Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed (15 page)

“She will have all she wants,” promised Jane fervently. She guided the horse over to Sophie and Lord Randal for their admiration.

“Well, she is a handsome gift,” approved Sophie. “I was beginning to think, brother, that you were a little lacking in gallantry.”

“Jane had need of a horse,” he said carelessly. “I would hardly wish to see her on a hired hack, and I would like to breed the mare to Abdullah. She is sired by Markham out of Negrina.”

This immediately caused the two gentlemen to become involved in a complex analysis of equine bloodlines and dissipated some of the euphoria for Jane. So he had just been buying bloodstock, had he? No doubt it was an afterthought to allow her the privilege of riding the animal. Despite her hopes, she still had no evidence that he held her in anything more than regard. His kindness was, of course, appreciated, but it was not at all what Jane desired.

L
ORD WRAYBOURNE RETURNED from the ride in a pensive mood. Who would have thought that Jane Sandiford would give him so much trouble? It was becoming increasingly difficult to handle her with a light rein, particularly when she became cool as she had this morning. At first, she had been warm and responsive. Yet, moments later, he could have been a stranger. It was damned tempting to seduce her to the softness he knew was in her and make her fall in love with him; but she was so new to Society, so innocent, that he feared he would alarm her. Look how easily she had been overset by a few enthusiastic gallants last night. He must give her a little time, but he’d also be grateful for a reason to be out of Town often in the coming weeks. The excuse came later that day, when he received a note from his uncle, asking the earl’s presence at his office. He found Mr. Moulton-Scrope in a state of agitation.

“There’s been another one,” he said. “Gel fought him off, which brought some passersby running, but not before he’d stunned her with his usual blow. Poor young thing came to to find herself the center of a crowd with her gown ripped and disarranged but her virtue intact. Of course, there was no keeping it quiet.”

“Was he caught?”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope shook his head. “He was off in his carriage, and the description of that you wouldn’t believe. It could be a brougham or a hackney, but it would seem he wasn’t the driver. So there’s an accomplice we might get at.”

“What of the victim? Can she help us?”

“She was distraught. I’m hoping we can talk to her later. Now tell me if you’ve anything to add from your work.”

Lord Wraybourne shrugged. “I am now an authority on the subject of lavender water. Yesterday I visited Steele and Meyer’s, the largest manufacturer of the stuff in England.”

“And?”

“The villain is either a randy septuagenarian or was given it by an aged aunt. The stuff is favored by the older set.”

“Hardly useful. I have cupboards full of useless gifts from elderly relatives myself.”

“So has everyone,” agreed his nephew. He smiled. “I remember Randal’s expression when his grandmother presented him with a flagon of the stuff.”

His uncle’s eyes narrowed. “Now he’s a pretty wild one.”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“Just because he’s a friend of yours don’t mean Lord Randal is above suspicion.”

“He is as much above suspicion as I am.”

“Never heard that you went to Bar Street orgies. I’ve even heard talk of sodomy.”

“You are misinformed,” said Lord Wraybourne icily and then added with exasperation, “Randal is just a lodestone for ridiculous rumors. He could hardly be an
habitué
of the Bar Street Tavern and an unnatural!”

“Does seem unlikely,” replied his uncle, unrepentant, “but he’s been to Bar Street at least once. There was a raid. All the gentlemen slipped the jarveys a few golden boys and no more was said, but a list of the names was sent to us. You’d be amazed at some of our lists.”

“The filth in your environment is no concern of mine.”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope regarded his angry nephew ruefully. He had no wish to alienate him. “Are you going to wash your hands of me?”

“Damn you, no,” said Lord Wraybourne with a reluctant grin. “But no more about Randal. The idea is ridiculous. He must find his normal amatory adventures sufficiently exhausting, without trailing unwilling women all over Town!”

“With his reputation, I’m surprised you let him run wild around Miss Sandiford and Sophie.”

“Jane’s in no danger from him. He’s a true friend. As for Sophie, she regards him as another brother.”

“He might be honorable but that don’t mean Jane won’t fall in love with him. I have to admit that he’s an engaging rogue, and Sophie’s growing up fast. What if one day she realizes that he’s not her brother?”

Lord Wraybourne shrugged. “If Sophie ever looked to Randal as a husband she’d have a long wait, Uncle. He’s not the marrying kind. All he wants is a set of colors and a quick passage to the Peninsular.”

“Ashby wants a commission? Then why in tarnation doesn’t he go instead of wasting his high spirits on us?”

“The duke is determined on a grandson. Randal’s older brother Chelmly doesn’t seem inclined to marry. Until he does and produces sons, Randal is refused permission to risk his neck in the war.”

“If he had real spirit he’d go and be damned to the duke.”

Lord Wraybourne smiled. “It’s not like you, Uncle, to recommend such unfilial behavior. The duke is not a well man, and he suffers spasms whenever he’s crossed. It is to Randal’s credit that he doesn’t relish having his father’s death on his plate.”

“Maybe so,” muttered the older man, “but I’d still not want him around Sophie if I were you.”

“If there was any suggestion of attraction, I would agree with you, Uncle. Randal is not what I would want for Sophie. Not because of his morals—he plays his games with women who know the rules—but because of his recklessness. Even if he never gets to the war, he’s hey-go-mad for any crazy scheme. I probably shouldn’t tell you this—you’ll doubtless put it on one of your lists—but he was off with the free traders once last year, just to see what it was like. Now he’s full of plans to go up in a Montgolfier balloon. No, he wouldn’t do for Sophie. Thank God there’s no question of it. They both need to be joined to a sober head. I have great hopes that Trenholme will come up to scratch. He would handle Sophie gently but firmly. As it is, Randal is an excellent escort, and his sisters are unexceptionable companions for Jane and Sophie.”

“Quite so, quite so.” Mr. Moulton-Scrope decided it was time to return to less heated topics. “So lavender water is a dead end?”

“Not necessarily. Remember, our villain
uses
his lavender water. Unfortunately, there are enough like him to make it impossible to arrest every young man who does so, though Brummell would approve. God, even that model of prosy rectitude, Edwin Hever, drenches himself with the stuff. It would almost be worth arresting him just to puncture his intolerable self-importance.”

“It seems to me,” said his uncle severely, “that you approach this with too much levity. Did the records of the previous assaults help you? I suppose you did read them?”

“Certainly I did, but a more pathetic set of documents it is hard to imagine. Place, time, name. That’s about it. There must have been more information to find.”

“Well, the young ladies would be upset, and their families wouldn’t want them bothered. They could hardly be asked for details.”

“How else are we to get those details?” asked Lord Wraybourne with asperity. “Everyone is too busy tiptoeing around. I suggest you ask the latest victim some real questions, such as how tall he was, how strong. She must have noticed something.”

A little gleam came into Mr. Moulton-Scrope’s eyes. “Well now, David. Who better than yourself? A peer of the realm. Miss Hamilton will doubtless be flattered—”

“Who?” Lord Wraybourne jerked to attention.

“A Miss Stella Hamilton. She lives in Clarke Street with a brother who is some kind of poet.”

“I know,” said Lord Wraybourne, wrathfully. “She is a friend. Damnation!”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope watched this transformation with interest. Now, perhaps, his lordship would apply himself to the problem.

“Of course I’ll talk to her. I’ll talk to all the others too. This has got to stop.”

Mr. Moulton-Scrope put on a contented smile as his angry nephew strode out. There’d be action at last.

 

Lord Wraybourne went straight to Clarke Street, where he found his friend John Hamilton in an angry, frustrated state. They had been friends since their days in Trinity, and Lord Wraybourne knew that his stolid build hid a gentleness that would be bewildered by violence in his family. He suspected that Stella Hamilton would be better able to handle the attack upon her than her brother. But when he asked to see her and John’s wife, Emily, went upstairs, she returned with the message that her sister-in-law thanked him for his visit but did not feel able to see anyone just yet.

However, as he left the house and walked down the road, deep in thought, he was called from one of the gin nels which ran through to the rear of the terraced houses. It was Miss Hamilton. He went to her and expressed his concern.

“Thank you,” she said with a wan smile. She was normally a pretty woman with a smooth complexion and soft brown hair. Now she was pale and strained, and her hair was partially covered with a bandage, inadequately concealed by a ribboned cap. “My sister-in-law refused to let me come down. She said that I was too weak, but it is really that she is ashamed of me. In some way she blames me for this.”

“She cannot possibly,” he protested.

“But she does,” she said, eyes filling. “I am now a fallen woman in her eyes. She will not let the children near me.”

As the tears poured from her eyes, he opened his arms. After a moment’s hesitation, she fell into them and sobbed painfully. Apart from drawing her back into the shade of the passageway so that they would be unobserved, he let her be. Eventually, she drew away and accepted his handkerchief.

“I have drenched your coat,” she said between blows of her nose. “I am sure it was dreadfully expensive.”

“I am delighted to put it to your service. Do you need to leave your home for a while?” he asked directly. “I could find you a place to stay.”

“Oh no,” she said but with gratitude. “Emily is only suffering from shock in her own way. It is not every day that one of the family is found sprawled in the public street with her skirt up high and her bodice half off.” She gave a gallant attempt at a laugh which sounded more like a gulp. “She will soon come about. And John has been nothing but kindness. It is just that he feels he has failed me in some way. Men are very foolish.”

“This man too,” he said, “and with more cause. I too feel that I have failed you, Stella.”

“But why?”

“My uncle sought to interest me in the investigation, and I regarded it as an idle pastime, rather like an acrostic. Now I take it more seriously.”

“You are investigating this, David?”

“Yes, forgive my arrogance. You are not the first lady to be attacked, Stella. The others did not escape so soon. I may be able to do nothing, but I will try. I need to talk to you about the attack as soon as possible. I warn you, I intend to squeeze out every bit of information you have.”

“It all happened so fast,” she said doubtfully. “All I really remember is the hoarse whispering before he struck.” She shuddered at the memory, then continued gallantly, “But it would be better to try now, would it not? It is horrible to think of these attacks continuing, I will get my shawl and tell Emily. She cannot hold me prisoner, after all. Then, maybe we can walk in the park.” In a few moments she exited by the front door and tucked her arm in his.

 

Jane watched this encounter from the opposite side of the street from the bow window of the rooms which housed Lady Sophie’s old governess. Or her favorite of them, as she had confessed.

“I lost count of them. I was very good at dispatching the undesirables. I let Miss Randolf stay because she let me be. She is sweet, and I usually visit her when I am in Town.”

Jane had been pleased to agree to accompany Sophie and see a little more of London than Mayfair. The governess’s rooms were cozy and situated upon a new terrace of gray brick houses. The area had a comfortable feel. Children played in the street and cheerful servants went busily about their tasks.

Jane was watching the maids come out of the houses to get milk from the goat and cow being led down the street when she saw Lord Wraybourne walking along. He went into a house opposite. She thought that, if he left at the same time she and Sophie did, they might take him up. Such a simple notion to summon up the familiar excitement.

After a brief time, however, he exited. She saw him turn and go towards a passageway between the houses. A young woman fell into his arms, and he drew her back into the shadows. Jane felt a shock so great she had to clench her fingers to stop them trembling. She was grateful that Sophie was chattering away and paying no attention.

It was one thing to be willing to wait for his love to grow, quite another to see him with someone else. How dare he deceive her so? If he wanted to marry some other woman, there had been no one to stop him. But a woman from Clarke Street would have no money—at least, none to compare to the Sandiford fortune. The Kyles, according to Sophie, married money even if they had no need of it. How terribly Jane’s mother had been deceived in her inquiries. Mrs. Danvers, this woman, who knew how many others there might be? Sophie had not exaggerated when she spoke of the hundreds of his victims. The man was nothing more than a mercenary rake, despite his rank and elegant exterior.

Hiding her pain, Jane did her best to take a composed farewell of Miss Randolf and listen calmly to Sophie’s chatter all the way home. Jane also kept her eyes glued to the street, in watch for her perfidious betrothed and his secret love.