The Rake and the Wallflower (26 page)

Laura uttered a curse that would have made Andrew’s foot soldiers wince. “Does he want me to arrive at the theater in my shift?”

“Catherine says that if Frannie can’t dress you in time, she will send Wilson to help.”

Frannie yelped.

“One more minute,” vowed Laura, then lowered her voice. “Not that fan, Frannie. The one with the painted roses.” A drawer slammed. “And see that you take care of that other matter tonight.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No. Take a footman if you are afraid of the dark. But don’t fail me.” Laura jerked the door open. “Don’t just stand there, Mary. Let’s go.”

Mary shook her head as she followed Laura downstairs.

Two hours later, she stared blindly at the stage where Kean’s Hamlet was debating suicide. The sense of wrongness that had been teasing her mind all evening suddenly swam into focus.

Laura’s instructions to Frannie.

The shops were closed, and Laura had no invitations demanding responses. Had she sent a note to Lord Roger? There was no honorable reason to do so. A meeting of the electricity society was not an event requiring regrets.

Mary opened her fan to hide her expression. Half the audience was watching the Rockhurst box. Some wondered about Gray’s betrothed. Others stared at Laura, hoping she would create a new scandal for their entertainment.

She considered sharing her suspicions with Blake, but she feared his reaction. His temper was precarious tonight. Laura had first delayed their departure, then insulted Mr. Martin and stuck her tongue out at Miss Sanders in the middle of the lobby. Her tone with Lady Wharburton implied that she was granting a favor by accepting the invitation.

Blake had been purple with fury by then. It hadn’t abated much by the first interval when Laura regally commanded him to fetch her a drink. He had yet to return.

The door opened. Mary turned, expecting Blake, but Gray entered instead. Relief swept over her. Gray would know what to do. He was calmer than Blake, for he had no responsibility for Laura, allowing him to see her more clearly.

Gray squeezed her hand as he took the chair at her side. “Sorry I’m late again.”

Mary shielded her mouth with her fan, glad that Laura sat beyond Catherine. “We may have a new problem,” she murmured softly.

“What?” He shifted closer.

She could feel eyes on them, but the intimacy of their pose fit their public image. “Laura might have sent a note to Lord Roger this evening. Perhaps it contained regrets at missing the meeting, but I doubt it. She ordered her maid to deliver it rather than a footman. She may have arranged an assignation.”

“Has she no sense at all?”

Mary shook her head. “Not when her will has been crossed.”

“What does Rockhurst think?”

“I just realized the significance of her instructions. But Blake is so furious with her that I would rather not accuse her without evidence. And I cannot discuss it with her. She is already bursting with indignation. She used to control her temper in public, but that has changed. One more incident could cause a catastrophe.”

“Relax, Mary. I will deal with it.” He patted her hand. And as his fingers smoothed her glove, she did, indeed, relax.

* * * *

Gray stared blankly at the floor as his carriage turned into Jermyn Street. Nick sat silently beside him. With any luck, all problems would resolve today — Turner’s plots, his own reputation, Laura’s infatuation with Lord Roger. He couldn’t believe he was trying to save her worthless hide. But Mary’s loyalty to family was not tied to behavior. He’d always wanted a family who supported him completely. But support had to work both ways. Thus he had to help even those he didn’t particularly like. At least Laura was the only Seabrook who fell into that category. Rockhurst assured him the rest of the family was fine.

He had sent his groom and a footman to watch Rockhurst House overnight. Laura had made no attempt to slip out, and judging from the traffic at Lord Roger’s house, he had been too busy to see her anyway. Perhaps Mary was wrong, or perhaps Lord Roger had turned down Laura’s suggestion. He might avoid riling Rockhurst. Or he might have lost interest when he discovered Laura’s eagerness. She offered no challenge whatsoever. It wouldn’t be the first time her judgment had proved faulty.

At least he would be done with the Turner affair today, though he had changed the plan slightly. Naming Lord Roger as Miss Turner’s seducer would divert Turner’s obsession to a new target. Gray couldn’t do it. Turner needed to consider his own future instead of wallowing in his sister’s past.

So Nick would show Lady Beatrice the evidence that proved Miss Turner had lied about Gray. That would be enough to restore his own credit. Rockhurst would tell Laura about Lord Roger, citing his marriage and three other seductions the runner had found, then send her back to Rockburn. Only if Laura remained obstinate, would they reveal the Turner situation — it was the only one that had utterly ruined the victim; the others had managed to hide their indiscretions from society.

Gray hoped it wouldn’t come to that, because he feared what Turner would do if he learned Lord Roger’s identity, but he would rather make the entire truth public than see Mary unhappy. No matter how venal Laura was, Mary would mourn if Lord Roger ruined her sister.

The carriage pulled to a halt. Nick collected the pertinent newspapers and followed Gray to Turner’s rooms.

“You again?” demanded Turner.

“You wanted proof that I did not seduce your sister,” said Gray. “Have you compiled her schedule for that Season?”

“Yes. She was very clear about where she went, what she did, and whom she saw,” said Turner, lips pressed into a firm line as he tapped a selection of Constance’s letters. “Nothing you say can counter that.”

“I would never expect you to believe me,” agreed Gray. “And I am sure she attended most of the affairs she reported. But I did not.”

Turner glared down his crooked nose. “Since your word is suspect — as is the word of any friends you pay to support you — this exercise is pointless.” His body tensed as if expecting a blow.

Gray stifled his pain. The insult was hardly a surprise. “I will not argue the point. But as a man of honor, you are bound to consider evidence from disinterested, tamper-proof sources.” He gestured to Nick, who stepped forward to lay the newspapers on the table.

Turner paled. “Very well, my lord. Let us see this so-called evidence.”

“When did she first mention my name?”

“A letter dated the third of May.” He picked it up. “You danced with her at Lady Debenham’s ball. She was thrilled. Though you had spoken several times, she had given up hope that you would ask her to dance. You were most particular about whom you partnered, preferring conversation.”

“She is right that I was particular. But we had not spoken before that night.”

Nick opened the first paper, pointing to the
New Arrivals
column. “Grayson reached town on the second of May. The reporter expressed surprise at the delay, but noted that a project in Sussex had occupied his attention.”

Turner frowned, his eyes shifting from the newspaper to Constance’s letter and back. “She swore you ran a business in town.”

“I do,” said Gray. “But my manager handles much of the routine. I only visit the office when I have ships in port. Three years ago, I had fewer vessels. None docked before July.”

“He spent the winter and spring in Sussex,” continued Nick. “County papers mention his name often, for he was collecting funds to repair the parish church. And he was engrossed in the project mentioned by that reporter — establishing a hospital for wounded soldiers.”

Gray gestured for silence. His charitable activities had no bearing on this matter. “I danced with her once at Lady Debenham’s ball. She seemed so lonely perched on a chair near the dowagers. Without a chaperon to introduce partners, no one noticed her. I thought she was new to London, but later learned that her chaperon divided her time between eating and playing cards, avoiding ballrooms because the chatter and music gave her megrims. Everyone remarked on her neglect.”

Turner flinched.

“If I had known she had been hiding in corners for six weeks, I would not have approached her. I did not do so again.” His raised hand stopped Turner’s protest. “I will remind you again that I did not approach anyone more than once that year, not even old friends or the Season’s diamonds. I’d had trouble the previous year with a girl who read too much into a few kind words, and I did not wish to risk another such encounter. What else did she claim?”

“Three drives in the park. Dancing at four balls. Assignations in gardens, in an antechamber during a masquerade, and in various shops. You finally escorted her to Vauxhall, again seduced her, this time in the Dark Walk, then claimed you had no interest in marriage.” His voice still accused, but a hint of uncertainty had crept in.

“And the Vauxhall date would be…”

Turner pulled a list from his pile. “The thirtieth of May. She took her life the following morning.”

“Quite an imagination.” Gray again stopped Turner’s protest. “You’ve had your say. Now I will have mine. Many of her claims can be neither proved nor disproved. Her name rarely appears on guest lists, for newspapers name only the highest-ranking guests. I will concede that she attended most of the affairs she claimed, but I did not. For example, she said we danced two sets at the Cunningham ball on the eighth of May.”

Nick produced the next newspaper. “From the society column on the morning of May the ninth. Among the fashionables crowding Harriet Wilson’s box at the opera last evening was Lord Grayson, scandalously clad in pantaloons rather than breeches. Many, including the Almack’s patronesses, decry the adoption of informal attire for evening wear, et cetera, et cetera…” He handed the paper to Turner.

Turner frowned.

Gray waited until he had compared the article to Constance’s letter, then continued. “She claims an assignation on the fifteenth. However Lord and Lady Sheffield swear I was playing cards at Watier’s that evening. They recall the date clearly because Sheffield’s losses caused trouble when he offered for her hand the next morning. Lady Sheffield was one of Miss Turner’s friends and recalls her puzzlement when Constance mentioned our supposed assignation. She knew I could not have been in Marchgate’s garden.”

“Constance never mentioned Lady Sheffield.”

“Your sister knew her as Miss Penelope Osham,” said Nick.

“Oh.”

Gray continued. “On the eighteenth, the newspaper lists Miss Turner at a ball honoring Miss Alice Maynard — she was one of the higher-ranking attendees. I was not there. You will note that I made appearances at Lady Jersey’s rout, the Pierson ball, and Lord Hampton’s card party that evening.”

“Busy night,” commented Nick as he passed the papers to Turner.

Gray waited until Turner finished, then continued. “Few people noticed her before Lady Debenham’s ball, but her hoydenish antics in the weeks that followed attracted scorn in polite circles. Her most shocking escapade was described in
Life in London
on the morning of May the twenty-eighth.”

Nick read. “Miss C— T——’s conduct reached a new low last evening when she sought entrance to White’s. After a scuffle lasting a quarter hour, two footmen dragged her from the premises, kicking and screaming, still demanding to see Lord G——. A hackney finally carried her away.”

“My God!” murmured Turner.

“That ruined her,” said Nick. “By morning, her remaining invitations had been cancelled, Miss Pettigrew denounced her and quit her post, and the staff of her rented house vowed to leave if she remained in London. A carriage was engaged for the first of June.”

“As to visiting Vauxhall on the thirtieth,” continued Gray. “After the incident at White’s, I concluded that she was mad. I left town the next morning.” He proffered the newspaper that noted his departure.

Nick lifted the final paper. “Vauxhall opened late that year. The opening fete was held on June the fifth. On the thirtieth of May, the gardens were closed.”

Turner shook his head. “Then why does everyone believe you destroyed her?”

“Many do not,” swore Nick.

“Shock often obscures truth,” conceded Gray. “I did not return to London until three weeks after her death. By then, her dying words were on all lips. Everyone knew she was with child. They knew she’d named me. And they knew she’d taken her own life, despite your brother’s claim that she had died in a fall. But few other facts were known. I only recently learned that her condition had passed the fourth month. Perhaps your brother did not realize that or thought it unimportant. Her maid said nothing beyond confirming that she died by her own hand. Even if she knows more, she could not now change her story without drawing attention to her own role in the affair, turning her current mistress against her.”

Turner shook his head. “Lucy was always a deceitful creature. It was one of the few things Constance and I fought over.” His voice cracked.

Gray shrugged. “Are you satisfied now? I will not tolerate another attack that might endanger my betrothed.”

“I am satisfied.” Turner poured wine while he fought to blink away tears. “But I still want the bastard who destroyed her.”

“I doubt anyone will find him,” said Gray. “They met long ago in a place far removed from London. Nothing will bring her back. It would be better to concentrate on your own future.”

Turner nodded once, sharply. One hand slipped into a drawer. Turning, he looked Gray square in the eye. “I owe you an apology, Grayson. My behavior has been inexcusable. More than inexcusable.” His extended palm contained two items.

Gray nearly revealed his shock. “So it was you.” He slipped his purse into a pocket, then fingered his grandfather’s watch.

“Yes. I didn’t know you’d returned to town until I saw you at Lady Debenham’s. I must have been mad.”

“Grief can do that,” agreed Gray, recalling Mary’s words.

“How can I atone?”

“Leave the country?” suggested Nick.

Gray shook his head. “Go to Lady Beatrice today. Tell her what you have discovered about your sister’s death. If she accepts my innocence, we will be even.”