Elisabeth Fairchild (37 page)

He wondered if, in the process of playing the stouthearted Gargoyle--silent, shadowy, detached--his multiple identities all lies--he did not in some elemental way betray himself. He knew he had betrayed Dulcie, betrayed the truth of his feelings for her, betrayed his deepest needs.

Thistlewood had yet to be taken. The hunt remained. He could not celebrate, could not rest, until he snared his quarry. He could not be easy, either, until he knew Dulcie safe. That drove him into the darkness, out of Westminster, into the heart of London, to Wellclose Square.

The Selwyn Townhouse, Wellclose Square, London

She escaped to the indulgence of hot water and clean sheets, and lay in her bed determined to sleep and yet completely unable to relax, worried about Roger. Fear ached like a wound in her heart.

He had not been killed, but did he lie injured? So many shots fired. Had one found him? Had he been taken? Did he sit, even now, in a cold, prison cell?

She liked to think him too smart for that, too clever. And yet, the seed of doubt flourished in the fertile darkness. She would not rest easy until she knew for certain. It did not matter if she lost him forever, by choice. She would have him safe, living and breathing, going about his Gargoyle business while she went on without him.

When he came, creeping through her window, boot heels soft upon the carpet, the blue of him reached out to her, purpling the inside of her eyelids. Her breath caught short. Her heart leapt with joy. She lay unmoving, afraid by sound or sign to give away her wakefulness, afraid she would throw herself at him. She could not, would not, must not, so deprave herself on the eve of her betrothal. Not ever again. She held her breath.

He crossed the room, in the figure of a stranger, fatter than usual, frizzled wig capturing the moonlight like a halo.

She knew his incomparable light, the stealth of him, too, grown familiar. She held still, body tensed, eyes closed, pretending sleep when he stopped and stood within a hand’s span of the bed, the color, the light of him leaking beneath her eyelids, begging acknowledgement.

She longed to be weak, to give in to longing, to taste his lips, his flesh, to embrace the driving heat, the blinding light. But with all of her will she resisted, reminding herself she must not betray her betrothed. He was a good man, the Captain.

Inwardly she wept. Inwardly she screamed out to the Gargoyle, to take her, to hold her, to love her one last time. Outwardly she remained calm, cool, silent--sleep her disguise, her only weapon in the war that went on between prudence and passion.

He stood there a quarter of an hour, and with every breath, every muted tick of the clock, she felt him slipping away. He made no attempt to wake her, simply hovered, possibility and potential hovering with him. At last with a sigh, he bent to kiss her. Light as a moth’s wings, his lips touched her forehead. His wig tickled her cheek. He smelled of damp wool, horsehair and coal smoke.

“Farewell, my love,” he whispered.

Silent, swift, as if he could not be gone fast enough, he made his way to the window. A flutter of the drapes and he disappeared into the night, the blue of him a faint whisper, ghosting after him upon the night air.

She wept then, the sound muted in her pillow, exploding from the depths of her, sobs wracking her from head to toe. Tears scalded her eyes, salted her cheeks, soaked the linen, blinding tears--her future a blank.

Chapter Forty-Six

London

Through thronged streets a hackney carriage carried the Gargoyle home. Through the smut-stained window, the ordinary daily bustle went on--uninterrupted.

Impending sleep weighing Roger’s eyelids, in dreamlike flashes he imagined the streets as they might have looked had Thistlewood and his men succeeded. Riots. Fire. Panic. Businesses threatened, the populace in a frenzy of fear.

The populace went on about their business with no notion how close they came to a changed England. The only frenzy now, lay within him--emotion’s riot. So much of Roger Ramsay was kept penned in, subdued, wearing the guise of another man’s life. Job finished, the overpowering flood of self dizzied him--flattened him, left him light-headed and directionless.

A young woman in a white chip bonnet caught his eye.

Not Dulcie. She prepared for a betrothal. Today he lost her. Roger teetered on the edge of an emotional abyss, reminded of his mother’s death when he was seven, devastation from which one never fully recovered.

The Gargoyle grew used to loss—not Roger--not this loss. He had yet to grow accustomed to contemplating a future without Dulcie--days and weeks and months alone, as he had so long kept himself alone, apart, aloof.

Exhaustion claimed him, numbed him. His apartments reached, he dug out a coin for the driver, offered to double it if he agreed to an errand. He told the man Quinn’s address.

“Inform the gentleman his services are required.”

“Yes, sir!” The coachman seemed charged with new purpose. Roger had none.

With lagging footsteps and leaden limbs, he went in by way of the servant’s entrance, climbed the narrow stairs to the elegant echoing stillness of his rooms, climbed more stairs to cast off the clothes of the stranger he had become, and fell into bed--head first into the dark, empty well of sleep.

The Stapleton Townhouse, London

Dulcie had begun the day determined to get to know her mother-in-law to be. She now longed to lock the woman in a box. Mrs. Stapleton would talk of nothing but the apprehension of the Cato Street gang. In so doing, she succeeded in focusing Dulcie’s attention on the one person she had sworn to herself she would not think of.

“They meant to interrupt the ministers at dinner, of all things,” Mrs. Stapleton informed her as they reviewed the evening’s menu. “Terrible to imagine one might not be safe in sitting down to eat in one’s own home. It troubles me. From the moment I heard the news I was struck by what I can describe as nothing less than a premonition of disaster for this evening’s dinner. Do you find me ridiculous?”

“Not at all,” Dulcie responded, her head swimming with the strength of the woman’s fear. The emotion clung like a filmy gray gauze to most of the people she encountered today, an unpleasant pall, dimming the potential of an event already clouded in Dulcie’s outlook. “I am often struck by such feelings myself,” she admitted.

The image before her of the long dining table set with fine china, crystal and silver by two footmen under the quiet direction of the butler, transformed briefly into a ruder setting. A sword and not cutlery glittered on the table. The removal of heads and the bags to put them in served as the topic of conversation rather than a remove of blanched endive and asparagus.

“Miss Selwyn. Are you all right?” Mrs. Stapleton enquired, with an expression of deepest concern. “Are you fully recovered from the headaches that kept you lately indisposed?”

“I'm fine,” Dulcie assured herself as much as her future mother-in-law. “How kind of you to ask.”

He woke late in the afternoon to the smell of roast beef, mustard, fresh bread and steeping tea. Quinn stood beside the bed, tray in hand.

“Hungry, sir?” Quinn bent to deposit the tray on its stand, leaning close to plump pillows that Roger might sit. Quinn threw wide the bedhangings to a view of the window, the light all wrong.

“The time?” Roger asked, vaguely alarmed. How long had he slept?

“A quarter past three, sir. I have taken the liberty, sir, of bringing the day’s news.” He settled a pile of freshly ironed newspapers on the counterpane. “May I say, sir, you have been busy.”

“Indeed you may,” Roger caught up the first of the papers in one hand, a roast beef stuffed roll in the other.

“A job well done, sir, if I am correct in assuming you had a hand in today’s headlines.”

“Thank you, Quinn. Mmmm!” He swallowed his first mouthful of sandwich with a sigh. “I have missed good food.”

“Will you require the carriage this evening, sir? I have laid out suitable clothing, on the off-chance you might wish to celebrate your return with a night out? The more adventurous of London’s elite have at last cast off mourning the king. There are several invitations clamoring for your approval, sir.”

Roger frowned, thought of Dulcie, set aside the first paper to take up another. “From whom do the invitations stem?”

“There is a masquerade, sir.”

Roger waved aside the idea, lips pursed. “No disguises tonight, Quinn. You will understand my temporary aversion.”

“Very good, sir. Perhaps a ball? There are three to choose from.” Quinn delicately cleared his throat. “One hosted by Captain Stapleton. His betrothal. I believe you know the bride-to-be? Do you care to wish them happy?”

Roger sighed, shoved aside the papers and falling back against the pillows, stared up at gracefully curved bedposts disappearing into a brocade bed skirt. They reminded him of Dulcie Selwyn’s legs.

“What else?” he asked impatiently.

“I have hired a group of strings, Dulcie,” Mrs. Stapleton divulged. “I hope you do not object. Though we are still in half-mourning I do not think anyone will find it scandalous if we indulge.”

Stapleton swept into the room, caught Dulcie by the hands and whirled her about the ballroom, eyes gleaming. His voice echoed from the ceiling, from the wood floor. “Surely we should all be dancing our relief that such a dreadful plan to rend the very fabric of our society has been foiled. We must kiss the feet of the brave young men who have saved us from this dreadful Cato Street Conspiracy.”

As easily as that, Roger’s presence swept into the room, stepping between them. All Dulie could think of was the night she had danced with him, in this very room, the night she had asked him to take the stitches from her back, the night he had touched her as no man had dared before or since.

She pirouetted in Stapleton’s arms and wanted to weep. His light burned a clear, pale blue. It hung about him like a beautiful cape, swaying lightly as they danced, stirring her not at all. He had the look, Dulcie thought, of a man pleased by the prospect of marriage. And yet, as they whirled past two mirrors that made one wall glitter, she saw a young woman full of secrets clasped in his arms, too serious of expression, too wanting in the glow of happiness to be the blushing bride.

“How dreadful such goings on should spoil the day,” Lady Stapleton said, her voice following them.

“Spoil the day?” Stapleton smiled at Dulcie, smiled at his mother, smiled at the room. “What nonsense. Nothing could spoil this day.”

He could not tie a decent knot to save his life! Three failed attempts thus far. Wrenching the neckcloth from his throat he tossed it on the floor. Would he might as easily tossed aside thoughts of Dulcie. He could not drive her from his mind, from his heart, from the root of his desire.

He took up a fresh length of starched muslin, tried to convince himself he looked forward to returning to the company of his peers. He deserved a boisterous night of internal triumph; of drinking, of dancing, of the consuming collision of his mouth to hers.

Damn. Another clumsy effort. Another wholly inappropriate thought. The neckcloth strangled, the snug breeches, tight fitting waistcoat, and binding evening coat squeezed the empty ache in him: arms, chest, heart and groin. He longed to wrap himself about her--within her--mind and body, just as snugly.

He loved her. He could not deny the bleak truth of it. He knew she had long hungered to hear him say as much. Fool that he was, he had refrained. What good his reticence if in the end he lost her to the arms of a more vocal suitor? What folly to fear losing her, when fear ensured his loss?

She deserved commitment. She had told him as much.

It was true. She deserved Stapleton.

The evening’s turnout spelled a triumph, and yet Dulcie, completely miserable, counted it no success. Surrounded by friends, by family, she had never felt so lonely.

The guests came in by way of the sitting room. There, in the French fashion, that it might please Stapleton’s mother, whose ancestors were French, she displayed
la corbeille
, “the basket,” gifts lavished upon her by her fiancé and his family.

The items were generous, beautiful, thoughtful--everything  from an exquisite satinwood secretary to a set of pewter candlestick holders. There were family jewels, emeralds and rubies, a collection of lace and embroidery passed down from mother to son, and thus to her.

An impressive array, almost as impressive as the trousseau, which had been arranged for viewing, as customary, in Stapleton’s private chambers.

How personal, how suggestive the act of displaying her life’s collection of linens, lace and lingerie. Sheets, pillowcases, napkins, tablecloths, aprons and table runners-every stitch her own, or her mother’s or her mother’s mother’s held up to examination. In addition, for all to see, her collection of furs, silks, brocades, fine lawn and lace undergarments: chemises, petticoats, camisoles and stockings.

Lydia had arranged everything, with Mrs. Stapleton’s assistance. Her future mother-in-law took opportunity to examine her every stitch, her every personal item. These customs appalled Dulcie deeply. The beautifully arranged public display of her most private garments, rendered her faint, weepy and ready to call the whole thing off.

No sense of anticipation stirred her heart. She esteemed none more than Roderick Stapleton as a companion and partner in life. As a partner of the bedchamber, she was not so sure. She could not, no matter how hard she tried, imagine sharing her body with him as blithely as she offered its mysteries to Roger Ramsay. Her thoughts, when she allowed herself to ponder the matter, turned always to Roger. Her body ached with a longing that haunted. She feared a lifetime’s dissatisfaction in this sensible marriage.

Her doubts wrung all joy from the moment, from the vision of her dress in the mirror across the room, the prettiest gown she had ever owned. The black velvet begged to be touched, the rich fall of white lace and ribbons at the neckline served as beautiful contrast. The frock seemed better suited to a funeral than to the forming of a marriage bond.