speculation. “You’re on the case, too?”

“Hardly! I’m curious, that’s all. Well, go on. Investigate. And start with those hecklers. Maybe someone knows them.”

“Right. I was just about to.”

Ash smiled as young Ford began to mingle with the crush of ladies. He looked ill at ease, and Ash found that appealing. Ford, he knew, had not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Anything he’d got had come to him through his own hard work. Ash admired that in a man.

His gaze shifted to Mrs. Barrymore. She’d lost the little color in her cheeks and was smoothing her brow with her fingertips. He could almost hear her making her apologies as she tried to disengage from the ladies surrounding her. She looked ill.

Someone spoke to him, but Ash brushed him off. A few strides took him to Mrs. Barrymore’s side. “Allow me,” he said, and, ignoring her objections, he cleared a path for her from the crowded dining room through the door and into the spacious front vestibule. No stranger to the Clarendon, Ash guided her to a pretty little alcove with a sofa and two chairs. She took one of the chairs.

“I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I sensed…” She stopped, looked up at him, and managed a weak smile. “It’s Lord Denison, isn’t it? You’re Lady Amanda’s cousin.”

“And you’re Mrs. Barrymore.” He sat on the sofa, right by her chair. “How do you do?” He gave her one of the gracious smiles for which he was famous—not too admiring, but not shy, either. It didn’t seem to work. She was gazing at him as though he threatened her in some way. Violet eyes, he noted, with pupils dilating in alarm.

His smile disappeared. “Look, are you all right? Would you like me to get you something? Lemonade? Tea? Something stronger?”

“A glass of water would do fine.”

He hailed a passing waiter, asked for a glass of water, and turned to look at her again. Color was returning to her cheeks, but her beautiful violet eyes had turned to gray. A moment before she’d been off balance. Now, her eyes told him, she had herself well in hand.

He said easily, “You said you sensed something?”

“Did I?” She gestured with one hand. “The heat was too much for me. And the crowds. I became dizzy. That’s all it was.”

And he sensed that there was more to it than that. But he was in no position to correct her. “I wouldn’t let those hecklers upset you. The ringleader was a bully, and the others were followers. We won’t be seeing them again.”

“Yes, it was an unpleasant business. A strange business. I don’t know what to make of it. Thank you for your intervention. That was well done.”

The glass of water arrived, and she drank it back as though she’d just been rescued from the Sahara Desert. It came to him that she couldn’t wait to get rid of him and that as soon as she drained the glass, she would shake him off and run for cover.

He was mildly annoyed. Women didn’t take to their heels when he paid them a little attention. And how this country mouse could imagine that he was anything but a gentleman was beyond belief. So he’d stared at her through his quizzing glass. Most women would have been flattered. He wanted to dress her, not undress her. The trouble with Mrs. Barrymore was that she’d been reading too many Gothic romances and was confusing them with real life.

Those lustrous gray eyes, her best feature, were staring at him as though she expected him to pounce on her. He was tempted to laugh. Since diplomacy was getting him nowhere, he came straight to the point.

“Do you know who Angelo is?”

The wariness in her eyes cleared. “Angelo?”

“The author who got on the wrong side of the hecklers.”

“No.” She almost smiled. “I’d never heard of him until today. I still don’t understand what all the fuss is about. What did he do that was so awful?”

“I gather some of his stories are based on real events and real characters.”

She set down her empty glass, but she didn’t try to run away. Evidently, she was no longer wary of him. “Some of my stories are based on real events,” she said. “Every writer could say the same. However, using real characters is a tricky business. If they are recognizable, an author can be sued for slander, or is it libel? I can never remember the difference.”

He said carefully, “You’ve never read one of Angelo’s stories?”

“No. I live in Henley, and the
Herald
is a London paper.”

When she looked a question at him, he said, “I’m almost sure that he’s a woman, one of your colleagues, perhaps.”

There was a momentary silence as she digested this, then she said, “What makes you say so?”

“The style. The voice, as my cousin Amanda calls it. Angelo’s work has a Gothic feel. Women don’t write the same way as men, and Gothic writers in particular use flowery prose and exaggerate every emotion. I’m basing my opinion on the readings I heard today. Take your own work, for instance. I’ve read one of your books and—”

“Yes, Lady Amanda told me.” Her voice was crisp. “What about my work? Oh, don’t hold back because I’m a female. I’m a novelist, Lord Denison, not a delicate flower, and you are entitled to your opinion.”

He’d been on the point of telling her how much he’d enjoyed her book, but the snap in her voice and the ice in her eyes tested his patience. He liked women, really liked them, and they liked him. Even his former lovers had nothing but good to say about him. This little harridan had gone too far.

As blunt as he could be, he said, “Your hero is too bland. Anemic, in fact. And when he takes the heroine into his arms, he shouldn’t be spouting poetry or comparing her to some distant star.”

By degrees they’d moved closer. They were almost nose to nose. She let out a huff of breath. “And you would know all about it?”

He almost smirked. “I’m a male. You bet I know all about it.”

“So, tell me, Lord Denison, how should my hero act?”

“Like this,” he said.

She gave a little start when his thumb brushed her lips and sucked in a breath when his hand cupped her neck. It took very little to bring her lips close to his. Their warm breath mingled. She didn’t struggle, nor did she yield. Her eyes stared defiantly into his.

Against her lips, he whispered, “He wouldn’t be talking at all. He’d be wondering how he could get her into bed.”

He released her at once and steeled himself for the obligatory slap he thought he deserved. Mrs. Barrymore did the unexpected. She laughed and got to her feet.

Shaking her head, she said, “What you have to understand, Lord Denison, is that in my books, the heroes are accessories, like a fan or a handkerchief. My heroines are my heroes.” She turned away, then turned back. “Thank you for the glass of water.”

“My pleasure,” he responded, but this time he made sure the lady understood he was not harmless.

He watched her as she made a dignified retreat. From this angle, he had a better idea of the figure she tried to hide with the shapeless gown—straight spine, small waist, and a curvaceous bottom. He really would like the dressing of her.

When she disappeared up the stairs, he got up and returned to the symposium. Jason Ford found him in quiet reflection a few minutes later.

“Why the smile?” Jason asked.

Without thinking, Ash replied, “I was laughing at myself.”

“What’s so funny?”

He wasn’t going to tell this serious young man that he’d been
undressing
the little country mouse in his mind. Young Ford would be scandalized. “It’s not important,” said Ash, and it wasn’t. “Did you find anything out?”

“Not about the hecklers. Mrs. Rivers is hinting that she is Angelo, but she’s being coy about it. I can hardly twist her arm behind her back to get her to tell me whether she’s telling the truth or not.”

Mrs. Rivers. The dasher. Ash couldn’t see it. He’d rather put his money on Mrs. Barrymore. He was remembering how ill she’d looked, how shaken she was after that ugly scene with the hecklers. Something had frightened her badly.

“Leave Mrs. Rivers to me,” he said.

Up in her bedchamber, Eve paced back and forth. She knew that she couldn’t stay here for long. She owed it to Leigh and her readers to mingle. All she wanted was a moment or two to get a grip on herself.