Dangerous to Kiss (42 page)

Though she knew it was farfetched, she began to study each person who came to the house as if he might be the murderer. Was he left-handed? Was he in Paris at
the crucial time? What motive could he have for murdering Lord Barrington? She knew that Gray thought the murderer and the informer at the Foreign Office were one and the same person, but she was not convinced of it. Lord Barrington could have made enemies that Gray knew nothing about.

Her speculations took a bizarre turn the day Leathe came to the house to invite Meg to go driving in his curricle. Meg and the countess were keeping an appointment at the dressmaker, but Deborah was at home and needed little encouragement to accept her brother’s invitation.

“What do you make of the rumors?” he asked at one point.

“You won’t believe this,” she said, forcing a laugh, “but it’s got so that I cannot look at someone without trying to discover whether they favor their right or left hand.”

“You will observe,” he responded with mock solemnity, “that I am left-handed.”

She watched for a moment as he expertly directed his team with a delicate touch of the whip. “I had forgotten that,” she said. “Now I remember! Father used to tie your left hand behind your back so that you would favor the right. Evidently, it didn’t work.”

“If it were not for that, I think I might have been right-handed. I’m almost ambidextrous. But you know me. I would do the opposite of whatever Father wanted.” He saw her frown and he laughed. “Oh ho! Does this mean you suspect me, Deb?”

“Hardly. You were not in Paris when Lord Barrington was murdered.”

He threw her an odd look. “But I was. I thought you knew. That’s where I met Meg. All the Graysons were there.”

“All the Graysons? Nick and Hart too?”

“Deborah, half of London was there. Paris had been closed to us for—what was it?—ten years. When peace was declared, Paris came into fashion. Even Father was there with our stepmother and half sister. Oh, not that we ever acknowledged each other. We were very civilized.
When we caught sight of each other, we simply looked away, affecting an interest in something else.”

For the rest of the drive, they spoke of other things, and Deborah managed to conceal how shaken she was by what Leathe had told her. She tried, to no avail, to suppress the horrible thoughts that crowded into her mind. What if she and Gray were on the wrong track? What if
she
had been the target and not Lord Barrington? She did not know how her fortune was to be disposed if anything happened to her. She had never consulted a solicitor, never made a will, never discovered if there were conditions on the moneys that came to her through her mother. For all she knew, on her death, it would all pass to her father. Or to Leathe.

On entering the house, she made straight for her bedchamber. She removed her bonnet and gloves, but did not take the time to remove her coat. In the escritoire, she found notepaper and pen and ink. The last will and testament that she drew up was quite simple. Everything was to go to Gray, and it was left to his discretion to decide how much of her fortune should go to Quentin, as well as others whose names she added as they occurred to her. When the ink was dry, she went in search of the housekeeper and butler and, after swearing them to secrecy, had them witness the deed.

On their fifth day in town, Nick came bursting in upon them during dinner, demanding to know if the rumors were true and how the devil they had got started in the first place.

Deborah looked at him carefully, weighing every word and gesture, every expression, and though she realized that suspicion was poisoning her mind, she no longer trusted anyone.

Hart’s answer was testy. “I suppose you’re annoyed because you had to leave your friends in Hampshire. Well, you are not the only one whose plans have been ruined.”

Nick delayed responding to this when footmen entered
with the first course. He didn’t wait for them to set a place for him, but fetched his own plate and cutlery from the sideboard and seated himself at the head of the table, where Gray usually sat. When the footmen had withdrawn, he said cheerfully, “I beg your pardon, Hart. I see from your long faces that this has all been a terrible strain on you. I can’t think why. If anyone knows how to take care of himself, it’s Gray.”

“Have the rumors reached as far afield as Hampshire, then?” asked the countess anxiously.

“Oh, yes. I also met Helena Perrin in Piccadilly, and she had a score of questions for me, questions I could not answer. Meg, what’s this I hear about you and Viscount Leathe? You are to keep away from him, do you understand?”

Meg bristled, but before she could go on the attack, Hart took charge of the conversation. “Gray knows about Leathe,” he said. “No, no, we can argue about it later. What I want to know is what else Lady Helena told you.”

Nick told them. For the most part, it was no more than they already knew, except for one item. Lady Helena had given Nick the date of Dr. Mesmer’s arrival in London.

“The day after tomorrow?” said Hart. “And where, pray tell, did Lady Helena get her information?” He sounded angry.

Nick did not seem to realize that he had confounded everyone by this careless remark. He was carving the saddle of lamb that had been set at his place. “What? Oh, Helena said that it’s common knowledge at the Foreign Office. She had it from her husband, and he should know. She tried to pump me, to see if I knew where Gray was, but, of course, I didn’t.” He looked up at that moment and caught Deborah’s eye. “If anyone knows where Gray is, it will be Deb. Where is he, Deb?”

His question took her by surprise. She stared at him in stupefied silence, then stammered something to the effect that Gray had not confided in her. No one said anything, but when she chanced to glance around the table, she saw the same speculative look on each face.

The countess was hosting one of her informal soirees that evening. Deborah was in her chamber, trying to decide what to wear, unable to concentrate on anything, when she heard a soft tap on her door. Before she could answer it, Nick entered. He put a finger to his lips, as though to silence any outburst she might make. There was no outburst. She was gripped with a curious tension, then relief shivered through her. Everything was going to be all right. Even before he spoke, she knew what he was going to say.

“I’m taking you to Gray,” he said. When she said nothing, he cocked his head to one side, studying her intently. “Did you hear me, Deborah? I’m taking you to Gray.”

“When?”

“Right now. There’s a hackney waiting for us on the corner. No one will miss us for an hour or two. Put on your coat and come with me now.”

There were a thousand questions she might have asked him. Not one of them mattered. Soon, she would be with Gray, and he could answer them all.

Her coat was in the wardrobe. Nick helped her into it. “You don’t seem surprised,” he said.

“But I
am
surprised. From what you said at the dinner table, I was sure you arrived in town today. And when you asked
me
where Gray was staying, what could I think but that you knew nothing?”

“That’s what’s known as laying a false trail.”

They left by the servants’ staircase. Nick went first, and when he was satisfied that the coast was clear, he motioned Deborah to follow him. Out on the square, lanterns above doors gave off a feeble light. There were few people coming and going, for it was not yet eight o’clock. In another hour or two, the square would be choked with carriages as well-dressed members of high society set out or arrived on their first party of the evening.

The address Nick gave the cab driver was on a quiet
cul-de-sac just off the Strand. Deborah knew the area well. Her father’s house was just around the corner.

There was a short delay as their driver waited for a crested carriage to negotiate the turn into Charles Street, then they were off. It seemed to Deborah that Nick was as nervous as she. He did not say a word till the hackney had turned into Piccadilly.

“One can’t be too careful,” he said, suddenly aware of her scrutiny. He felt in his coat pocket and brought out a pistol. “Have no fear, Deborah. You’ll be safe with me.”

Pistols and Deborah did not mix well together. That’s all it was, she chided herself. She was not unlike Quentin in this, and for the same reason. Guns could kill. She stared at the pistol in Nick’s right hand, watching the play of light from the coach lamp glint off the muzzle, and she began to remember.

Not liking her thoughts, she turned them on Nick. There was nothing to fear here, she told herself. She had watched him carve the joint of mutton at the dinner table, and he really was right-handed. Beyond that, she had always liked and trusted him. When Gray had abducted her, it was Nick who had befriended her. No, Nick had deceived her. He had pretended to be her friend, but all the time, he had been playing a part, deliberately misleading her.

She shivered involuntarily. Once again, suspicion was poisoning her mind. If she went on like this, she would end up by suspecting Gray … again.

“How is Quentin?” she asked, trying to distract her thoughts.

“Fine. He’s fine,”

Even now, Nick’s attention was not on her, but on the way they had just come. He was only being careful, of course.

“And Gray? When did you last see him?”

“Just before I came for you.”

She could not tell whether he was telling the truth or lying. His answers were so vague.

“Is there someone following us?”
Someone who is left-handed?

“Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing.”

“Why didn’t we take Hart with us?”

“Hart has nothing to do with this.”

She knew that his smile was meant to reassure her, but it had the opposite effect. She moistened her lips. “What about Leathe?”

She had his full attention now. “Why do you ask about Leathe?”

Not even a vague answer this time. She, too, could be vague. “No particular reason.”

They were just coming to Charing Cross, on the corner of the Strand. On the right was her father’s house, and Deborah’s eyes were inexorably drawn to it. It was an enormous mansion even by London standards, and could have housed a garrison of soldiers. The front porch was lit up, as prescribed by law, and she could make out the two great marble lions that guarded the entrance. Beyond the house, unseen from the street, the gardens sloped down to the river Thames. It was a magnificent house, but she would always think of it with loathing. Shivering, she turned away.

She gave a start when Nick suddenly rapped on the roof of the cab and ordered the driver to halt. On the pavement, she looked around her, taking her bearings. Across the Strand were the grounds of the old Savoy Palace with the Savoy Chapel. Somerset House was to its left. She looked at Nick. He was glancing back over his shoulder. Making a casual half-turn, she, too, glanced back to see what had caught his interest. A cab had drawn up a good way down the street, and a man was descending from it. He was too far away for Deborah to recognize, but when she looked at Nick and saw the expression on his face, she was sure that he knew who was following them, and he was
pleased.

Her whole body contracted and her pulse raced as instinct took over. What was she doing here with a man who had once betrayed her, allowing him to lead her to a dark and lonely stretch of road with easy access to the river? No one knew where she was. If she drowned, it would look like an accident. Everyone would think that she had stolen away to be with Gray and Quentin. It’s
what Nick had made people think at the dinner table. It
was
a false trail, a trail that led away from
him.
No one would suspect him, least of all Gray. No one would know that Nick had an accomplice. No one would guess that
she
and not Lord Barrington had been the murderer’s target that night in Paris.