Secrets of the Heart (16 page)

Strangely enough, Rachel found herself believing the woman. Mrs. Neeley looked so genuinely upset and concerned, stumbling over her words, that Rachel felt herself relaxing a little. Had everyone gotten it all wrong somehow? Perhaps there was some rational explanation after all.

“Oh,” Rachel said. “Did I—I'm sorry, but—people told me that he had been seen coming in and out of here. And Araminta—his sister—knew about it.”

“She did not say that, surely! She couldn't have said that he and I—that we—”

At that moment there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Mrs. Neeley let out a small, choked cry and swung around, looking up the stairs. Rachel's eyes followed hers.

Michael was walking down the stairs, buttoning the cuff of one sleeve. He wore no jacket, and his waistcoat hung open down the front. “Lilith, do you know where—”

He stopped, seeing for the first time the two women standing to the side of the stairs, and whatever he had been about to say died in his throat.

“Michael.”

R
achel's voice sounded small and tinny to her own ears. She felt suddenly as if she could not breathe.
So it
was
all true, then…. Michael had not even gone home to Westhampton as he had told her he was. Instead he had stayed right here in London with his mistress.
She wondered how many times before that had happened, how often, when she thought he was at home indulging in his solitary, scholarly pursuits, he had actually been in London…but not with her. “How easily you have fooled me. And how often.” Tears choked her voice, and she stopped speaking, swallowing to force the sobs back down her throat. She cast a fulminating glance at Mrs. Neeley. “You are an excellent actress, madam.”

“No!” Lilith Neeley cried. “No! I didn't deceive you. I—that is—that is not Lord Westhampton.”

“What?” Rachel's gaze swung back to the man on the stairs. The man did look a little different from Michael. His hair was darker, more brown than blond, and he needed a shave. His clothes were the rough full-sleeved shirt and loose trousers of a working man, and his boots were scuffed and cheap, not polished to a mirrorlike gleam.

Rachel wavered. Garson would never have let Michael out of the house looking like this. “But I—no.” Her face and voice hardened. “Do you take me for a fool, that I do not even know my own husband? Of course it is Michael.”

“He looks like him, 'tis true,” Lilith said, her voice slipping in her distress into a thicker accent. “But that is because he is Lord Westhampton's brother.”

Rachel raised a single eyebrow. “Michael has no brother.”

“Not a legitimate one.” Mrs. Neeley gazed at her unflinchingly for a long moment.

“What? Oh!” Rachel looked back up at the man on the stairs. There were differences between Michael and this man—the hair color, this man's rather disheveled look and rough clothes. And it would be just like Michael's father to have had an illegitimate child; the man had been a well-known lecher. “I—but you look so much like him!”

“I'm not the only one,” the man replied gruffly.

His voice, too, was slightly different, Rachel thought, a little lower and more gravelly, with an accent similar to Mrs. Neeley's.

Relief swept over Rachel so swiftly and powerfully that she went a trifle weak in the knees. This man who was so obviously at home in Mrs. Neeley's house was not Michael at all, but an illegitimate brother who looked enough like him to be his twin.

“He is my brother,” Mrs. Neeley explained.

“Oh! Oh, I see.” Rachel could not keep from smiling. “Then—are you saying that you—”

“Lord Westhampton is my brother,” Lilith Neeley confirmed, nodding. “They are both my brothers.”

There was a similarity of coloring to Michael in Mrs. Neeley, for her blond hair was much the same color as Michael's, and her eyes, also gray, had the same shape as Michael's, though she obviously darkened her light eyelashes.

Everything was falling into place now—no wonder people had thought that Michael had a relationship with this woman. This man who looked so much like Michael had been seen coming and going from this house, and people had assumed it was Michael. Or perhaps Michael had even come here to see his siblings.

“But why has he never told me about you?” Rachel asked. “Why has he kept it hidden?”

The man snorted. “Hardly somethin' you'd be tell-in' the missus, is it? Particularly a tony lady like yourself.”

Rachel frowned at his sneering tone. She was not quite sure whether he disliked Michael, her, or the world in general.

Lilith Neeley quickly put in, “His lordship doesn't know about us, that is why.”

There was a noise from the man on the stairs, something like a grunt, and Rachel glanced up at him before turning back to Mrs. Neeley.

“I see. I—please accept my apology for barging in on you this way and peppering you with questions. I can see now that I had no right.”

Mrs. Neeley looked at her, surprised. “It is quite all right, my lady. Pray don't worry about it.

“I will tell my husband about you,” Rachel went on. “You don't know him. Lord Westhampton is a very fair and good man. I am sure that he would wish to meet you.”

“Is he now?” Mrs. Neeley cast a look back at the man on the stairs, then turned back to Rachel. “Still, my lady, I do not think that there are many husbands who would wish to hear that their wives had come to visit a gaming establishment or spoken to his relatives that were born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“That's right,” her brother said, coming down a few steps. “I wouldn't advise telling him that you was here, talking to the likes of us.”

“That is because you don't know Michael.” In truth, she suspected that Michael would not be pleased to hear about her going unattended in a hansom to the home of a woman whom she thought to be his mistress. Well, she decided, she would think about how to tell him later. Right now she felt too good to worry about such things. And she also was not about to let this sullen stranger denigrate Michael.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Neeley,” she said, holding her hand out to the other woman. “You have been very kind. I should take my leave of you now.” She turned toward the man, still several steps above her and gave him a short nod. “And you, Mr.—”

“Hobson,” he said. “James Hobson.”

“Good day, Mr. Hobson. I hope that you will meet Lord Westhampton someday so that you can see how wrong you are about him.”

His only answer was a shrug and a surly look. Rachel turned and walked to the front door.

“Wait.” Hobson came quickly down the last few steps. “You can't just walk out there. You won't be finding many hansoms rolling down this street lookin' for fares, at least not until later, when the gentlemen are all leaving, drunk.”

“I am sure I will find one soon enough.”

“Oh, no, my lady!” Mrs. Neeley exclaimed. “He is right. It would never do. You shouldn't be walking here unescorted.”

“I'll see her home,” Hobson said gruffly, snatching a jacket and cloth cap from the hat tree by the door. “Come on, then.”

“It is quite all right,” Rachel assured him, trying for a tone of hauteur. “You need not put yourself to the bother, Mr. Hobson.”

“I do if I'm to keep Lilith from burning my ears,” he growled, taking her arm firmly in his grasp and steering her through the front door.

“Really, Mr. Hobson, there is no need to push me,” Rachel snapped, jerking her arm from his.

“Excuse me,” he said, doffing his cap to her. “'Fraid I wasn't brought up right.”

“I suspect that any talk of manners would have fallen on deaf ears with you,” Rachel shot back tartly, turning and starting up the street.

It was late afternoon by now, and the setting sun was blocked by buildings, so that the street was already growing dusky. Though she would not have admitted it to this man, Rachel was frankly rather glad to have someone accompanying her. She had no idea where her home lay from here or what street she should take to find an available hansom cab. Nor did she know what way she might turn that would lead her into another, more unsavory area.

“Ooh, you're a feisty one, aren't you?” Hobson said in a conversational manner as he slouched along beside her, his hands thrust into his pockets.

“Because I answered you in kind? You are a very unfriendly man, you know.” Rachel looked over at him.

He was bulkier and a trifle shorter than Michael, she thought, though with the way he carried himself, it was difficult to tell his true height. It was amazing how much he resembled Michael, though, even with the differences she could pick out. He was more rough and ready, of course, the kind of man who could doubtless take care of himself in a fight. It occurred to her that he might be the reason for the strange things that Anthony had said about Michael.

“Do you pretend to be Westhampton sometimes?” she asked.

He looked at her a little warily. “I have been mistaken for him now and again. Why do you ask?”

Rachel did not answer but instead asked another question. “Do you work with the Bow Street Runners?” she asked.

Hobson whipped his head around to stare at her. “What? How did you—What are you talking about?”

“How did I know about that?” she asked a little smugly, completing his half-asked question. “You would be surprised at what I know.”

“I'm beginning to realize that.” He scowled at her.

They had reached a cross street, a more major thoroughfare, and he raised his hand for a cab, and when it stopped, opened the door for her and helped her in. He climbed in after her.

“You need not see me home, Mr. Hobson,” Rachel said coolly. “I will be quite all right now that you have found me a vehicle.”

“That may be, but I have a few questions for you.”

Rachel looked at him. It was dim inside the cab, but she could see the hard glitter of his eyes, silver more than Michael's calm gray. She could very well see this man working with Bow Street; she could just as easily see him working on the opposite side.

“I'm not sure I feel like answering your questions right now,” Rachel retorted.

“Oh, you'll answer them.” His mouth was set grimly. “You are dealing with me now, not your lap dog of a husband.”

“How dare you speak of Michael that way?” Rachel fired back. “My husband is worth ten of you!”

That statement seemed to afford him great amusement. “Ah, yes, it is clear that you think him worth a great deal. No doubt that is why you shun his company.”

“I do not shun his company! Michael enjoys the country and—and rural pursuits.”

“While you pursue what in the city?” He raised one eyebrow in a lazy question.

Rachel glared at him. “I am not sure what you are implying, but I find you most impertinent.”

“No doubt you will find me more so. I want to know why you asked me if I sometimes work with the Bow Street Runners. Did someone tell you Westhampton did?”

Rachel stared back at him defiantly for a long moment, but then she shrugged and nodded. “Yes. A—a friend of mine. He said that Lord Arbuthnot had told him that Michael had helped Bow Street with their investigations.”

“Arbuthnot! How the devil would he know about it?”

“I don't know. Anthony just said that Arbuthnot told him something about someone's jewels being recovered. Godfrey, did he say?”

Beside her, Hobson went very still. “Who said this about Arbuthnot?”

“My friend. The man who came to ask me for help.”

“What is his name?” His voice was clipped and hard as stone, his eyes glittering coldly. “Anthony who?”

Rachel raised her brows at his tone. “Birkshaw, but I hardly see that that is any of your business.”

“I don't know,” he said roughly. “Maybe he'd like to hire me sometime, him or his friends. I'm always interested in more business from the toffs.”

“Perhaps.” Rachel had no intention of revealing anything about this man to Anthony; she was not about to reveal Michael's family secrets to anyone. She quickly steered the conversation away, saying, “I didn't see how it could be Michael he was talking about. But he seemed so certain of it….” Rachel remembered the anxiety that had gripped her when she realized that she knew even less about her husband than she had thought. It was an enormous relief, she realized now, to have learned that none of those things were true, after all.

“No. It could hardly have been Westhampton. He is much too stodgy and dull to do anything like that.”

“He is not stodgy and dull!” Rachel protested. “He is a very intelligent and interesting man.”

“Oh, yes, I can tell that you are simply fascinated by him,” Hobson prodded in a gravelly voice, his lips curving up on one side into an irritating smirk. “So fascinated that you cannot bear to live in the same house with him.”

“That is not true! I told you, he prefers the country, and I—”

“You prefer the city,” he finished for her. “Doubtless because your ‘friend' is here.”

Rachel scowled at him. She did not like the way he looked at her; it was far too bold, not as a gentleman would look at her at all. And the mocking way he spoke to her was highly annoying, as if he knew some wicked secret about her.

“Why do you say it that way? What do you mean? It is rude. You are rude.”

“Aye, so I've been told. What should I have said instead of ‘friend'? Would you like it better if I called him your lover?”

Rachel gasped, shocked by his words. “What! How dare you say something like that?”

“I'm a man for plain-speakin' myself. It's hardly a surprise—of course you would take a lover, as your husband clearly doesn't suit you. Poor sniveling bastard, he's the perfect cuckold—”

He broke off in surprise as Rachel's hand lashed out and slapped him hard against the cheek. The slap surprised her almost as much as it did him, and for a long moment they stared at each other. His eyes were bright and glittering, even in the dim light, his mouth drawn into a tight line.