Die I Will Not (5 page)

The Countess of Cloondara, some years her husband's elder, held herself like a much younger woman, though wrinkles were scored over the remains of a striking beauty to form a cracked mask. Jeremy received a smile as he lifted her hand, spotted and twisted with age, to his lips. To Penelope, the Countess murmured a polite greeting. Gazing into her still vivid eyes, Penelope was taken aback to discern a flicker of dislike, though for what reason she could not fathom. Her father had mentioned that the Countess had been kind to her when she was a child.

Penelope turned away to allow the next guest to approach, accompanying Jeremy through the glittering throng of ladies and gentlemen, laughing and chatting under chandeliers that blazed with light. Whatever her host's personal history, he had done well for himself, she reflected. Softly, she asked Jeremy how Mr. Rex had come to wed an Irish Protestant peeress in the Anglican Church, but he merely laughed. “You mean, if they really
are
married. They've been a devoted couple for over thirty years, so I don't suppose it much matters anymore.”

While Penelope made inconsequent conversation, she felt a growing impatience. She must use this opportunity to discover if Mr. Rex would tell her something of N.D. and Collatinus. Her father's old friend was the obvious person to ask; he must know a great deal about the letters he himself had published. In fact, it was possible Rex himself had been the one to resurrect Collatinus. He seemed an obvious suspect, but, then again, so was Penelope herself, particularly if someone knew her father had penned the originals. She was a radical's daughter, after all.

Dutifully, Jeremy remained at her side, bringing her a glass of champagne and introducing her to a government minister named George Kester and a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Hewitt. She had heard these names before, for Jeremy had been enthusiastic in his praise of his new acquaintances' stature in society. Penelope was less impressed. An aging beau in a too-tight coat, Kester was clearly bored with the company. Similarly, Hewitt, a balding, good-humored man, smiled and nodded at acquaintances in the crowd as he listened to his wife's prattle with only half an ear. For her part, Mrs. Hewitt couldn't take her eyes off Jeremy.

“We've just heard the most shocking rumor, Mr. Wolfe. Mr. Rex's son-in-law Dryden Leach slain in his own office. I vow it terrifies me to think of it. Mr. Rex won't confirm the rumors, but I had it from the Countess—”

“We don't yet know the truth of the matter,” said Hewitt.

George Kester shook his head. “A strange business. If something did happen, it wasn't reported in this morning's paper. And what of this masked man?” Leaning toward Hewitt, he lowered his tone. “Is the masked man Collatinus, do you think? These letters have caused concern in some quarters.”

Ralph Hewitt gave a crack of laughter. “You mean, with half the men in London terrified of finding themselves the subject of a paragraph in the newspaper? You include yourself, I take it?”

Smiling blandly, Kester steered the conversation into a new channel. Penelope raised her brows at Jeremy, hoping he would encourage further discussion, but he ignored the message. After a while, Penelope tried again. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Leach?” she asked Hewitt.

“We all are. I believe your father is also an old friend of the family? You are the daughter of Eustace Sandford, Mrs. Wolfe? I met him once. He is quite celebrated in his way, though I don't claim to have read any of his books.”

She grew uncomfortable under his ironic assessment. “My father has not returned to his native country in nearly twenty years, sir. Though I visited England with him when I was a small child, I was raised abroad.”

This drew Kester's wandering attention. His eye lingered over her face and moved lower. “You must have been a mere babe. I must say you have matured delightfully, ma'am.” He exchanged a smirk with Hewitt that made her suddenly angry.

“She has indeed,” said Hewitt. “Where have you been hiding her, Wolfe?”

“Oh, I'm afraid my wife doesn't approve of the fashionable scene.”

Penelope stiffened. “You make me sound a Puritan.” She paused. “Has Mr. Leach been successful in the newspaper business, Mr. Hewitt?”

“There were lean times at the start, I believe, but he made a name for himself at the
Daily Intelligencer
. It didn't hurt to have Rex's blunt behind him. Mary Leach was well dowered, and that's how Leach found the capital to become editor-proprietor of a newspaper. Of course, Rex had no notion he was hatching a Tory.”

“Oh, poor Mrs. Leach,” said Mrs. Hewitt, wringing her plump hands. “She must be beside herself with worry.”

Her husband patted her arm. “You may visit her one day soon, my dear.”

With dismay, Penelope saw Jeremy's eyes straying in the direction of the card room, and he smiled, murmuring, “Will you excuse us, ladies? Kester, Hewitt—shall we go have a word with Poole?”

Disappointed, Mrs. Hewitt smoothed one hand over her ostentatiously ugly gown and gazed up at Jeremy. “You may depend on me to keep your wife company.” She gave an irritating titter. “I'll call on you to discuss having my portrait painted, sir. Mr. Hewitt was just saying he should like to find someone to execute the commission.”

Jeremy bowed. “I would be honored, madam.” With a wry glance at Penelope telling her he would rather paint a turnip than Mrs. Hewitt (but that he would, of course, accept the commission for her sake), he moved away gracefully with his friends.

Having resigned herself to hearing particulars of this woman's wardrobe and servants and carriage, Penelope was not displeased when their host approached. He greeted Mrs. Hewitt, then lifted Penelope's gloved hand to his lips, his hair glinting silver in the candlelight.

Smoothly, he detached her from her companion with the excuse that he must further his acquaintance with the daughter of so old a friend. As he led her to a sofa against the wall, he said, “You are in fine looks this evening, ma'am.” With obvious approval, he examined her amber crepe dress over white sarsnet, trimmed with white beads. Jeremy had helped to choose the gown from a fashionable modiste, even as Penelope had protested its expense, but she was glad of it now since its rustle and gleam bolstered her confidence. At her throat she wore her mother's pearls, one of the few pieces of jewelry she possessed, and when Mr. Rex complimented her upon them, she explained their origin.

He smiled at her. “I regret I never had an opportunity to meet your mother, though your father often spoke of her to me. I understand she died when you were young?”

“Of influenza, sir, when I was ten years old. My father always thought an English doctor might have saved her, but she was never strong.”

“Tragic but all too common.” A look of melancholy settled over his face, and after a moment he added, “I remember you as a little girl, Mrs. Wolfe. You were a bright little thing but rather sad. I'm sure you must have been missing your mother.”

Memory stirred. She sat in a coach while her father climbed down to speak to another man in hushed, urgent tones. It was very early in the morning; she was cold and frightened. Where were they going? Was this the day they fled England? She did not recall, but the man her father had been talking to was Horatio Rex. Despite the quiet voices, they were furious, so furious that she had shrunk into a corner of the coach, whispering to the doll in her lap and trying to pretend they weren't there.…

“Yes, I was about five, a little older than my daughter Sarah is now.”

“Perhaps it is best your mother did not accompany your father to England. Those were not happy times for our country, and matters are not much better today. However, we've got Boney on the run at long last.”

“My father rarely speaks of those days.”

“Wise of him. We'll let the ghosts of the past rest, my dear. You are enjoying London?”

“Very much. Jeremy has been grateful for your patronage, sir.” She paused. “Forgive me, but he said you have experienced an unhappy event in your own family?”

Rex slanted a glance at her that was neither surprise nor resentment at the pointed question but instead a kind of watchfulness. “Your refer to my son-in-law. I was terribly shocked when the news first arrived, or I would not have spoken of the matter to Jeremy. I know I can rely upon your discretion.”

Penelope was taken aback. “I heard Mr. Leach was gravely injured. Will he recover?”

“Little chance of that, I'm afraid. His death is hourly expected. You must be surprised to find us entertaining guests under the circumstances, but I do not choose to trumpet our affairs to the multitude. Besides, these little entertainments are expected of me.” His cynical gaze took in the long windows hung with gold-embroidered damask, the matching gold brocade furnishings, and the array of richly dressed guests who looked as if they hadn't a care in the world.

“Is it known who did such a horrible thing?”

“Leach is not an easy man to like—he has made many enemies in his career. Of course, the Countess and I are distressed for my poor Mary.” He gave another smile she found difficult to interpret. “You remind me of Mary. She is years older than you are, of course, but there's the same…vulnerability. And something of the same ambition? Before her marriage, she published a volume of poetry and several Gothic romances, though she has since turned her talents to the composition of paragraphs for her husband's newspaper.” At this reference to Leach's Tory agenda, he did not bother to hide his contempt. After a pause he said, “Jeremy tells me you are also a writer?”

Why did every word out of this man's mouth seem to carry a double meaning? She replied lightly, “I've had occasional work, Mr. Rex. Perhaps one day when my life is more settled I will try to achieve more in that line. You must be very proud of your daughter's accomplishments.”

He sighed, melancholy descending again. “We've not been on easy terms. She blames me, with good reason, for abandoning her mother when she was a mere child, but I hate to think I drove her into the arms of a man like Leach. She must have thought he offered a kind of safety, a haven from the dangers of holding views at odds with society.” Stretching his arm along the back of the sofa, he assumed a careless pose. “At all events, I am the more ready to come to her assistance in this emergency. I shall help Mary manage the parish authorities and the funeral arrangements when the time comes. She's had a sad time of it in the past year. She lost her eldest son to a sudden fever and now this business with her husband. We thought it safer, until we know more, to put it out that Leach is ill.”

“How truly dreadful. Will you employ a Bow Street Runner to investigate the crime?”

His lip curled. “I have no love for Bow Street.”

“May I ask why, sir?”

“The Bow Street banditti once bribed two women to say I had assaulted them. While I stood in the very court, my hat was stolen, my pockets rifled. The magistrate only laughed and refused to prosecute my accusers for perjury. No, I have no use for Bow Street. Magistrates, police, lawyers, the justices in Westminster Hall, the journalists who ruin a man's reputation for gain…They are all the same. Villains who seek, in one way or another, to gratify a cankered heart.”

“Is the attack on Mr. Leach connected to the recent letters in the papers? If we could only understand—”

She broke off, nonplussed, to find him smiling again—it seemed she amused him. Horatio Rex was a man who looked for hidden motives in everyone he met. In his battle against a prejudiced English society that viewed him as an outsider and an interloper, even as it fawned over him for his power and wealth, he was justified, she thought. But she had the strangest feeling they played a game only he understood.

“I cannot tell you what role the Collatinus letters played in Leach's fate, Mrs. Wolfe. A dangerous business from the start. Profit is one thing, but one has to know when retreat is in order. A lesson I have learned the hard way.”

“How could there be profit, sir? I thought the intent political.”

“Political, no doubt, but other motives may come into play. Blackmail, for instance. Hush money. If this Collatinus had information someone would prefer be kept secret, writing to the newspapers might seem rather clever. Write one or two letters, then make it known in the proper quarter that a certain sum will ward off further revelations.”

“But why attack Mr. Leach?”

“He made himself quite insulting to Collatinus, and I suspect he was about to unmask him. Did he not promise such a revelation? He was stopped before his final reply could be published.”

Hearing again a note of warning in his tone, she was at a loss. Then she gathered her courage. “Collatinus mentions a woman referred to as N.D. I wonder if you or my father once knew someone with those initials?”

Rex reached over to take her chin in his hands, turning her toward him, one white finger stroking her cheek. “Oh, my dear. What am I to say to
you
on that subject? She was a beautiful woman, that's all.” He released her, saying harshly, “Leave it alone. You don't know the harm you might do. Your father would not thank you for bringing ruin upon your family.”

“I am sure my father is innocent of any real wrongdoing.”

He let his hand drop from her cheek. “The evidence against him was persuasive, my dear.”

Before Penelope could respond, a movement drew his attention. He frowned. Rising to his feet, he excused himself to hurry toward a late arrival. Mr. Rex stepped around the people who stood in his path with only a brief word of apology and bore down on the newcomer.

This was a man over forty who carried an ebony baton in one hand, the symbol of his authority to search and seize malefactors. Hair tied in an untidy graying queue, he wore a truculent expression and boots too scuffed for Mr. Rex's gleaming floorboards. He advanced among the guests, his keen-eyed gaze scanning the drawing room, seeking someone. His eyes fastened on Penelope—and held. It was John Chase.