The Perils of Pleasure (15 page)

She was right, Colin knew. First, he had another request. “Do you have a bonnet my associate may borrow? A plain one?”

The countess fished about in her things and produced a long bonnet of straw and presented it to Colin, rather than Madeleine, and Colin passed it to Madeleine, who took it with a bemused glance up at him. A woman needed a bonnet in this heat, he decided. He had sisters, after all.

Colin wrapped the food up in the snowy napkins provided, and now that it was time to say farewell, he was surprised to be feeling a bit sentimental. It could
very well be the last time he ever saw the countess. And she was the veritable personification of his old life.

As he strolled by the dressing table, he adroitly scooped the bottle of lavender water from the dressing table and dropped it in his coat pocket without anyone noticing.

The countess looped her arm through his and walked him through the passage to the servant’s stair
well, mercifully absent of other servants. She purposely drew him ahead of Harry and Madeleine, who walked silently behind.

“I’ve known Harry all my life, Colin,” she began in a lowered voice. “It’s—”

“You don’t need to explain anything to me, Lady Malmsey.”

“But . . . between Harry and I . . . I would like you to know it’s not just . . . ” And here she blushed fetchingly.

“Fabulous lovemaking?” Colin completed devilishly. And smiled down at her.

“You always were a beast, Colin.” She was trying to frown, but her smile was making this impossible

Colin laughed. “Be happy, Eleanor.”

“I never thought you stabbed that man, Colin,” she said warmly.

“I’m flattered, truly. Did you go to my hanging?”

“Yes, and I’ll attend again if they catch you.”

“I’m deeply honored, Lady Malmsey.”

She dimpled again, extended her hand for a kiss, and Colin kissed it, while Harry the footman and Madeleine watched, one struggling with admiration and jealousy, the other watchful, enigmatic.

“Godspeed,” Harry said to Colin and Madeleine, and bowed.

“Thank you, Harry.” Madeleine smiled radiantly at him, causing him to goggle. Colin frowned. Imag
ine her giving away one of those smiles so easily, and this one to a footman. But she turned to include Lady Malmsey in it, too.

The countess, another beautiful woman, merely lifted her fair brows. She wasn’t nearly as easily melted as her paramour, and irony was her defense against the obviously more mature and infinitely more mysterious Mrs. Green.

“Be careful,” Madeleine said to her gently, by way of farewell.

At this the countess looked astonished, and then damned if a faintest hint of yearning didn’t fl icker across her face. Colin was reminded momentarily of the urchin at the Tiger’s Nest, and imagined it must be a relief to the countess to share a bit of her secret with another woman who could convey, with two words, that she understood.

nm

hey won’t be, you know,” Colin said once their feet were crunching over the dirt in the garden. He pushed the gate open and they were once again in the mews.

“Won’t be . . . ”

“Careful. Or rather, they think they
are
being careful.”

“I know.”

Madeleine’s thoughts were a kaleidoscope of images and emotions; fatigue made it impossible to herd them into coherence. She’d pointed a pistol at a countess and a footman she couldn’t bring herself to condemn; she’d pressed her own body back into Colin Eversea’s long hard body in a wardrobe, and in mere moments she’d been aroused to breathlessness; had welcomed his skillfully subtle, exploratory touch, nearly
asked
for it.

And this . . .
delirium
. . . had apparently been prompted simply by his nearness.

For a moment their boots over hard ground were the only sound. She knew he hadn’t been unmoved, either; she’d felt his breath shuddering out over her throat,
felt the grip of his arm tightening, the tension rippling through him. She could scarcely blame him; she had no illusions about how gentleman should behave when their arms were wrapped beneath the admittedly very fine breasts of a pretty woman in a dark, enclosed space.

But here in the daylight, the interlude seemed juve
nile and faintly embarrassing, and perhaps it would sift away if they pretended nothing at all untoward had happened.

“And you thought I wouldn’t be useful,” Colin Ever-sea mused wryly.

Madeleine was startled and abashed, until she real
ized what he meant.

“All right,” she managed easily. “Being a profl igate flirt and London’s most celebrated rake have served you uncommonly well so far, I must admit, insofar as gath
ering information is concerned.”

“Don’t forget ‘convicted murderer’ when you’re listing my assets,” he added glibly. “Seems I’m quite the . . . ”

He paused for so long it seemed he’d forgotten he’d begun a sentence. Madeleine looked up at him curiously.

Colin gave himself a little shake and smiled, a sur
prisingly bitter smile. “ . . . quite the hero.”

She couldn’t presume his mood, so she gave him silence.

“So Harry gave Horace Peele money at the Tiger’s Nest, and then Horace disappeared,” he continued more pragmatically. “I’m heartened by the fact that he was given money.”

“Because it means he
might
still be alive,” Madeleine concurred quietly.

“That would be the reason,” Colin said. “And be
cause it proves my innocence.”

Madeleine thought “prove” was perhaps too em
phatic a word, so she merely said: “Apparently I was the only one marked for murder. Other plans were in store for you.”

Colin glanced at her, then made a noncommittal sound. They walked on through the swept-clean bricks of the mews where a freshly washed carriage sat; its clean lamps were nearly blinding in the sun.

“The life you lead, Mrs. Greenway . . . ” he began. It was another sentence he seemed unable to complete. He just shook his head. And went on: “But it all makes no sense. Unless the money to pay you and Horace came from different sources, and this gentleman with the fi ne buttons was being used as a messenger by someone else, in the way Harry the footman was used. But why pay a man to disappear . . . but
murder
a woman?”

Madeleine allowed her silence to tell him she didn’t know, either. “The button meant something to you,” she said after a moment.

A hesitation. And then he gave a short, humorless, ironic laugh. “Yes. I’m afraid it did.”

“Did you ever plan to tell me what it meant? It might be important to my well-being, too.”

This won her a sideways look and an upraised brow.
You don’t exert yourself to charm
, it meant. “Very well, my dear Mrs. Greenway. My brother Marcus—”

“The one who will marry Louisa?”

“Oh, I can’t hear
that
too many times, but yes. My brother Marcus,
engaged
to marry Louisa. That Marcus. He won’t marry her if we discover the truth of— Anyhow, Marcus is a very contained sort, very practical—for an Eversea, that is. Which perhaps isn’t
saying much. He does love to run an estate, and he does it brilliantly. He’s a serious chap, Marcus is, which means it’s uncommon good fun to tease him. But he usually takes it well.” Colin’s voice had softened with his story. “Well . . . his only indulgence is fast, excellent horses. He belongs to a gentleman’s club called the Mercury Club—a group of investors who have had a good deal of success in their choices. They invest in spice cargos, canals, cigars . . . they hold monthly meetings to decide and report upon their investments. Isaiah Redmond is a member of the investment group as well.”

“And how do buttons figure into this?”

“Patience, my dove. I’m telling a story.”

Madeleine bit back a smile.

Colin stopped abruptly and sank down against a wall where they were unlikely to be troubled, obscured by that gleaming carriage.

He patted the ground. “Let’s have a bite to eat.”

She eyed the dirt. Colin noticed and produced, of all things, a handkerchief from his pocket, and made a production of spreading it out carefully on the ground.

“That’s about the size of your bottom, I would guess,” he assessed.

Oh, God. She didn’t
want
to be entertained. But she was. She settled down onto the handkerchief, modestly pulled her dress down over her knees, and waited for Colin to unwrap their bundle.

He pinched up a slice of ham with a slice of bread and handed it over to her, then made a similar sandwich for himself.

“The investors love to race various smart convey
ances. The club has its own carriage, and all the mem
bers can avail themselves of it. Gorgeous thing it is, and a bit fl ashy—they’ve even had their insignia painted on
it, a sort of coat of arms featuring a pair of winged ankles. They all pride themselves on being skillful driv
ers, and they
are
quite good, Marcus included. They all own beautiful cattle, too. Matched teams. I’ve bet upon them many a time. Won a few times. Lost quite a few times. A harmless pastime, for the most part. No one has ever
been
harmed, anyway.”

“Buttons,” Madeleine reminded him.

“And one of their conceits, if you
will
,” he pressed on as if she hadn’t said anything at all, “is a sort of uni
form: it features a waistcoat with very striking mother-of-pearl buttons. Again, a bit flashy for these men, all of whom are generally conservative. But distinctive. One might even say unmistakable.”

Madeleine absorbed this stunning little bit of infor
mation. “So you think that
Marcus
could have—”

“I don’t think anything at all.” Unfortunately, his curt tone made a liar of him. “I know only that this man with the waistcoat buttons is very likely part of this group of investors.”

Madeleine didn’t believe him.

A tiny flame of suspicion had probably taken hold some time ago, when he entered prison, Horace Peele disappeared, and it became known that Louisa and Marcus would be married. Madeleine doubted there was much else for Colin to do in prison other than sift again and again through the reasons he was in New-gate, no matter how unpleasant. He was an intelligent man, after all. He could not have missed the possibility that his brother wanted him out of the way for good. She had a good deal of faith in Newgate’s ability to wear down even the most stalwart fi lial loyalty.

“What is your brother like?” she asked.

He hesitated. “A good sort,” he said stubbornly, but
she heard the strain in his voice. “I’m closest to Ian, probably, but . . . Marcus . . . Marcus taught me how to fight.” There was the faintest of smiles now. “We’re fond of each other. And I’ve always assumed he’d defend me to the death. He did pull me from a river once when I nearly drowned. That’s another story. But I’ve never met anyone more . . . ” He paused over a choice of words. “ . . .
determined
than Marcus.”

Interesting, that word. “Would you consider him ruthless, then?”

“No.” Colin was adamant now. “
Determined
. In that . . . well, Marcus has wanted for very little in his life, but what he does want . . . he sets out very me
thodically to get. And he
always
gets it. Whether it’s a particular horse at Tattersall’s, or a piece of land adja
cent to Eversea House, or skill with a pistol. He had to practice so much more than I. He hasn’t Ian’s effortless
ness or my . . . whatever it is I have.”

“Panache,” she supplied diplomatically.

“Is that what it is?” He was distantly amused. “But he always becomes just as good as any of us in the end. I never really saw Marcus as ruthless. Then again . . . when it comes to love . . . when people are in love . . . ”

Another sentence Colin Eversea seemed disinclined to finish. He had wound up in Newgate, indirectly be
cause he was in love. Yes, indeed: love was hazardous.

“Is he in love with Louisa?”

“Everyone is in love with Louisa, Mrs. Greenway.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. She fought an eye roll. “What I meant—”

“All right. Yes, yes. I know what you meant. And I think . . . ” Colin rubbed at his forehead and sighed. Then he tipped his head back against the wall, closed
his eyes briefl y and gave another of those short humor
less laughs. “Yes.” The word was weighty. “I do believe he genuinely loves her. In fact, I’m certain of it.”

“And Marcus knew about your attachment to Louisa before your arrest?”

“Oh, I believe everyone in Pennyroyal Green knew about our attachment. Louisa never had a London season—her family hadn’t money for it. But she could have had her pick of Redmonds or Everseas or landed gentry. And, well . . . You know the rest of the story . . . ”

His voice trailed; his fingers closed into a fi st. He bounced it lightly on his thigh in thought a few times, then stopped. And was quiet for a time.

“Are you married, Mrs. Greenway?”

The question surprised her into answering quickly. “No.”

“But you have
been
married?”

“Yes.”

Colin smiled crookedly at her monosyllabic mood, and passed the skin of water without looking at her. “What became of your husband?”

She swallowed a bit of the water. “He died.”

Colin brushed a crumb from his cheek with his hand. And then he turned to study her, uncomfortably as though he were researching a point of entry. “Were you sorry?”

The question landed like a blow between her ribs.

She was speechless. For a moment she couldn’t breathe or think clearly; she could merely stare back at him. But it was also perhaps the one question guaran
teed to surprise an honest answer from her.

He was dangerous, Colin Eversea.

“Yes, Mr. Eversea,” she said evenly. “I was sorry.”

He turned his head away again. She passed the skin back to him.

“How did he die?” he asked. “Was it the war?”

“Oh, no. He survived the war.” She said this ironi
cally. “It was illness.”

“Are you certain you didn’t accidentally shoot him with your stick?”

The question was wry, but she sensed there was an object to this inquiry. Colin Eversea still didn’t trust her. Any more than she fully trusted him. She knew a good deal about him, but he knew nothing at all about her, which was how she preferred it.

“I never
accidentally
shoot anything.”

He liked this. He smiled a little. A puddle on the ground reflected back the sky and part of the clean glossy carriage and part of Colin, too. The day was warm, and held all the smells of London close to the ground. It smelled of manure and coal and varying kinds of dirt, and faintly from that small elegant yard behind the earl’s town house came the sweet smell of blooming fl owers.