Читать книгу Deception in Regency Society: A Wicked Liaison / Lady Folbroke's Delicious Deception - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 13

Patrick opened the bed curtains with more vehemence than necessary. Tony squinted as the late-morning sunlight hit him. And now his servant was rattling the plates on the breakfast tray. ‘And a good morning to you too, Patrick,’ he grumbled, reaching a hand out for his coffee. Patrick did not approve of the hour his master had gotten in, did he? Then he could go to the devil.

After sending his carriage away, Tony had enjoyed the excellent hospitality of the Earl of Stanton, given his regards to Lady Esme, and assured St John that he had been quite mistaken about the Duchess of Wellford. The woman was innocent.

In all the ways that mattered to the State. He smiled in satisfaction as he remembered the way she’d bitten her lip when he’d sucked on her shoulder, and dug her fingers into his sides to pull him closer. A certain lack of innocence in other areas might not be the worst thing.

But it had been embarrassing to stand before Stanton and admit his lack of success, when it came to the rest of the Barton matter. He could report on the location of the printing press in the basement, along with the inks and the paper. There was no evidence that printing of any false bills had occurred, but all the components needed were easily accessible. It would do him no good to destroy the supplies, other than to demonstrate to Barton that someone had tumbled to his plan. Tony needed to get the plates, and they were most likely locked tight in the safe in the study, behind a Bramah lock where he could not get to them.

St John had been most unimpressed with the gravity of the situation.

‘Try again,’ St John had said, pouring another whisky for his guest.

The fact that the Bramah lock was reported to be unpickable had little impact on his host. Had he never seen the challenge lock that Bramah displayed in their shop window, to taunt thieves and lockpicks? The company offered two hundred guineas to the first man who could open it. It had stood for more than twenty years so far, with no one able to claim the prize.

Stanton was too kind to suggest the return of the down payment, but Tony suspected it might enter the conversation if he belaboured the impossibility of the task before him.

He could afford to return the money and walk away, of course. But it stung his pride to think that such a thing might be necessary. It went against his grain to admit defeat, and although the impregnability of the lock was common knowledge, common knowledge was frequently wrong. It might take more time than was available to a burglar, but perhaps with practice…

He looked at Patrick, who was laying out his clothes for the day, and turned his mind to more pleasant matters. Willing his face to give nothing away, he said, ‘The return trip to the Wellford house was uneventful, I trust.’

Patrick finished brushing his coat before responding. ‘A stray cat almost met an unfortunate end beneath the carriage wheels, but I was able to prevent disaster.’

‘And the duchess arrived home safely?’

‘To her very door. She was a most grateful, and, you will forgive me for noticing, sir, a most attractive passenger.’

Patrick approved. It was strangely pleasing to have his opinion of Constance confirmed by his valet.

‘Although strangely talkative, for nobility,’ Patrick continued. ‘Most of the peerage can’t be bothered…’

‘Talkative?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Patrick returned to the choosing of shirts as if nothing important had been said.

When Tony could stand it no longer, he asked, ‘And what did she say?’

‘She asked after you, sir.’

‘After me.’ Tony sat up, almost spilling his coffee in the process.

‘Indeed, sir.’ Patrick set the rest of the breakfast tray in front of him, refilled the coffee cup and stepped away.

‘And what did you tell her?’

‘I didn’t think it my place, sir.’

The man picked the damnedest times to remember his station and to behave as a servant.

‘I assumed you must have had a reason for neglecting to mention your Christian name, or to give her your direction. Perhaps you had no wish to be troubled by the lady again.’

Tony groaned, and wiped his face with his hands. She did not know who he was? He’d been formally introduced to her, for God’s sake.

And she had had eyes only for Barton. Tony stabbed his kipper with more force than necessary.

Patrick brightened. ‘And then I realised what a great ninny you are around women, and more so with a certain woman in particular. And I suspected that you had merely forgotten the importance of the information. So I gave her one of your cards.’

Tony slumped in relief. ‘And how did she receive it?’

Patrick mimed putting a calling card down the front of an imaginary dress. ‘I dare say your good name has got further with the lady than you have yourself.’

Later, as Patrick shaved him, Tony could feel his face, set in a ridiculous grin. She’d wanted to know his name. And carried it next to her…heart.

The image of the card nestling against her body, warmed by her skin, made him almost dizzy with desire. Patrick was right, he should capitalise on the situation immediately. He rubbed a finger experimentally along his jaw line. Smooth. Not that she had complained the night before. But it would not do to let her think he took her interest for granted. ‘Patrick, my best suit, please, I am going out. And extra care with the cravat, please.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And while I am gone, Patrick, I have a task that needs doing. Please go down to the Bramah Locks Company. I wish a safe installed in my study. Fitted with one of their fine locks. The job must be rushed, for I have valuables to store, and am most afraid of thieves.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Two hours later, Tony had to admit that the day was not going to plan. He had imagined a quiet chat with Constance, in her sitting room. Kissing in the moonlight was all well and good. Much better than good, to be truthful. But he must make some attempt to assure her that in daylight he was not without the manners of a common gentleman, if their association was to go any further.

He ignored the novelty of it, and called at the front door, but was disappointed to find her Grace was not at home. He left a card and enquired of the butler, as politely as possible, where she might be on such a fine day.

And now he found himself frequenting the lending library in Bond Street, hoping to catch sight of her as she ran her errands. When she entered, he was paging though a volume of poems that he had read a hundred times, trying to appear the least bit interested in contents that he could barely see, since his reading glasses were at home in his desk.

And she was not alone, damn the luck. There was a man at her side who gave every indication of solicitous interest, and two young ladies as well.

What was he to do? In the scenario he’d imagined, she’d been shopping alone, or perhaps with her maid to carry packages. It would be easy to approach her and he would make some offhand remark that might make reference to the evening before without mentioning it directly.

She would laugh, and respond. He would offer to carry her books. She would graciously accept. Conversation would ensue. He would let slip certain facts, recognition would dawn in her eyes, and he would be spared the embarrassment of having to reintroduce himself to a woman who had known him since they were both three.

Nowhere in his plan had he considered that the position of book carrier and witty conversationalist might already be occupied. Tony could not very well pretend not to see her, and she could not help but notice him, for he’d positioned himself in such a way as to be unavoidable.

Damn it to hell, but he must speak to her.

He turned and took a step towards her, just as she made to go past. And in the second before he spoke, he caught her eye as it tried to slide past without meeting his. There was alarm, followed by embarrassment, and finally resignation, before she managed to choose an expression to suit the situation—a friendly smile that said to the people around her, I think I know this man, but am unsure.

It was too late. The words were already out of his mouth. ‘Your Grace. A most lovely day, is it not?’

‘Why, yes. Yes, it is. Mr…’

‘Smythe, ma’am. We met at Lord Barton’s party last evening.’ The words sounded false, but she leapt on them as salvation.

‘Why, of course. How foolish of me. Mr Smythe, may I introduce Viscount Endsted and his sisters, Catherine and Susanne.’

‘Ladies. Your lordship.’ He made his best bow, and was dismayed to hear the ladies giggle in appreciation.

When his eyes rose to Constance, he saw fresh alarm there at the young ladies’ reaction. He was not suitable for them, either. Once he had gone, she would have to warn them off.

‘Mr Smythe.’ There was a slight emphasis on the mister, and the Viscount took a step forward to head off the interested sisters and gripped his hand.

His handshake was firm to an almost painful degree. Tony considered, for a moment, the advantage to responding in kind, then discarded it as infantile.

As the viscount sensed him yield, he released his grip as well. Endsted glanced at the book in Tony’s hand. ‘Byron?’

‘Yes. I find it—’ How did he find it? He did not wish to give the wrong answer and further jeopardise his position with Constance. ‘Most edifying.’

Endsted’s sisters giggled, and Endsted glared at them. ‘The man’s scandalous. I do not hold with him. Not in the least.’

‘I have no real opinion of the man,’ Tony responded, ‘for I have never met him. But his poetry is in no way morally exceptionable.’ He glanced to Constance.

She looked as though she would rather cut out her tongue than have an opinion. Endsted was glaring at her, waiting for her to agree.

‘He is rather fast,’ she managed. She flashed a brief, hopeless look in Tony’s direction, before looking to Endsted for approval.

Endsted nodded. ‘His works are not fit for a lady.’

Which showed how little the man knew of ladies or of poetry, Tony suspected. ‘I do not know, sir. I find his skill with words to be an excellent tribute for certain ladies.’

Constance pretended to ignore the compliment, but he could see a faint flush at the neck of her gown.

‘But not something one might wish to speak of in a lending library.’

Tony chose to ignore the man’s disapproval and answered innocently, ‘For myself, I should think there would be no better place to discuss books.’

‘I suppose it is a way to pass the time for one who has nothing better to do than read poetry.’ He said the last words as if reading were one step from taking opium with Lord Byron himself. ‘And now, sir, if you will excuse us.’ He took Constance by the arm and led her past.

She did not look back, although the Endsted sisters cast a backward glance in his direction, giggling again.

Tony debated calling the man back to argue poetry, morality and general manners, or planting him a facer and reading works by the scandalous Lord Byron over his prone body, then thought the better of it. He doubted demonstrating Endsted’s ignorance would win him points in the eyes of Constance, and might endear him further to the man’s sisters, which was a fate to be avoided.

And he had no evidence that there was any behaviour that might find favour with Constance. At least, in the light of day. There was no question that she responded to him in the dark. And she did so in a way that made it very hard for him to wish to remove himself totally from her company.

But it appeared likely that, should he continue to meet with her, he would spend evenings losing all reason in her passionate embrace, only to be replaced at the breakfast table by a viscount and his giggling sisters. And really, if she wanted to marry another peer, then who was he to stand in her way? She had her own future to attend to, and, if he loved her, he must accept the fact that it was not in her best interest to associate with him.

All in all, his life had been much easier before he’d climbed in her window. His nights had been lonely and his passion had been hopeless. But he had made peace with that years ago. Now, the only hope he had of a return to peace was to put all thoughts of Constance Townley aside, and spend evenings in quiet communion with his lockpicks and his new safe.

He set the book back on a nearby shelf, and yielded the field to the better man.