Corey McFadden (35 page)

“One of my men pretended he had a cousin, a youngish lad, who had run off from service in the area. He gave your Mike’s description, of course—”

“Yes, of course,” Radford interrupted, impatient with all the chatter, “but what did he find out?”

“Well, it was most unusual, my lord. Instead of nattering on for hours and getting nowhere, it seems they struck a nerve immediately. That is, it may be entirely unrelated. I certainly hope so at least, but, you see, it seems there’s been others, obviously of the same type as my men—agents, I mean—nosing rather quietly around the same area. Only they are looking for a young woman, daughter of the local gentry, who has turned up missing. It seems the family wants it hushed up, but they suspect an elopement, probably with a young ne’er-do-well.

“The young lady disappeared about the same time as your young Mike ran off. And while the family—mainly the aunt—a nasty creature from what I gather—is trying to keep it hushed up, naturally enough, there’s those in the area who are beginning to question whether there’s been foul play. You see, the aunt’s children stand to inherit if this girl dies, and there is some speculation....”

“What’s her name?” Radford interrupted, unable to bear any longer the flow of irrelevant information. He had turned his back to Peabody to hide his growing elation. Now he had her!

“Uh, let me see, I don’t recall off the top of my head...let me check through my notes....”

Peabody pulled a sheaf of papers from his leather kit and began a maddeningly slow perusal of them. Briefly, Radford considered strangling him on the spot and grabbing the papers himself, then gave it up as a messy job.

“You see, I fear there is an off chance”—Peabody went on with his painstaking search—“a very slim chance that the two may be connected somehow....”

Radford’s heart skipped a beat.

“I know it is remote,” Peabody continued, “but there is just a chance, if there was foul play, that your young man could have been a part of the scheme to harm the young woman. That’s why I hurried right over to warn you.... Ah! Here it is...” Peabody held up a torn piece of note paper in triumph. “Romney. Maude Romney is her name.” Peabody fairly beamed at the earl.

For what seemed a long moment Radford just stared back. With all his concentration, he willed his jaw not to drop. Images chased furiously through his mind of a filthy, mouthy little brat with a pistol, and a nosy little chit landing smack in the middle of a tryst. It could not be that his bewitching beauty was none other than that dreadful child. And yet, even as he denied it, he knew that was precisely who she was, and knew with just as much certainty that his fate was sealed. He must marry Maude Romney and with great haste. Her awful family would demand it, and as gentry, however tarnished, they had that right.

With a great show of nonchalance, Radford turned and sat, gesturing for Peabody to do the same. Peabody was busily reordering his papers.

“I have reason to believe that the two events are unconnected, Peabody,” Radford began, wondering if he could successfully bluff this out. “I had occasion today to question Mike most thoroughly and I got some answers from him. It seems he ran from a Shropshire family who was visiting in the neighborhood where my coach struck him. I have a friend in Shropshire to whom I have sent off a letter asking for verification. I think for now we can call off your dogs.” Radford watched Peabody carefully to see how this story was playing out. To him it had “lie” screaming from every word, but Peabody, as usual, only nodded.

“As your lordship wishes, of course. I had hoped there would be some such innocent explanation, and I am terribly sorry that I disturbed you for no reason.” Peabody was already packing up to go.

“Nonsense, I am much relieved to hear that the lad’s story was not debunked by your men, Peabody. And as for this girl, I don’t think Mike had anything to do with her.” Radford barely breathed as he watched Peabody’s reaction to this statement.

“Of course, you are right, my lord. As I said, there was only an off chance...Well, I am all packed up, I think. If you have further need of our services, please do not hesitate to ask.” Peabody stood and picked up his case. “I am glad we were able to be of some small service, my lord.”

“Indeed you were, man. And I appreciate such quick work.”

The earl stood as well, and Martin appeared in response to some summons that Peabody had not even noticed and escorted the solicitor from the room, closing the door behind him.

Radford sat, staring at nothing. Maude Romney of that dreadful family next to the Radford estate, with the poor drunken sot and his shrewish, sharp-eyed wife with the children. What was that chit’s name? The one who had been all over him that night he had forced himself to be neighborly and attend their little soiree? Ah, yes, the delectable Amelia, lush with physical charm and all the morals of an alley cat.

Actually, he owed Maude a debt of gratitude for that narrow escape. One too many glasses of wine had put him off his guard that evening. Had Maude not landed on top of them, he might well be escorting Amelia about now as his countess, since it had been obvious to him in the full headache of the next morning that mother and daughter were set to catch an earl that evening. Amelia’s hasty marriage had been the talk of the
ton
a few months ago, with much speculation as to the reason. It had been clear to Radford that Claire had sprung the trap on some other hapless fellow.

Suddenly he froze. A trap. They had set a trap for him with Amelia and had failed. Could it be that that avaricious woman was at it again with her niece? And it was foolproof, really, if they had patience. It would have been easy enough to throw her in the way of his carriage. His comings and goings were no secret, after all. And disguising her as a boy was sheer genius. He would have recognized her had she been dressed as a female. And even if he had not recognized her in her feminine garb, he’d have turned her directly over to his housekeeper and had nothing more to do with the matter. As Mike, it was only a matter of time before she could ingratiate herself with him, then reveal herself as a female and seduce him. And what a clever ploy to pretend she had run off and to have detectives searching for her.

With a snarl of rage, he was on his feet and headed for the door. In the hallway, he stopped long enough only to put on his cloak, then barely one step behind a flustered Martin, he slammed out of the house and into his carriage which stood waiting for him. He was due momentarily at the townhouse to have dinner with the conniving little slut, but he’d be damned if he’d grace her table now. He growled out an order to the coachman to take him to his club, then he settled back into the squabs to nurse his grievance against the entire Romney clan.

* * * *

Maude sat at her dressing table and surveyed with awe the magic wrought by the hairdresser, Aimee, and Madame Arnaud. Between the two of them, they had transformed a forlorn waif into a fairy-tale princess. Not so oddly perhaps, Madame had delivered two gowns Maude had not ordered along with the exquisite riding habit. Now Maude was wearing one of them, a gown of shimmering satin, a light green that was almost aqua. It had a deep décolletage, nearly, but not quite, immodest, with exquisite lace peeping from the edges at her bosom. The small waist was low and long with full panels in artful swirls beginning at the hip and draping gracefully to the floor. Matching slippers, beautifully crafted, adorned her feet over the sheerest silk stockings she had ever seen. And the undergarments were so fine, so beautifully embroidered, she felt it was a shame to hide them.

But the crowning achievement was her hair. The image which peered back at Maude in the glass was that of a splendid creature with a glorious cascade of auburn curls swirling about her head like the halo on a beautiful angel. The image smiled tentatively as Maude reflected that she had never before looked this beautiful in her whole life. In a way it was heartening to see just what was possible.

Growing up as a tomboy, unloved and not much looked after, Maude had always assumed she was of passable appearance, and having no more than that to look forward to, had never aspired to be a beauty. Yet there, in the glass, was living proof that she was more than passable, that, indeed, she was a beauty.

Somewhere in her memory stirred the cherished image of her mother, and Maude leaned forward, her mouth slightly opened in surprise. Her mother had been exquisite, lovely in deed as well as appearance. Maude had never thought to rival her mother; it had been her father she had imitated all these years. Suddenly, she started to laugh. It was her mother’s face which stared back at her in the mirror. I spent all that time trying to be like Papa, she thought ruefully, because I thought I could never be so wonderful as Mama. And now I see I look just like her.

The face in the mirror grew sad. I have a long way to go before I can really be like Mama, she thought. Mama would not be proud of me now. She turned away from the glass, unwilling now to admire herself further in her ill-earned finery.

Rising from the dressing table, she decided it was time to go down and survey the arrangements for dinner. She had been a virtual prisoner in this room all day, unable to bear the icy stare of the butler in her dressing gown. Now, she sallied forth, squaring her shoulders. At least she was no longer at a disadvantage by her appearance.

Downstairs all was in readiness for his lordship. The table in the formal dining room was beautifully set with a fine china service and sterling flatware. The linens were spotless and beautifully starched, and the crystal fairly gleamed in the candlelight. Well, his lordship should have nothing to complain of in my housekeeping, she laughed to herself, even if I did have nothing at all to do with it.

The drawing room was equally perfect, with candles lit and a fire in the fireplace. There was no sign of the tiny buttons ripped from Maude’s dress the evening before. Maude colored, recalling the occasion and wondering which of the maids had done the sweeping, and what had been said in the kitchen. It was perfectly obvious that this bunch would not be fooled with tales of wardships and Seasons.

The large standing clock chimed nine and Maude felt a thread of excitement curl through her. He was on his way, he would be here any minute. All thoughts of the shame of her circumstances faded with the mere thought that he would soon come through the door and take her in his arms.

I must be more nonchalant than this, she thought to herself. Surely he won’t long care for me if I act like a besotted fool every time he comes through a door. With a studied casualness, she sauntered over to the brandy decanter and poured herself a small drink. Wandering into the library, she studied the titles which arrayed the walls, barely noticing that it was a fine library, indeed. The ornate ormolu clock on the mantle chimed the quarter hour. Anxiously, she looked at the clock, then expectantly at the door. Surely he’ll come any minute, she thought to herself. But she knew he was punctual by nature and she could not help worrying. If he was in such a fever to see her, why wasn’t he hammering the door down?

Like a hungry tigress now, she paced and prowled through the library, back to the drawing room, again to check the dining room, and back to the library. Graves appeared in the library and, with a barely concealed smirk, announced that Cook was distraught over the pheasant. It would be too dry to serve soon. Would Miss care to dine alone?

No, Miss would not, Maude announced coolly, and added that as she had not heard from his lordship, Cook should make every effort to keep the bird moist. Graves disappeared and Maude resumed her pacing.

Now the library clock chimed ten o’clock. A hour late! Surely there must be something wrong? What if his carriage had met with an accident? What if he’d been robbed in the street? What if...suddenly she heard the peal of the doorbell and a great feeling of relief washed over her. Picking up her empty brandy glass, she again strolled over to the books and perused them with a knowledgeable, bored expression. She waited. And waited.

Graves entered the library, without bothering to knock, Maude noted, in spite of her growing anxiety. He held a small silver tray and on it was a note. Not caring what he thought, Maude ran to him and snatched the note from the tray. It was unsealed; that was odd enough. Opening it, she noted even before reading that it was penned on stationery from Radford’s club. And scrawled across the paper in a hand she could not fail to recognize were the words,
Do not wait dinner. I am detained.
That was all, nothing more. Not ‘my darling’, not ‘my own’, not ‘I love you’. Nothing.

She willed the pain from her eyes before glancing up to meet the butler’s gaze.

Not bothering now to mask the sneering triumph, he asked, “Would Miss care to dine now?”

There was no doubt the bastard had read the unsealed note before bringing it in to her. “Yes, Graves. As you no doubt have surmised”—Maude allowed a slight emphasis on the word—“his lordship is detained. I will dine now.”

With all the dignity she could muster, she turned and walked from the room, not caring to read the glee in his eyes as he beheld a mistress scorned.

Chapter Twenty

Maude had spent a miserable, humiliating evening alone, wandering the spacious, beautifully appointed townhouse. Dinner had been cooked to perfection; the bird had been delicious, not dry in the slightest. The wine on the other hand had been very dry, probably the finest bottle that had ever been served to her. But Maude had tasted none of it as she went through the motions of eating.

She had finally retired to her room near midnight, having heard nothing more from his lord high majesty, although she stopped dead in her tracks with every crunch of carriage wheels in the street. So this was what it was like to be tart to a toff. No respect, no love. Just her availability as required.

She had long since sent Anna off to bed, reasoning to herself that the little maid was just a child, after all, and needed her sleep. But the real reason, she knew, was that she could not bear to be watched divesting herself of her finery, like a fading actress who had given a gala performance to an empty house.