Rake's Reward Page 19

  “My dance, I believe,” a voice drawled from behind her, at what seemed like a great distance. Unwillingly Cecily came out of her reverie to see Alex glaring at Edgewater.

  “You are mistaken,” Alex said, coolly, releasing Cecily’s hand. “Lady Cecily is promised to me for this dance.”

  “I am mistaken?” Though the music for the dance was al-ready playing, Edgewater raised his quizzing glass and studied Alex through it, his eye magnified alarmingly. “I fear not, dear boy. Please look at Lady Cecily’s dance card.”

  “He did sign it,” Cecily said, reluctantly.

  Alex’s gaze was unreadable, as he looked from her to Edgewater. “I see,” he said, and bowed. “My mistake.”

  “Of course, dear boy.” Edgewater held out his arm, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Cecily placed her hand on it. Edgewater’s smug, triumphant smile as they moved away made Alex clench his fists in reflex.

  “Hell,” he muttered, forgetting for the moment where he was. “He even dances better than I do.”

  “He is very handsome,” Diana said, and Alex’s sense of humor came to his rescue, though Diana was clearly unaware of any insult implied by her words. It didn’t matter. He was secure in himself, confident of his appearance and abilities, as, he realized, suddenly, Edgewater must not be. Why else must he make such a fuss over the way he looked, or assume such an air of superiority over others, unless it was to make himself feel better about himself? He appeared to have everything, and yet he reached for more. It would explain why he was involved in such a dangerous project as revolution. He needed the power, to salve his own inadequacies.

  And that, Alex reflected, stroking his upper lip, could make him a most dangerous opponent, indeed. Edgewater wasn’t fighting for some abstract cause; he was fighting for his very self. He was not likely to give up easily, nor would he have left himself unprotected. Capturing him might not be as easy as he had thought.

  The waltz ended at last. Alex tensed, in case Edgewater again attempted something improper with Cecily, but to his mingled relief and disappointment he saw them returning. Relief, because she was safe; disappointment, because he would dearly love an excuse to tangle with his opponent. “Lady Cecily,” he said, again raising her hand to his lips. “You dance well, no matter who your partner is.”

  Edgewater took a step forward, and Cecily spoke quickly, to defuse the strange tension she could feel emanating from each man. “Lord Edgewater dances well, sir. As do you.”

  “After all, what else does a rake need to know how to do, but to charm the ladies? And fight duels,” Edgewater said in a bored drawl.

  Alex’s smile was tight. “You would be surprised sir, at what I know.”

  That smug, superior look Alex so disliked had returned to Edgewater’s eyes, as if he were contemplating some secret. “Would I? But then, are any of us precisely what we seem?”

  “A most revolutionary idea,” Alex said, and had the satisfaction of seeing anger and alarm flare in Edgewater’s eyes. Then his polite, urbane mask was back in place, the only sign of his emotion the twitching of his left eye.

  “Quite. You will excuse me, I am promised to Lady Wentworth for this dance.” Bowing, he left them, as the music, a cotillion, began to play.

  Alex watched him go, knowing he had just tipped his hand to his opponent, and yet feeling a curious satisfaction. It was not his way to lay low and watch an opponent, as he was forced to do now; he would rather confront someone openly. For the moment, however, he’d won; he was now the one with Cecily.

  “Mine, I believe,” he said abruptly, and Cecily, reacting instantly to that tone of peremptory masculine authority, consulted her dance card.

  “Let me see,” she murmured. “The cotillion after the waltz. I don’t believe, sir—”

  “It’s mine,” he repeated, and took her hand, leading her out to the dance floor, in spite of the gape-faced suitor who had come to claim his dance. “You’ll not get away this time.”

  “Really, sir, this is most high-handed of you.” Cecily’s eyes sparkled, belying the reproach in her voice. “Have I no say in the matter?”

  “Not this time.” He veered suddenly away from the sets that were forming. “Come. We need to talk,” he said, leading her towards the French windows that opened onto the terrace. In the confusion of the dance and the milling of the crowd, few remarked their going.

  “Alex,” Cecily protested as he pulled her along, “we shouldn’t—”

  “No, we shouldn’t,” he agreed, opening a window for her, “but we are. After you, my dear.”

  “Everyone is staring at us, sir.”

  “In a few days, that won’t matter.”

  Cecily cast him a startled glance, and then stepped through the window onto the flagstoned terrace. Flambeaux at the corners of the railings cast golden pools of lights, and the heavy scents of roses drifted up from the garden below. It reminded her of another night, when she had been so frightened, when she had needed Alex so much, and he had been there. “Alex,” she began, turning to him.

  “You’re mine,” he said at the same time, and crushed her to him, his lips coming down on hers. No gentle kiss, this, no careful persuasion or wooing, but passion, possession. Something within Cecily, whose presence she had never suspected, rose within her, and she reached up on tiptoes, twining her arms about his neck and returning the kiss fervently. When at last they broke apart, both were gasping for breath.

  “God’s teeth,” Alex said at last, gazing down at her in the uncertain light. “Who taught you how to kiss like that?”

  “You did, sir.” Her fingertips traced lightly along his lips, and she felt them turn up into a smile.

  “Ah, yes. I remember. And don’t you forget it, Cecily.” His arms tightened around her. “You’re mine.”

  “Am I, Alex?” Her voice was soft, but her certainty shown in her eyes.

  “Always,” he said, and bent to kiss her again. It was a gentle kiss this time, but no less potent or persuasive. At last Alex had to pull away. “We’ll have to stop. You’re bound to be missed soon.”

  “Perhaps we could meet in the park, tomorrow—”

  “No.” His voice was firm. No more clandestine meetings for them. When next he saw her, it would be to proclaim her to the world as his future bride. In just three more days. “Just three more days, sweeting,” he said, without thinking.

  “Why?” Cecily’s huge golden eyes, gazing at him, were filled with such sweet trust it made his heart ache with joy. “What happens in three days?”

  Now he’d done it. But there was no reason not to tell her, now that she had been absolved from involvement in the conspiracy. “In three days my work will be done, sweeting, and I’ll be free.” His eyes met hers. “Free to think of my future. And who to share it with.”

  “Who?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  He smiled, the sudden brilliant smile that so changed his face, erasing all traces of cynicism and sadness from it, making him look young and carefree again. “In three days,” he promised, laying his finger on her lips.

  Cecily gazed up at him for a moment, and then nodded. Three days. She could wait. At the same time, part of her wished impatiently for the time to fly, so that she could at last be in her beloved’s arms. Her beloved. Did he feel about her as she did about him, that their being together was right, natural? Did he, too, feel that aching, overwhelming emotion she had so recently identified as love? He had to. Feelings this strong had to be shared.

  “All right.” She smiled up at him. “In three days.”

  “Good.” He pulled away from her, slowly, reluctantly. “Come. We must return before we’re missed.”

  “All right,” Cecily said again, though she didn’t particularly care if her disappearance were remarked. In the space of a remarkable few minutes, her life had changed, and she finally felt free, to be herself, with the one man who knew and appreciated who she really was. Though she walked with him into the ballroom, though she ch
atted with friends and danced the night away, nothing really mattered. Nothing except her future, shining clear and bright before her. Three days! How would she ever survive that long?

  Cecily came instantly awake and lay staring at the canopy, with no feeling of confusion or disorientation. Two more days. Forty-eight hours and—how many minutes? A smile curved her lips. She was being foolish beyond permission, but somehow she felt she was allowed it. Now she understood the sometimes silly way Diana acted when she had a tendre for a man. Funny, Diana was acting that way now, though she seemed partial to no one in particular. But that was of no moment. She dismissed Diana from her thoughts in favor of more delicious dreams of her own future. Dreams of a pair of strong arms holding her close, of a feeling of security and serenity she’d never before known, that she could at last be herself with someone. Dreams of a love so strong nothing could ever destroy it; dreams that he surely loved her in return? That he hadn’t said so was the only flaw in her happiness. If she rose, dressed in her boy’s clothes and went to meet him, perhaps he would declare himself, and—

  And more likely, he would scold her. He had sounded quite determined that they meet in the park no longer and, though she would miss those meetings, she wasn’t truly disappointed. In just two days, she would be able to see him openly, any time she wished. Well, almost any time, considering the rules and conventions of their society. They could be open about their relationship, however, and plan their future together. That more than compensated for the lost morning rides.

  The problem remained, however. How was she ever going to get through the next two days? The activities and social events of the season were beginning to pall on her. She wanted to do more than this artificial life allowed. Into her mind, then, came an idea she had considered before, an activity far more worthwhile than attending someone’s Venetian breakfast or shopping in the afternoon. It also held out the promise of adventure and risk, and that, in her present mood, was welcome. Yes, she decided, she would do it, and, swinging her legs out of bed, rang energetically for her maid.

  Mr. Josiah Worley was busy at his desk in his City counting house when one of his clerks scurried in, his shoulders bowed and his arms partly raised. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” the clerk said quickly, for Mr. Worley was known to be overquick to use his fists when one of his employees had displeased him. “There’s someone here for you.”

  “Send him away!” Josiah roared. “Can’t you see I’m busy, man?”

  “Yes, sir.” The clerk shrank back a few steps. “Beggin’ your pardon again, sir, it’s a young lady, and—”

  “By Jupiter,” he exclaimed, for Mr. Worley was a devout chapel-goer and did not swear, “am I surrounded by dunces? You tell this here lady that this is a place of business and she can go and—”

  “Excuse me.” A young lady stood in the doorway of the glass-paned office, her smile so sweet that Mr. Worley abruptly swallowed his words. “Please, sir, do not abuse Mr. Perkins. I fear it is my fault he disturbed you. He didn’t wish to.”

  Cecily, clad in her most charming frock, the apricot muslin, batted her eyelashes just as she had seen Diana do. It worked! she thought. A dazed Mr. Worley looked from her to his clerk, apparently at a complete loss for words. “I won’t take up much of your time,” she went on, walking into the office and carefully tugging off her gloves. “I’m sure you must be very busy. Perhaps you don’t remember me, sir? I am Lady Cecily Randall. We met once when I was with Lord Edgewater.”

  That galvanized Mr. Worley into action. “Perkins, back to your desk!” he barked. “And tell those other nosy parkers out there that if they know what’s good for them they’ll get back to work!”

  “Yes, sir!” Perkins ran out of the room with alacrity, leaving Mr. Worley to eye his aristocratic guest uneasily. He was all too aware of the panes of glass that usually worked to his advantage, allowing him to keep an eye on his lazy, worthless clerks. Today, though, he wished he had curtains he could draw, or that Lady Cecily, whoever she was, had chosen a more private place for this extraordinary meeting. By Jupiter, but to mention Edgewater, just like that! Mr. Worley had to resist the impulse to pull out a handkerchief and mop at his forehead.

  “So this is what a counting house looks like.” Cecily’s eyes were bright with curiosity. “I’ve often wondered.”

  “Er, yes. What can I do for you, miss, er, my lady?” He lowered his voice, though no one could overhear this conversation. “Did Edgewater send you?”

  “What? Oh, no, of course not! He has no idea I am here. But, please, I must ask you not to tattle on me. My parents wouldn’t be pleased.” She gave him that charming smile again, and Mr. Worley leaned back, not wholly reassured.

  “I’m a plain man, miss—Lady Cecily,” he said, bluntly. “What is it you want, if you’re not from Edgewater?”

  “Something I hope you will help me with, sir.” Cecily leaned forward, dismissing his truculence. Of course her arrival here, unannounced, would be a surprise. “You see, I am very concerned about the poor of the city, particularly the children, and—”

  “You’re one of them there reformers.”

  “Well, no, not really,” Cecily said, a bit confused by the relief she heard in his voice. “But I do care. I do what I can, but it’s not enough, and the money the parish gives is barely sufficient for the basic necessities. However, if men of substance like you, sir, would care to contribute—”

  “Lord love you, miss, I’ll give you anything you want! If you’ll just leave.”

  “Why, thank you, sir. I’m most particularly interested in an orphanage in Whitechapel—”

  “Whitechapel!” What little color had returned to his face drained away. “Look. What is it you really want?”

  “To help those poor children, of course.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  Cecily looked surprised. “I’d give you my word, sir, but ladies aren’t supposed to have a sense of honor. However, I promise the money will go to the right place.”

  “Oh, it will, will it?” He examined her narrowly. “Tell you what, miss,” he said, finally, and the fear in his voice had left, to be replaced by the determined tones of the hard-headed businessman he was. “Tell me where this orphanage is and I’ll make the donation myself.”

  “Oh, will you? That would be most generous of you, sir.”

  Cecily told him the street, and he repeated it. “Fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, miss, some of us has to work for a living.”

  “Of course.” Cecily rose, her hand extended. “I do appreciate your taking this time, Mr. Worley. I’m sure you’ll be rewarded for it someday.”

  “Just tell Lord Edgewater to do his own checking up,” he said, truculent again. “I ain’t—I’m not going to fail him.”

  “Of course not,” Cecily said, mystified. “If I see him, I’ll tell him. And thank you again for your generosity.” Smiling, she turned and left.

  Mr. Worley mumbled something and fell back in his chair before the big roll-top desk. By Jupiter, but that had rattled him. And well it should, her coming in and spouting Edgewater’s name like that. Weren’t no one was supposed to know of his connection to the marquess, not until the time was right, and that made his temper, never very calm, flare. By Jupiter, Edgewater would hear about this, sending a girl to check up on him!

  Cecily, her maid by her side, emerged from the counting house onto the cobblestoned street, climbing into the hackney that had conveyed her here. Across the street, a man who had been leaning against a building, his cap pulled low over his face, straightened up. Crikey, but that had been Lady Cecily, Parsons thought in dismay. For some reason, she had gone to meet with one of the conspirators. In spite of his instincts, in spite of Lord St. Clair’s beliefs, it appeared they’d been wrong. Lady Cecily was a part of the conspiracy.

  Parsons didn’t relish the thought of telling Lord St. Clair. Cravenly he considered not saying a word, and then dismissed the thought. St. Clair would have to know, and he, P
arsons, would have to be the one to tell him. Damn, he thought, resorting to the language he had used before he had discovered religion. What was he going to do?

  Parsons’ instructions had been to keep a close eye on Worley, whom they suspected of being one of the chief members of the conspiracy. Today, his patience was rewarded within a very few minutes after Cecily’s departure, as Worley’s carriage pulled up before the counting house. Parsons signaled to the hackney he had waiting, and climbed in just as Worley entered his own carriage. With a sinking feeling, Parsons leaned forward, watching the other carriage, and becoming increasingly certain of its destination. Worley was on his way to Edgewater. Banging on the roof of the hackney, Parsons called out new directions, and then leaned back, his arms crossed and his face set in grim lines. He was not looking forward to the coming interview.

  Alex was sitting at the table in the sitting room, cleaning and oiling his pistols, when Parsons came in. “Ah, Parsons, there you are. Your watch done so soon?”

  “No. Sir—”

  “I’ve been thinking about Edgewater,” Alex went on in a meditative tone of voice. “I am not certain it’s going to be so easy to catch him. I’m also thinking he won’t leave anything to chance, and he might very well be there Thursday.”

  Parsons impatiently brushed back the hair that always insisted on falling down over his forehead. “Sir, you must listen to me.”

  Alex glanced up from reassembling one of the pistols. “Why? Is something amiss?”

  “You might say that, sir,” Parsons said, his elbows on the table, leaning forward and staring intently at Alex. “We’ve got a problem, sir. Seems we were wrong all along.”

  “About Edgewater? I doubt that.”