The Deception (3 page)

I remember that I was standing in the Cottrell ballroom, in front of a very lavish arrangement of pink and white roses, waiting for my partner to bring me a glass of punch, when I happened to glance across the floor at my uncle just as his face changed. It was only a momentary lapse, and then his customary clear look returned. But in that instant I knew who he reminded me of—Sultan, the only horse my father ever had put down. The bay gelding had had the same kind of opaque brilliance in his gaze that I saw in my uncle’s, but Sultan had tried to kill me.

“Only horse I ever knew who’s bad through and through,” my father had said. “I could sell him to some unsuspecting soul who’d buy him for his looks, but I won’t have it on my conscience that I’ve passed on a rogue.”

I looked to the door to see what had caused that momentary flicker of hatred on my uncle’s face. And for the first time I laid eyes on Adrian.

He was standing at the top of the three steps that led down into the ballroom, his head bent to listen to something his hostess was saying. Mrs. Cottrell looked small next to him, but I had stood beside her earlier in the evening and I knew she was taller than I.

“Here is your punch, Miss Fitzgerald.” My partner had returned.

“Who is that talking to Mrs. Cottrell?” I asked.

Mr. Putnam looked across the crowded dance floor to the man on the stairs. “That is Greystone.” There was an unmistakable note of awe in his voice. “He gave up his commission a few months ago to come home to England. They say he is going to join the Government. Castlereagh wants him at the Foreign Office.”

Even I knew the name. Major Adrian Edward St. John Woodrow, Earl of Greystone, Viscount Wraxall and Baron Wood of Lambourn, was one of the most notable heroes of last year’s Battle of Waterloo. He had been singled out for commendations by the Duke of Wellington, and his exploits had been lauded in Parliament. He had remained in France after Waterloo to help Wellington administer the Army of Occupation the Allies had seen fit to quarter on the French nation.

The music ceased and I watched him as he crossed the crowded floor. His hair was so pale a gold that it glimmered like moonlight as he passed under one of the three crystal chandeliers that hung from the ballroom’s gilded ceiling. People fell away from in front of him as he advanced, and I watched as he tossed a genial word or two in the direction of people he knew, all the while not once slowing his forward progress. He came to a halt directly in front of a tall slender girl whom I knew to be the daughter of the Duke of Wareham. They stood talking for a few moments, and when the next dance was announced they went out to the floor together.

My uncle appeared at my shoulder and claimed me from Mr. Putnam. Hiding my reluctance, I accompanied him to the floor. He inserted himself into the line next to Greystone and I took my place beside Lady Mary Weston.

She smiled at me as she made room. We had spent a few minutes together in the ladies’ withdrawing room at a previous ball and she had been very pleasant to me. Many of the young ladies I met were not.

“How are you, Miss Fitzgerald?” she asked now in her soft, sweet voice. “I hope you are enjoying the ball?”

“It is very nice, Lady Mary,” I replied politely.

The set finished forming up, the music started, and the dance began. It was a quadrille, one of the new dances that had been imported from France, and I had only learned it a few weeks before so I had to concentrate. When it finished, my uncle and I were left standing next to Lord Greystone and Lady Mary.

“Greystone,” my uncle said with his most charming smile, “allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Cathleen Fitzgerald.”

His hair was so fair that I had assumed his eyes would be light, but they were a strikingly dark gray. He had a face Michelangelo would have loved. He said in a deep, pleasant voice, “How do you do, Miss Fitzgerald. I hope you are enjoying the ball.”

“It is very nice,” I answered for about the twentieth time that evening. Standing this close, I could see how tall he really was.

“I believe I’ve come across something that will interest you, Greystone,” my uncle said. “Are you still collecting Saxon weapons?”

“I am still interested in Saxon artifacts, yes.” The earl’s voice was coolly polite. I got the distinct impression that the antipathy I had seen earlier on my uncle’s face was fully reciprocated. “What have you found, Charlwood?”

“The owner told me it was a sword that once belonged to King Alfred.”

I noticed that all the people in our vicinity were trying not to look as if they were looking at us, but they were. “They all say that their swords once belonged to King Alfred,” Greystone replied.

“Well, this fellow was very persuasive.” My uncle smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of the sleeve of his black coat. “Supposedly the sword’s been in his family for hundreds of years.” He looked up. “He has documentation.”

Against his will, Greystone was interested. “It might be worth my looking at.”

“I’ll call on you tomorrow and we’ll arrange a visit,” my uncle said.

There was a pause, then Greystone replied slowly, “I will be at home in the morning.” My uncle nodded and the orchestra struck up the first strains of a waltz.

“May I have this dance, Lady Mary?” my uncle promptly asked.

She glanced at Greystone, as if seeking guidance, but his face was unreadable. So she smiled agreeably at my uncle and allowed him to lead her back to the floor. This left Greystone stuck with me.

With perfect courtesy he said, “May I have this waltz, Miss Fitzgerald?”

“I suppose we shall have to,” I said glumly. “It will make you look rude if you abandon me here.”

His lips twitched. “It would,” he agreed. “I beg of you, save my reputation and dance with me.”

“We can’t chat,” I warned him. “I have only been waltzing for a few weeks and I still need to mind my steps.”

“I will maintain absolute silence,” he promised. And on that note, I accompanied him out to the floor and stepped into his arms.

When the waltz was first introduced into England after the Congress of Vienna, many people had considered it immoral, but until that waltz with Adrian, I had never understood why. We had not taken half a dozen steps, however, before I realized that the sensations the closeness of his body were provoking in mine were far too exciting to be proper. A full turn of the room convinced me they were immoral.

I had performed the waltz many times during my stay in London, and nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I didn’t quite know how to account for it. He held me at the correct distance. He didn’t try to squeeze my waist—as several other gentlemen had done. But I was intensely and acutely conscious of the feel of that big hand, of the closeness of that big body.

It was a thoroughly unnerving experience, and I was extremely glad that I did not have to talk to him! When the waltz was over, my uncle reclaimed me and escorted me from the floor.

* * * *

“You looked lovely tonight, Kate,” my uncle said as we rode through the streets of London in his coach. “Certainly the young men present thought so—you danced every dance. Even Greystone danced with you! I am impressed.”

There was a silky note in his voice that was making the muscles in my stomach tighten.

“Lord Greystone was just being polite,” I replied, striving for a light tone, “After all, you left him very little choice, Uncle Martin.”

“He did not look like a man who has been coerced,” my uncle said, his voice even silkier than before.

Cousin Louisa spoke out of the dark from the opposite seat, “It is well known that Lord Greystone is on the verge of making an offer for Lady Mary Weston.”

For some reason this remark appeared to amuse my uncle. He chuckled.

My heartbeat accelerated at the sound, and for the first time I let myself acknowledge that I was afraid.

It was not an emotion I was overly familiar with, and I didn’t like the feeling at all.

Don’t be a fool,
I scolded myself.
You may not like Charlwood, but there’s nothing in him to fear!

My heartbeat did not slow; my stomach muscles did not relax. Every part of my being shrank away from the man who was sitting so close beside me in the dark. When he reached out his hand and put it over mine, I jumped.

“Did I startle you, Kate?” he asked. He turned my hand so it lay palm-up upon my lap.

He repelled me. He was like one of the faerie folk my father used to tell me about—beautiful to look upon but fatal to trust. His finger moved across my exposed palm in a confident caress.

I pulled my hand away. In the darkness I could feel him smile.
I
have to get away from him,
I thought.
I
have to get away.

* * * *

Mr. Putnam, one of the young men I had danced with at the ball, arrived at my uncle’s home in Berkeley Square the next afternoon to take me driving in Hyde Park. Five o’clock was the magic hour when London society emerged into the daylight, to walk and to drive, to see and to be seen.

I assessed my escort’s horses after he helped me up into the high seat of his phaeton. They were a matched pair of grays, well-proportioned and well-groomed. I regarded the young man with more interest than I had previously shown. He looked rather like a rabbit, but a man who had horses like these must have hidden depths.

“I like your horses, Mr. Putnam,” I said.

He smiled. “I’ve only had ‘em for a month,” he confided. “Got ‘em from Ladrington when he had to sell off his stable after playing too deep at Watiers.”

We discussed the horses for the rest of the drive to the park. The late-afternoon streets of London were filled with horses and tradesmen’s wagons, but Mr. Putnam handled his reins with skill. My opinion of him went up another notch. We reached the park and entered into the flow of fashionable traffic.

The wide path that bordered the Hyde Park lake was filled with a stunning array of vehicles. There were beautifully appointed traditional carriages containing stylishly dressed ladies attended by footmen in lavish livery; there were high-perch and low-perch phaetons driven by gentlemen like Mr. Putnam; there were barouches and cabriolets and curricles; there were beautiful Thoroughbred horses under saddle, ridden by ladies in elegant habits and gentlemen in top boots and leather breeches and kerseymere tailcoats.

Hyde Park at five o’clock during the Season was a horse lover’s dream, and Mr. Putnam and I comprehensively discussed every individual animal as it paraded by. I was thoroughly enjoying myself when a phaeton pulled up alongside of us.

“Putnam!” said an imperious voice. “Stop for a moment, if you please.”

Mr. Putnam stopped his horses. The high-perch phaeton that was behind us swung wide to avoid a crash. “Lord Stade,” my escort said with bewilderment, and I narrowed my eyes and stared at the man for whose sake my father had made that fatal last visit to Newmarket.

The Marquis of Stade was a broad-shouldered, bull-headed man whose unwinking brown gaze was all over me as he talked to Mr. Putnam about the upcoming races at Newmarket. My escort was obviously torn between gratitude for the attention of the marquis and discomfort with the way he was looking at me.

“And who is this young person?” Stade finally rapped out, gesturing to me.

Mr. Putnam gave me a perturbed look. “This
lady
is Miss Fitzgerald, my lord,” he said. “Lord Charlwood’s niece.”

Stade feigned great surprise. “Are you Daniel Fitzgerald’s girl, then?”

“Yes,” I said, regarding him steadily. “I am.”

“Now that I look at you, I can see the resemblance.” He had been doing nothing but look at me for the last five minutes. Stade turned now to my escort and said disdainfully, “This chit’s father was nothing but an Irish horse-trader, Putnam. Don’t let yourself be fooled into thinking she’s eligible goods on the marriage mart.”

Mr. Putnam looked horribly embarrassed and began to blink like a frightened rabbit. Stade looked once more at me. I held his gaze and said calmly to my flustered escort, “I am ready to drive on, Mr. Putnam.” He raised his reins immediately and the grays started forward with a jerk. Behind us I could hear Stade’s harsh, unpleasant laugh and my fists clenched in my lap.

“I’m s-sorry about that, Miss Fitzgerald,” Mr. Putnam said. “I didn’t even think Stade knew who I was!”

That was interesting news. The marquis had stopped, then, because of me.

“His stable has been doing very well of late,” Mr. Putnam ventured after a few moments. “He won the Guineas two years ago, and the three-year-old he has this season looks a sure bet to win it again. That stud of his is proving to be a surprising success.”

“Do you mean Alcazar?” I asked.

“That’s the one.” The sun was glinting off the brass buttons on Mr. Putnam’s blue coat, and I blinked as a flash caught me in the eyes. He said, “Horse had a mediocre career himself, but he’s certainly come up trumps as a sire.”

“That’s not a usual thing, is it? I know my father was very surprised when he found out that Alcazar had sired the colt Stade won the Guineas with.”

“Everyone was surprised,” Mr. Putnam returned, “but Alcazar’s no one-day marvel. The horses Stade ran last year were very good, and this year’s colt is remarkable.”

“Do you race your own horses, Mr. Putnam?” I inquired, and he spent the rest of the drive happily regaling me with his plans for setting up his own stable.

* * * *

The following day my uncle told me that he had arranged to take Greystone to a village near Winchester in order to view the sword that was supposed to have belonged to King Alfred. I didn’t pay a great deal of attention to this plan until Friday evening. That was when my uncle informed me that he had learned that someone else wanted to purchase the sword and that he was going to ride ahead to insist that the owner not sell until Lord Greystone had had an opportunity to make an offer.

“You must accompany Greystone, Kate,” my uncle said. “I will write down all the directions for you and I will meet you at Squire Reston’s. If I delay until tomorrow afternoon, that sword will be gone.”

I did not understand my uncle’s sense of urgency and protested, “Surely a few hours is not going to make that much difference, Uncle Martin.”