Revealed (44 page)

A cut direct, as seen by everyone in that crowded hall, it quickly lit up the gossips with purpose, spreading the tale to all assembled. Lady Jane reportedly bore it with a simple shrug, a wry twist of her lips. Later, in the ladies’ retiring room, after having been asked why she said anything at all to Phillippa Benning, given their well-documented hatred of each other, Lady Jane answered, “I’d heard a rumor that she’d changed. Obviously, it was wrong.”

When this news reached Phillippa, she was unmoved. Mostly because she was busy preparing for another night out.

It was a Friday, the day before the Gold Ball at Regent’s Park. Phillippa sat at her dressing table, having her hair put up into hundreds of tiny curls, each defined by a seed pearl pin, when Totty came in, wearing her favorite dark blue evening gown and silk paisley shawl.

“Phillippa dear, do you think I could get away with wearing this to the Worths’ again? I know I wore it last week, but my currant gown is being mended, and the lilac has mud on it still from Broughton’s ridiculous picnic.”

Phillippa kept her eyes focused on her lady’s maid’s work as she answered, “Don’t fret, Totty, we’re not going to the Worths’ dinner party. The blue will do.”

Totty crossed the room in three quick strides. “Not going? But we’re expected, I sent out the acceptance last week myself.”

“Come now, Totty, don’t tell me you’re disappointed. You dislike going to Mariah Worth’s odious dinners as much as I do.”

“I’m not disappointed; I’m surprised,” Totty replied. Then, proceeding cautiously, “May I ask why the sudden change?”

Phillippa’s lady’s maid applied the final touches to her coiffure, releasing Phillippa to stand and cross to the bed, where her gloves lay waiting. “I’m just terribly bored by the whole thing. As I was telling Mrs. Hurston a few nights ago, it’s simply too earnest an evening for my taste, and the lady quite agreed. We’re to Vauxhall tonight instead! Broughton took a box for supper.”

“You told Mrs. Hurston,” Totty raised her eyebrows. “Phillippa, did you, erm, did you inform Lady Worth of your change of plan?”

Phillippa paused in her motions, infinitesimally. She had intended to write Mariah, she had. But she didn’t know what to say. She had a feeling that Mariah, of all people, would see through her skin and find the true cause of her actions, and that was something she could not bear. And so she left off writing the note until the next day, and then the next. And now it was too late.

“Mariah is a very intelligent woman,” Phillippa replied. “She’ll understand.”

At Worth House that evening, Mariah Worth waited patiently in the salon for her guests to arrive. Her husband waited beside her. This time a fortnight ago had been the highlight of her year; the place had been packed to the rafters with interesting, influential people, all of whom were willing to fund her orphanage. Since Phillippa Benning’s involvement, Mariah decided to build an entirely new wing on the school, and she was excited to show her friend the plans the architect had drawn up.

However, as the clock struck the hour, and only a paltry few people arrived, Mariah had to face the facts: No one of any influence was coming, least of all Phillippa.

She smiled as best she could through the dinner, listening to meager gossip about how Phillippa Benning was going to all the best parties in town, and how she was seen in the company of the Marquis of Broughton several times this week. Only when Phillippa was described as gushing about going to Vauxhall with the Marquis that evening, did Mariah’s smile falter. But if she’d learned anything from her association of with Mrs. Benning, it was how to carry through any awkward situation, and as such, she changed the subject happily to Jackie, Jeffy, and all their friends, and away from her own disappointment.

That night, when lying in bed, Graham Worth held his wife tight in his arms, and said, “Don’t worry, pet. She’s a cruel, evil thing, and Marcus would be well rid of her.”

“But she’s not,” Mariah answered. “I think she’s been hurt.” What she did not say was that she suspected Marcus to be the cause—and hopefully, the cure.

The next day, Saturday, Phillippa had a great deal of things to do. First of all, she had to sleep. That night was the Gold Ball, and she was not going to be caught yawning halfway through. Indeed, last year, Lady Hertford yawned, an insult that nearly caused Prinny to exclude her from his private box. Only the crème de la crème of the assembled were ever invited into the Prince’s private box, an opulent room full of the best food, music, and people. This year, Phillippa was determined to be invited, and with Broughton at her side, she could do it.

After sleep was gained, she had to bathe and powder and pull and press herself into being the most exquisite version of Phillippa Benning imaginable. This had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Marcus Worth would be attending this evening’s festivities, she told herself. Or at least, she knew he would try to. Phillippa was not certain if they had been invited, but since it was well-known that he was no longer a favorite of hers, she had reason to doubt it.

No, her need to look absolutely stunning had nothing to do with Marcus Worth. Instead, she had decided that tonight, she would give Broughton what he’d waited so long for.

It would be fairly easy, she figured. Lying in his bed, maybe she’d be able to wash Marcus out of her mind. She didn’t expect to enjoy it, but maybe she’d find some comfort in it. And besides, Broughton had displayed enormous patience with her. Day after day of teas, picnics, playing her gallant at every party. And if she was going to win him, securing forever her throne in society, this was the next step.

So why did she feel such dread?

Phillippa’s musings and toilette were interrupted suddenly, when a maid knocked on the door, entered, and handed her a card.

“
Mr. Worth
,” was all it said.

Her heart skipped a beat, her stomach plummeted. “He’s here?” she asked, “Now?” When the maid nodded a frantic yes, Phillippa leaped out of her chair and commanded, “Hand me a gown—any gown! Oh no, not that one,” and proceeded to throw her room into a tizzy to get her dressed and downstairs.

A record fourteen minutes later, Phillippa, dressed in a slinky gown of robin’s egg blue, her hair swiftly brought up in an elegant chignon, opened the door to her pink drawing room and saw . . .

Byrne Worth, sitting on the sofa, rolling his cane between his hands.

“Oh,” Phillippa said, too surprised to stop herself.

“Mrs. Benning,” Byrne said, not bothering to stand, causing Phillippa’s eyebrow to rise involuntarily. But she said nothing, crossed the room, and seated herself in the Louis XIV chair opposite.

“Mr. Worth,” she replied, her tone as haughty as possible.

“You’re a right bitch, you know that, Mrs. Benning?” Byrne said evenly, his voice cool as ice.

Shocked as she was at such language, Phillippa’s eyes narrowed appreciatively. “I see we’re not standing on ceremony.”

“Whether or not Marcus deserves your childish bit of spite, I sincerely doubt Mariah does.”

Phillippa shifted slightly in her seat. “I do regret it if your sister-in-law’s feelings were injured, but I—”

However, Byrne waved her paltry excuses away. “Mariah’s made of sterner stuff than you take her for. In fact, according to Graham, she’s more concerned about your feelings; she thinks your heart’s been broken.”

Phillippa fought to keep her face an impassive mask. “And I suppose you told them I had no heart?” she replied.

Byrne smiled meanly, and changed the subject. “Tell me, Mrs. Benning, are you still planning on revealing the identity of the Blue Raven at your Ball?”

Phillippa shrugged. “Unfortunately, I didn’t strike my bargain with the actual Blue Raven, which creates a bit of an ethical dilemma for me.”

“Well, while you debate the ethics of revealing a military secret, I have a few things for you to bear in mind.” Byrne stood a little shakily. Phillippa noticed for the first time that his gaze was startlingly focused, sharpened by pain. He had forgone his medicine for tonight’s work.

“The Blue Raven,” he said, leaning heavily on his cane, “is an invention. While recovering from a stab wound to the side, my brother was asked to write up some of
our
assignments, analyze their success and failure, and somehow they ended up in the papers.” Byrne paused, forcing her to digest his words. “I say
our
, because ninety percent of the work—research, decryption—was done by Marcus. The reports that reached the papers were beyond exaggerated. Some just made up entirely.” Byrne looked down at his cane; involuntarily, his breath hitched before he continued. “Real war is hard. I—the Blue Raven—didn’t exist without Marcus. He saved our entire regiment’s lives, and my life, more times than I deserve.”

Lowering her eyes before Bynre could see their distinct shine, Phillippa replied, “If . . . if that’s true, why didn’t Marcus tell me that himself?”

Byrne shrugged. “Because he doesn’t need the approval of the world. Unlike some.”

Phillippa let that sink in for a moment, as Byrne continued. “And since you’ve . . . returned to your element, I say he’s far better off without you.”

Phillippa’s head came up at that. “He lied to me,” she said softly, resolutely.

“Some madman’s trying to start a war, and I’m a laudanum-addicted cripple,” Byrne replied. “Would you have helped Marcus otherwise?”

Byrne turned around, picked up a packet that had been sitting next to him. “This is for you,” he said, and once handing it to her, bowed stiffly and walked to the door.

Phillippa turned the packet over in her hand before whirling around, saying, “Wait!”

Byrne stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

“Um,” Phillippa began, “are . . . did you receive—I mean, I don’t know if I can get you invitations to the Gold Ball anymore. I’m sorry. How . . . how do you intend to get in?”

Byrne’s eyebrow went up. “We’ll manage.” And before Phillippa could argue or demand details, Byrne was out the door.

Phillippa turned the brown oilskin packet over in her hands once and once again. It was thick, stuffed with something soft. She tore the paper open, exposing a piece of paper and a pair of elbow-length gloves.

Her gloves.

She could feel her eyes welling up as she unfurled the long white pieces of fabric. But the tears didn’t fall until the dozen or so tiny jeweled hairpins that had been wrapped in the gloves rained to the ground.

He returned them. He’d excised her from his house, from his heart. She held the gloves to her mouth to hold back the sobs, but then she inhaled Marcus’s scent, which had insidiously soaked into the fabric, having been with him for a week.

She threw the gloves aside, and sobbing, knelt to retrieve the hairpins that had scattered on the thick rug. There, on her knees, she saw that the packet had yielded one other thing from its contents, which had fluttered to the floor with the wrapping.

A letter.

“Phillippa”—it began, and she could hear her name on his lips, pressing on her heart—“contained are articles belonging to you. I believe I found them all. I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but I must beg a personal favor: Do not attend the Gold Ball tonight. For your own well-being and my soundness of mind. I consider it highly unlikely, however, that you will humor this request. If that is the case, I can only ask that you do your best to avoid trouble. Stay with Mrs. Tottendale, stay safe. And if you cannot avoid it, then run.”

It was signed, “Yours—Marcus.”

Phillippa read the note three times before she managed, with shaking hands, to fold it up again. Then she rose to her feet, resolute. She had a ball to dress for.

R
EGENT’S Park, located on the northern edge of the city, was not a part of town often frequented by the Ton elite. They tended to stay south of Oxford Street, near their beloved Hyde Park, St. James’s, Pall Mall, and the like. However, since 1811, when the Prince Regent had taken over the lease on the hunting grounds formerly known as Marylebone Park, he had commissioned famed architect John Nash to restructure the entire park (not to mention several streets and blocks of London) in a style pleasing and glorifying to his reign. And maybe a summer house or two.