The Rake and the Wallflower (13 page)

He turned into St. James’s Square, walking faster than his weakened condition warranted. This would be a good night to remain in bed. A quick glance over his shoulder relieved one fear. No one had followed him. So presumably the culprit did not know where he was.

“Don’t make assumptions,” he murmured as he nipped through the door. How had the cart driver found him?

It was an uncomfortable thought. But with luck, he could avoid further attempts now that he knew the danger.

And he must thank Mary for today’s rescue. Flowers would do, but definitely more than violets.

He frowned a moment, then nodded. His Daurian peonies would be blooming by now. He had several bushes in the hothouse at Shellcroft, along with dozens of other unusual plants his captains had collected from around the world. His groom could collect the best blossoms and be back by morning. It would give him time to decide how to sign the card.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next day was Catherine’s at-home day. Mary hated receiving calls, for there was no way to avoid notice, and the attention took its toll. Her most embarrassing mishaps had occurred in Catherine’s drawing room — tactless replies, unintentional insults, dropping her cup in Lady Sefton’s lap…

Fortunately Lady Sefton was the nicest of the Almack’s patronesses, so her voucher remained safe. But each new incident increased her tension, making the next occasion even more difficult.

Laura did not help. After the teacup incident, she had demanded that Mary stay in her room so her clumsiness did not call censure on the entire family. Catherine had refused. Laura’s tantrum had included scathing denunciations and prophesies of doom, but Catherine would not budge. So Mary was again seated on Catherine’s left when Barhill announced the first caller.

Pasting a smile on her face, she kept a polite greeting on her lips and a few trite phrases in reserve with which to respond to questions. She hated gossip, but she’d discovered that an occasional encouraging response was all most ladies needed to keep talking. She was under no obligation to repeat anything they said.

Half an hour later, she finally relaxed. Conversation was dull today. No one had misbehaved last night. Blackthorn and Atwater had avoided each other. No fortunes had changed hands at the tables. And yesterday’s accident on Piccadilly had caused little damage. So conversation centered on which matches were likely.

Mary’s mind wandered to Laura’s latest outburst.

They had been coming down to the drawing room when a late bouquet of flowers arrived. Not just flowers, but a dozen Daurian peonies, a variety so rare it took Mary a full minute to identify it. She’d only seen one watercolor of it — a very insipid watercolor, she now realized. Glossy dark green leaves were arranged to set off the blooms, whose fluted deep-rose petals surrounded a vibrant gold center. The variety had arrived in England only a dozen years earlier from somewhere deep in the Ottoman Empire.

Laura had squealed, grabbing the vase before the footman could object. But her face had twisted when she saw the card.

“It doesn’t say who sent them,” she said in bewilderment. The card was signed with a sketch of an owl.

“They aren’t yours,” said the footman, rescuing the vase before Laura could hurl it.

Laura turned the card over. “You!” She could not have been more shocked if the house had collapsed around her ears. “Who would send you flowers?”

“No one important,” said Mary soothingly. “Merely a fellow bird-lover.”

“But who? And why do I know nothing about him? I cannot believe anyone is so rude that he refuses to sign his name.”

Mary heard the curiosity — and the anger. The idea that someone could enjoy Mary’s company shocked her. “But he did sign,” she countered, plucking Grayson’s owl from Laura’s hand. As the footman passed her the vase, she spotted the words
from my hothouse, with thanks
worked into the owl’s feathers. Warmth blossomed in her chest.

“But who is he?” repeated Laura.

“No one you know. We chatted in the bookstore yesterday about birds found along the Kentish coast.”

“But—”

“If you will excuse me, I must put these away before our callers arrive.”

Now Mary admitted that Laura’s reaction had hurt. Catherine or any of her brothers would have been pleased to learn that she had found a friend, and they would have shared her enjoyment of the flowers. But Laura had felt nothing but anger — furious anger. Perhaps even a flash of jealousy.

Laura felt little loyalty to her siblings. The only person she cared about was Laura. Not only did she expect all the attention, all the adulation, and all the affection, but she would have been just as disgruntled if Mary had received a posy of weeds from her eighty-year-old friend Mr. Fester. An exotic bouquet was too much.

But the drawing room was no place to brood. Mary wrenched her attention back to Lady Marchgate’s description of Atwater’s attack on a beggar in Covent Garden. Society was shocked, for the incident did not fit Atwater’s saintly reputation. He was extremely popular with the dowagers, yet Mary couldn’t like the man. Thus she was relieved when the subject changed.

“What is Lady Wharburton doing for her masquerade this year?” asked Lady Cunningham.

“Nobody knows.” Lady Marchgate shook her head. “You know she never offers a hint.”

“Remember the year she turned her ballroom into a medieval castle?” asked Lady Horseley.

“And her Mount Olympus?”

“That Egyptian temple was shocking,” claimed Miss Evans.

“You didn’t think so at the time,” countered Lady Cunningham.

Mary listened in astonishment as callers described fantastic decorations from past Seasons. By the time the first callers left, anticipation for the event was high. Then Lady Wilkins arrived.

“Have you heard about Mr. Griffin?” she demanded the moment Catherine handed her a cup.

“Only that he left the Sheffield ball in a rage because Lord Bankhead declined to play cards.”

“Does Bankhead suspect Griffin’s play?” asked Lady Marchgate, raising a brow.

“I doubt it.” Lady Cunningham shook her head. “Bankhead rarely games — which Griffin certainly knows.”

“You haven’t heard.” Lady Wilkins looked like a cat who had been in the cream. “Griffin was arrested last night.”

“Thank God,” murmured Mary. The moment the words were out, she blushed furiously.

Lady Marchgate glared, then turned back to Lady Wilkins. The action was not quite a cut, but Mary felt like creeping into a corner. She’d been doing so well today.

“Why?” demanded Lady Cunningham.

“He tried to force himself on an innocent at Long’s Hotel.”

“Is that what the girl claims?” scoffed Mrs. Ware. “Everyone knows he enjoys the maids, and even a governess or two, but he never uses force. Doesn’t need to.”

“This wasn’t a servant.” Lady Wilkins slowly sipped her tea. “She is a doctor’s daughter. Barely fifteen.”

Likes country innocents of about fourteen… Mary shivered.

“But why an arrest?” demanded Lady Marchgate. “If she was innocent, he will do the honorable thing. If she isn’t, then what is the fuss? And who would arrest him? The law never denounces a rake for following his urges. No matter what face he shows society, we all know Griffin is a rake.”

Murmured agreement swept the room.

Lady Wilkins smiled. “The actual charges are destruction of hotel property, burglary, and assault on a Bow Street runner.” Two ladies gasped. “The girl had accompanied her father to town — he is studying with Dr. McClarren. They were returning from the theater when a man in the taproom suffered an apoplexy. The doctor rushed to help, sending his daughter up to their rooms. Griffin followed, broke the lock on her door, then tried to force her. A Bow Street runner heard her screams and intervened.”

A dozen voices spoke at once. Lady Wilkins’s credit immediately soared.

Mary remained silent. None of her rehearsed responses was suitable for learning that an acquaintance — however unwanted — had been arrested. Her immediate reaction was relief, but she’d already fallen under censure for expressing it.

“Did you know his penchant for forcing young girls?” asked Lady Marchgate under the rising swell of voices.

“I had heard he preferred them, but no one mentioned force.” Again she blushed. “I think his actions reprehensible.”

“As do we all.” A knowing eye pierced hers. “But you knew he was trouble.”

“N-not exactly.” She struggled for the right words. “He is a man who cares less for society’s strictures than for his own d-desires. I didn’t like him even before he tried to take me outside during Lady Debenham’s b-ball. He was furious that I eluded him.”

“You are relieved that he will no longer pursue you.”

“Forgive me, my lady. I did not intend to say that aloud.”

Lady Marchgate nodded. Lady Wilkins was repeating her tale for new arrivals.

When Catherine rose to escort Lady Westlake and Lady Cunningham out — they were anxious to spread the news — Laura leaned across her empty chair. “What a pity that the only man who tolerates your company turned out to be a cad.” Her smile contained more than a little malice, probably because she was still seething over the peonies. “I wonder why you appeal to him. It couldn’t be looks or conversation. Perhaps he likes following you into dark corners. Such a graceless habit invites liberties. Has he partaken often?”

Mary nearly choked, but pain was as strong as fury. How could Laura vent her pique in front of so many of society’s leaders? Even if they could not hear the words, Laura’s expressions radiated fury.

Catherine returned.

Mary tried to keep a social mask in place as a new thought occurred. Maybe it wasn’t entirely the peonies that had overset Laura. Had she schemed with Griffin to seduce the unwanted sister, forcing her back to the country in disgrace? Laura had always blamed her for every setback — like the time Kevin Fields purchased colors and left without bidding Laura farewell. Laura had accused Mary of driving him away.

Perhaps this outburst resulted from Laura’s growing disillusionment with London. It did not offer the excitement Laura had expected. Her court was large, but no one had made a formal offer. Mary not only remained in town, she’d acquired a secret admirer. The final straw had been learning that Griffin could no longer annoy her.

Or perhaps it was because Grayson was out of reach.

Mary bit back a sigh. Maybe she should abandon society and pursue her own interests. If her presence was driving Laura to unladylike outbursts, then she must ask Blake to let her attend the soirees she preferred. At the very least it would keep Laura from learning who had sent the flowers.

Ironically, Laura was responsible for her friendship with Grayson. If she hadn’t encouraged Griffin, Mary would not have been behind that potted palm. Nor would she have been in Oxbridge’s library.

Which means Grayson would be dead, her dreamer pointed out

Mary jerked her thoughts back to the drawing room, then groaned. Ladies Marchgate and Horseley were staring coldly at Laura. They must have overheard her remarks.

No matter how much she longed to wring Laura’s neck, Mary could not allow her to shame the family. Striving to deflect their attention, she turned to Lady Marchgate. It was the first time she had initiated a drawing room conversation since arriving in London.

You can do it
, she reminded herself.
Just relax. You saved Grayson from harm without tripping, and you never stammer with him
. The realization loosened her tension. Taking a deep breath, she spoke slowly. “Lord Hartford thinks I should wear green rather than white,” she confided, naming Lady Marchgate’s eldest son. “I know that he is renowned for his fashion sense, but I wanted to consult you before making changes. It is not my wish to play the peacock.”

“You would rather appear demure.” Lady Marchgate nodded. “Quite a proper attitude, and a welcome relief from Very Forward Girls and their Selfish Plots.” She cast a fulminating glance at Laura. “But too much modesty can seem dowdy. In your case, white turns your face sallow. Green would be a better choice, or perhaps blue.” She raised her arm to bring her green shawl closer. “No, Hartford is right. Definitely green. It brings out a touch of green in your eyes that is quite intriguing.”

“Thank you, my lady. Your confirmation is most welcome.” She stifled a sigh. She must now acquire a green gown. But there was little she could do about it. Hartford was even more revered than Brummell when it came to ladies’ clothing. That he had sought her out with his gentle suggestion was an honor.

Laura’s smile was forced. Too late Mary remembered that Hartford had ignored Laura’s attempts to attract him. Not that Laura wanted him. She thought his lisp ridiculous, his manners effeminate, and his interest in decorating and women’s fashion suspect.

Now Laura gave in and glared. “Again you’ve shamed the family,” she snapped. “Your taste is so bad that even the gentlemen are goaded to fix it.”

“What an odd complaint,” said Lady Marchgate coldly. “Hartford’s advice is sought by the highest in the land, but he bestows it only on those he deems worthy.”

“As it happens, I heard his comments last evening,” added Lady Horseley. “He commended Miss Mary for knowing that simple lines suit her better than ruffles, flounces, and excessive ornamentation.” She cast a disparaging look at Laura’s gown. “His only suggestion concerned color.”

Even Laura understood the message. She blanched. Two of society’s most powerful matrons were now implacable enemies.

The ladies left, making room for more callers. The rest of the day passed smoothly with Laura as a pattern card of propriety. But Catherine had noted Lady Horseley’s set-down. The moment the last guest left, she exploded.

“That was a despicable scene, Laura. Malicious, childish, and unworthy of a lady. I won’t tolerate spite.” Mary tried to leave, but Catherine motioned her to stay. “You’ve no cause for jealousy.”

“Jealousy?” Laura’s face purpled. “Why would I be jealous of her?”

“Do you need a reason for your megrims?” demanded Catherine. “You may think me unaware of your tantrums, but you are wrong. It was a mistake to treat you like a adult capable of conducting your own business. I should have stayed close at hand every minute to prevent trouble. You have a wonderful advantage, Laura. Your face draws immediate attention. With adherence to manners, you could become the darling of society. Instead, you scheme to ruin those around you. I’ve had enough of your selfish arrogance, as have others. Lady Marchgate was displeased, and Lady Horseley would gladly flay you after today’s demonstration. Either can ruin you.”