Anne Barbour (17 page)

She turned to her drawing once more, and as she did so, she heard noises that indicated Richard’s presence in his study next door.

Richard!

In her abstraction, she had completely forgotten the snatch of conversation she had heard in Limmer’s tap-room. Was it possible that Richard had actually embarked upon an affair with Clea? It couldn’t be! But if it were, the two people who meant the most in the world to her, Cat and Jonathan, would be devastated.

She stood in thought for a moment, then squaring her shoulders, she knocked firmly on the door that separated her studio from Richard’s study. “I must talk to you,” she stated baldly when he ushered her into the room.

Briefly she recounted to him the conversation she had heard between Miles Crawshay and the stranger. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she told of watching him apparently succumb to Clea’s blandishments at the Italian Opera.

To Tally’s surprise, Richard displayed neither guilt nor anger. Instead, an odd smile played across his lips, and he bade Tally sit down.

“Where in the world did you run into those two?” was his first question.

Caught off guard, Tally mumbled something about seeing them as she strolled one afternoon in the Park.

Richard lifted a quizzical brow, but said nothing. After a brief silence, he continued quietly. “Tally, you know I love Cat with all my heart.”

“I thought you did, at any rate.”

“Believe me, I do.” Richard’s voice was low and intense. I must confess I am interested in talk of a totally imaginary relationship between the Countess of Bellewood and myself, but I am at a loss to explain it.”

Tally returned his gaze gravely. She did not know Richard very well, but she had liked him instinctively on first meeting. She did not think him the sort of man to play his wife false—but then, what did she know of the world? Jonathan was betrothed to a beautiful woman whom he loved desperately, yet he had kissed another, apparently with no more compunction than a gentleman would in pinching the bottom of a buxom chambermaid. He probably did a lot of that, too, she sniffed inwardly.

“I want to believe you, Richard,” she sighed, “and I want to trust you, but you must admit the whole thing looks very smoky.”

“Like a plugged chimney,” he admitted cheerfully. “But there is no accompanying fire.”

“All right, I’ll accept your word, but I will tell you this,” she added fiercely, “if you do anything to hurt Cat I’ll—I’ll slice out your liver!”

Richard’s crooked grin spread wide across his face. “And I’ll help you do it,” he promised. He became serious again. “Tell me again about this stranger who met with Crawshay—in the Park.”

“Well, he was—oh, wait!”

Tally ran to her work table and returned with the little sketch she had made of the pair. Richard studied it intently, then asked her to repeat again everything she remembered of the conversation between the two men.

“Mmm.” Richard stood motionless for several seconds. “Do you think you could incorporate this drawing into one of your illustrations for
Town Bronze?”

“Of course. Nothing could be simpler. May I ask why?”

“Oh—just an idea that came to me.”

Richard said nothing more, and after a moment, Tally sighed. “Very well, I shan’t plague you any further.”

Richard placed his hand on her arm. “You really have no cause for concern, you know,” he said softly. “About any of this.”

He held her gaze for an instant, then turned away abruptly. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment.”

In a moment he was gone, and with a sense of foreboding, Tally returned to her little studio. She sat down again at the table, but, once more, simply sat staring into space, chewing absently on the end of her pencil.

At lunchtime, she was still engaged in this unprofitable activity. She dined in solitary splendor, Cat being absent on a round of obligatory morning calls, but when she had finished, she stood abruptly and went in search of her bonnet. Armed with her sketch pad and pencil, she left the house and proceeded to the end of Half Moon Street and crossed Piccadilly. She was soon seated on a bench in Green Park, her fingers flying as she drew the likeness of two youngsters rolling hoops along the path. So engrossed did she become in her work that she did not see the pair of strollers who approached.

“Why, Lady Talitha, what a charming surprise!”

Tally started so precipitously that the pad slid from her lap and her pencil flew from her fingers, landing at the tips of a pair of dainty half boots. She looked up to see Clea Bellewood smiling roguishly at her from under a lacy parasol. Beside her stood Miles Crawshay, quizzing glass at the ready.

Tally gasped, horrified at having been caught at her nefarious vocation. “Lady Bellewood! Good afternoon. And Mr. Crawshay.”

She dropped her hands into her lap to still their trembling, and began twisting her ring in a familiar gesture.

Crawshay bent gracefully to retrieve her sketch pad and raised his glass to inspect the drawing she had made. She had set down only a few preliminary lines, and he returned the pad to her with the merest show of polite interest.

“But how is it you are in the Park all alone?” Lady Bellewood asked, scanning the smooth lawn in all directions. “Did you not bring your maid with you?”

Her tone implied assignations in the shrubbery, and Tally flushed to the roots of her hair. She knew she had committed a solecism in leaving home unaccompanied, but the ritual of the obligatory escort when in London had always been most irksome to her.

Gripping her ring even tighter, Tally assumed an air of nonchalance. “No, I did not. The poor thing has the toothache, and I did not wish to take any of Cat’s other servants away from their duties merely to guide my steps in the Park. I am not so fortunate as you,” she continued smoothly, “in having a relative to see to my, er, needs.”

Clea’s tinkling laugh could have etched a mirror, but her simper remained fixed.

“Yes, I am indeed fortunate,” she agreed smugly. “Miles and I have always been close, and with Jonathan out of town, I appreciate having him near.”

“Jo—Lord Chelmsford has left London?” Tally asked, shock tightening her voice.

“Why, yes, he left early this morning for his seat in Warwickshire. Did he not tell you?” Clea’s blue eyes were wide with innocent surprise.

“N-no. That is—there is no reason why the Viscount should discuss his plans with me.”

“You are quite right, of course. I merely thought, since you have become such friends....” Clea’s voice trailed off in quiet malice.

“Oh, no!  I—we—it’s just that…”

“Come, my dear,” Crawshay interposed in an amused tone, “withdraw your dainty claws, so that Lady Talitha can stop abusing that pretty little ring, and let us be on our way. If you will remember, we were on our way to Hatchard’s to be the first to purchase the new installment of that wretched novel.”

“Oh yes,
Town Bronze
.” Clea’s face brightened. “Have you read it, Lady Talitha?”

“Oh! Yes—yes, Cat purchased the first installment some time ago, but we have not yet read the second.”

“So delicious, don’t you agree? But then, you are no doubt unfamiliar with most of the persons so cleverly pilloried in the book. The description of Lord Beddoes as Sir Toby Potwell was priceless, and that wicked drawing of him was the finishing dash of pepper to the broth!”

“I have met Lord Beddoes,” replied Tally carefully, “and, as you say, he seems most accurately portrayed. I found him all the more interesting because the book also describes his efforts to alleviate the suffering of those incarcerated in the “Jerusalem Hospital”, which I collect refers to Bethlehem, or Bedlam as I believe it is called.”

“Oh, stuff.” Clea wrinkled her classic nose. “I skip over the boring parts.”

“And has anyone discovered the identity of the author of this acclaimed satire?” Miles queried.

“No.” Clea laughed. “But one hears the most absurd theories. Why, yesterday someone put forth the name of the Prince Regent as the most likely candidate! Can you imagine?”

Tally faintly declared herself incapable of imagining such a thing.

“Well, I intend to find out,” Clea continued brightly. “It would be such a coup to discover the author’s name before anyone else. I shall have to set my spies to work.”

In response to Tally’s startled intake of breath, Miles lifted an airy hand.

“Lady Belle simply means that she has as her consultants a network of the most unrelenting gossips in town. I shouldn’t wonder if the unfortunate fellow, as well as his illustrator, were not exposed to the glare of public opinion in less than a fortnight.”

“As he deserves to be,” sniffed Clea. “If he is a peer, as people say, this Dash person will be quite ruined when he is found out—penning scurrilous broadsides as if he were some low scribbler of penny-a-liners. It is not to be countenanced!”

Tally turned cold. Jonathan was right; if Clea found out about his secret career, she would abandon him like a bad memory.

With another of her metallic laughs, Clea placed her hand in the crook of Crawshay’s arm. “We really must be on our way. Such a pleasure, Lady Talitha.”

Nodding her head in a haughty gesture of dismissal, she drew Crawshay along the path toward Piccadilly, and was soon out of sight of the girl on the bench.

“Well, pet,” murmured Crawshay appreciatively, “I’d say you have her firmly on the ropes.”

“Don’t be absurd, Miles. She is not of the slightest consequence to me. Now, what were we discussing? Oh, yes. Dearest, can you not possibly see your way to lending me a few guineas?”

“A few guineas? My dear, I would hardly call three thousand pounds a few guineas. You have me confused with Golden Ball.”

“But you have access to....”

“No,” Crawshay replied sharply. “You know that money is earmarked for an entirely different purpose. Besides, if I am not mistaken, that amount will settle only the most pressing of your gaming debts.”

Clea turned to bend on him the full force of her wide, blue gaze. “But, Miles, what am I to do? You know I would not turn to you if I were not absolutely desperate.”

“I am sure you will think of something,” replied Crawshay, unfazed. “What about Chelmsford?”

“Jonathan?” Clea’s lovely mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. “If Jonathan were to discover the extent of my—my difficulties, he would—well, it simply does’t bear thinking of.”

“Of course. Well, I suppose you’ll have to unburden yourself of more of your expensive little trinkets.” He drew close to her and gently wrapped one of her shining curls about his finger. “Poor beauty in distress. Don’t worry, love, it will all come about. When this business is done, I shall shower you with guineas.”

Clea swayed toward him. “Ah, Miles—” she began, but he forestalled her by laying a finger across her lips.

“Tell me about Thurston,” he commanded casually. “How stand matters in that quarter?”

Clea lips curled in a sly smile. “As you would expect. He was quite—responsive at our little rendezvous this morning. By this time next week...”

“Excellent, my dear. Our friend will be pleased.”

Tucking her arm once more in his, he turned again toward their destination.

A hundred yards or so behind them, Tally still sat on her bench, furiously berating herself for having turned into a veritable
blanc mange
at Clea’s sly dagger thrusts. She jumped to her feet and started for Half Moon Street. On the way, she pondered the news she had received from Lady Belle.

She had no right to be upset that Jonathan had gone away without informing her, but she was. Was he so appalled at last night’s incident that he couldn’t even face her? Given Jonathan’s reputation with the fair sex, that hardly seemed likely. A quick kiss in a darkened carriage hardly qualified as an earth-shaking event in the life of a London man about town.

Yet, it had not seemed like a casual kiss. She recalled the blazing anger with which Jonathan had crushed her mouth against his, an anger that had moved swiftly into an aching tenderness. The memory created a treacherous warmth that spread from the pit of her stomach into regions whose existence she had heretofore been hardly aware of. Surely, such a kiss could not have left Jonathan unaffected.

No, she thought abruptly. No. Jonathan was filled with his love for Lady Belle, and there was no room for anything but the most minor affection for her. What had happened in the carriage was—was nothing.

Tally trudged wearily through the Thurstons” front door and inquired of Bates as to the whereabouts of the lady of the house. She was told that Madame had returned from a round of visits an hour or so ago. She had gone directly to her room and had not yet come down.

Puzzled, Tally climbed the stairs to Cat’s room and knocked gently on the door. It was not until she had knocked a second time and softly called Cat’s name that her friend bade her enter.

She found Cat seated at her dressing table, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Pale stains on her cheeks gave evidence to tears shed and dried, and now she simply sat silently.

Tally rushed to her and sank to her knees beside the dressing table stool. She flung her arms around her friend. “Cat, what is it? What’s the matter?”

Cat turned to look at her, her usual vivacity replaced by a look of stunned shock. “I paid a morning call to Cassie Wentworth. She recently gave birth to a daughter, you know. She lives in North Audley Street, and on the way home, I decided to stop in that little shop in Oxford Street you know, the one where we saw that bonnet with the apple green satin ribbons.”

Tally watched her in bafflement, and Cat continued in a shaky voice.

There was some sort of carriage accident up ahead, so my coachman made a detour up Duke Street and turned onto Henrietta Street.” Cat glanced quickly at Tally, the tears bright in her eyes. “A new gambling house opened there some weeks ago, run by some Frenchwoman. I understand it has become a favorite of Clea Bellewood’s. The carriage became stalled in traffic for several minutes and stopped just at a small mews which opens out into Henrietta Street. Set into that mews is a side door to the Frenchwoman’s house.” She paused, and lifted her hands in a forlorn gesture.