A Woman of Virtue Read online

  A sharp retort sprang to her mouth. But just then, Cecilia caught sight of Kitty O’Gavin trudging along the pavement beyond. An ill-fitting gray cloak hung off her narrow shoulders. But beneath it, she wore a decent dress of plain black serge, supplied by the resourceful Mrs. Quince. The hems swept the rough cobblestones as Kitty walked south toward the river, her head low, her posture sagging.

  Abruptly, Cecilia stopped her coachman then put down her window. “My dear, are you alone?” she asked. “I thought Miss McNamara was with you.”

  A guilty look passed over Kitty’s face. Her gaze darted across Bishopsgate to the shadowy entrance to Artillery Lane. “Meg was keen to see her ma,” she explained, rubbing the back of her hand across her reddened nose. “We’re to ‘ave a pass ‘til dusk, so she thought as how t’would be all right.”

  Delacourt all but forgotten, Cecilia felt a chill run down her spine. But then again, this neighborhood was familiar ground to girls like Meg and Kitty. Cecilia forced a smile. “Perfectly all right, as long as she is back before dark. But what of you? May we take you up?”

  Kitty shook her head. “No, m’lady,” she said miserably. “I’d sooner be to meself.”

  Cecilia nodded, and the coach lurched forward, sending light and shadow flickering across Delacourt’s face.

  “Ah, alone again,” he remarked in a silky voice. “You are stuck with me, my dear.”

  “Not for long,” vowed Cecilia, jerking her gaze from his.

  “For three whole months,” he whispered, grinning at her. “Three... long... months.”

  Darkly, Cecilia turned a challenging gaze upon him. “Then I wish you joy of it, you arrogant devil. Perhaps we will find it improving upon your character.”

  And then Delacourt did the strangest thing. He threw back his head and laughed. He laughed with a rich, unrestrained resonance she’d never dreamed he possessed.

  And he continued laughing—to himself, like some sort of Bedlamite—all the way down Bishopsgate, all along Houndsditch, and into the environs of the docklands.

  ———

  That evening, Cecilia ate a solitary meal of cold ham and asparagus in her small breakfast parlor. She could have asked Giles to dine with her. Since his father’s death, he often did so. But tonight, she had a great deal weighing on her mind. Still, she felt restless, anxious, and inexplicably lonely.

  Why? She was accustomed to being by herself. Even during her marriage, her husband’s political obligations had often kept him from home. Cecilia had not objected, for theirs had been no love match. Lord Walrafen had wed her, so far as she could tell, simply to have a young wife to hang upon his arm. And she had married because she had yearned to have a family.

  Well. At least one of them had gotten what he wanted out of the marriage. And now, how strange it was to find that tonight, her elegant new house—the very symbol of her independence—had become vast and empty, yet confining in a way which she could scarce explain. After dinner, Cecilia paced from room to room, telling herself that her restlessness was caused by grief for Mary O’Gavin. But that was, she knew, just a small part of it.

  Cecilia was naïve but not witless. She was beginning to fear that she could put a name to what she felt for Delacourt. And when wasted on a man like that, such an emotion became distasteful. Good Lord, why him? Why did she blush wildly over a rogue like Delacourt, when her own husband—a good man, a man whom she’d wanted to please—had held no fascination for her at all?

  During her one and only season, Cecilia had been courted by a bevy of young men whom many would have called handsome, and yet she’d felt nothing for any of them. Nonetheless, she had only to look across a crowded ballroom and catch Delacourt staring at her with that burning green-eyed gaze, and every inch of Cecilia’s skin would flush with heat.

  At first, he tormented her deliberately. But ever so discreetly. In the midst of a waltz, he would come gliding past with his fluid grace, cut a glance over his partner’s shoulder, and give Cecilia his lazy, enigmatic half-smile. It was a look which beckoned, teased, and promised a woman a wealth of wicked pleasure would she but throw caution to the wind.

  And under such an onslaught of masculine charm, she had felt wicked. Wanton, as if she were someone else—someone wild and undisciplined—a stranger trapped in her own fiery skin, with needs and emotions she dared not understand. When she ignored him, he pressed further. Soon, he was there at every turn, sliding his hand beneath her elbow, whispering in her ear, asking her to dance, his low, sultry voice sounding as if he were proposing something altogether more tempting.

  At the time, she had believed he pursued her merely to assuage some affront to his pride. Such presumption had made her angry. And she had relished that anger, fed it like a fire, stoking it with righteous indignation. But why?

  Cecilia hung her head. Because she had been still young and so horribly inexperienced. And because anger was much easier to face than the truth. So coldly, perhaps even cruelly, Cecilia had refused his every overture, until at last she had succeeded in driving him away. Only then did the beating of her heart slow. Only then had she felt normal again.

  When Lord Walrafen had come along, it had almost been a relief. He seemed neutral, benign, almost dull. Safe. A mature, dependable man, unlike her father, her brother, or Delacourt. A man who could guide her through a world which she found intimidating. A man who could give the children she yearned for an honorable name. And so she had accepted him.

  But in so doing, had she perhaps robbed Delacourt of a measure of his pride? Perhaps he had not meant to torment her. Perhaps—just perhaps—he’d merely meant to offer up an olive branch? She remembered the rage she had sensed inside him, and the thought did not seem so inconceivable now. Oh, it was true that David had once wronged her. But in her immaturity, had she unknowingly exacted a revenge which exceeded the sin?

  How lowering it was to realize he could still inflame her with just a look, just a touch. And worse, that he was well aware of his power. Oh, yes. He knew. And to her shame, he could still make her wonder about that wealth of wicked pleasure he seemed to offer. He could still make her consider throwing caution to the wind. And what, she wondered, would it feel like to...

  Oh, no. Not even alone, in the privacy of her home, would she entertain such thoughts.

  Suddenly, Cecilia found herself standing in the middle of the drawing room and wondering how she’d gotten there. By choice, Cecilia kept few servants, and tonight she’d sent all but the butler up to bed early. And so there was no one to question her aimless wandering as she strolled silently over the carpets, tugging books from shelves, shoving them back again, and then moving on to rearrange her collections of porcelain bric-a-brac, none of which needed rearrangement. Finally, she paused at her writing table to shuffle through the day’s post. There was nothing but an outrageous bill from her dressmaker and a note from Harry’s wife saying they meant to come to town for the season.

  Poor old Harry! Marry in haste, repent at leisure, Cecilia thought, tossing the letter onto the desk. The union was a miserable one, but Cecilia could muster little sympathy for her sister-in-law. Julia had been willing enough to push her out of Holly Hill and into a marriage—and any sort of marriage would have done. Julia had been persuaded that, having once jilted the infamous Lord Delacourt, Cecilia could not hope for much. But following Walrafen’s unexpected offer, Julia had quickly reconsidered her haste.

  Well, let them come if they wished. It mattered little. Almost without realizing that she did so, Cecilia resumed her pacing. And so it was that she came to be standing on the drawing-room threshold when someone seized her door knocker and plied it almost viciously. Noiselessly, Shaw slid from the shadows and crossed the foyer.

  Still cloaked in darkness, Cecilia watched as the strange policeman, Mr. de Rohan, swept inside. Withdrawing his hat, he turned and spoke a harsh command to someone yet outside, and a huge, blackdog—mostly mastiff, she thought—flopped down beside Cecilia’s doorstep, sighing through h
is heavy jowls.

  De Rohan wore essentially the same clothing as before, and Cecilia could see Shaw effortlessly taking his measure. The policeman may have been tall, striking, and confident, but he was obviously not to the manor born. He certainly would not be permitted to breach her ladyship’s exalted portals.

  Impelled by fretful curiosity, Cecilia stepped forward to intervene. “I will see Mr. de Rohan, Shaw. Thank you.”

  With a diplomatic bow, her butler smoothly withdrew. Cecilia studied her unexpected guest for a moment. “I cannot imagine, sir,” she said quietly, “that you bring me any good news. Will you come into my drawing room?”

  “No, thank you.” De Rohan looked dreadfully ill at ease. “I regret disturbing your evening, but I called at the mission tonight to further question Meg McNamara and Kitty O’Gavin, but it seems Miss McNamara has gone missing.”

  “Missing?” echoed Cecilia sharply. “Meg was to visit her mother. Perhaps she has simply been delayed?”

  De Rohan shook his head. “Her mother works out of a Whitechapel alehouse, yes. But Meg’s not been there in above a month.” Sharply, he sighed. “Really, Lady Walrafen, a missing prostitute is hardly a matter for the River Police. Nor is it a matter for you to be troubled with, but Mrs. Quince was beside herself. She hoped you’d know something of where the girl might have gone.”

  Her concern rapidly escalating, Cecilia studied him. “I fear I know nothing that would be of help, sir, though it’s true I did see Meg last. But what is wrong? You seem inordinately worried.”

  “And you are perceptive,” he returned with a dry smile. “When last we spoke with Meg, I felt as if she were hiding something.”

  “Hiding something?”

  “Underneath all that Cockney brass, Meg McNamara was afraid. And yet, she would tell us so little.” A cool draft passed through the foyer, chilling Cecilia to the bone. De Rohan’s eyes were bleak, his expression grim.

  “What do you mean to do next, Mr. de Rohan?” she asked softly. “And what am I to do? Tell me, and I shall surely do it.”

  De Rohan shook his head and turned to place his hand on the doorknob. “Nothing,” he said softly. “At this point, there is little anyone can do. But do let me know at once if she returns.”

  “Yes, of course,” Cecilia agreed.

  And then, de Rohan opened the door and stepped back into the night. At once, the big black beast on the doorstep uncurled himself and rose.

  “What a handsome dog,” Cecilia remarked. “Really, you needn’t have left him outside.”

  As if he understood her words, the mastiff thumped his tail. De Rohan lifted one brow in what looked like surprise, then faintly smiled. “You’re very kind.” And then he snapped his fingers at the mastiff. “Lucifer!” he quietly commanded. “Vieni qui!”

  Chapter Four

  In Which Lord Delacourt Performs Heroically

  “Oooh!” she breathed. “David—! Harder. Harder! Yes—just like that. Right there. Oh, yessss! Oh, you are sooo good!”

  Lord Delacourt let his sister’s stockinged foot drop gracelessly onto her chaise lounge. “Blister it, Jonnie, you aren’t listening to a word I say!”

  Jonet lifted her head from a heap of pillows and stared down her swollen belly at her brother. “Oh, but I am!” she wheedled. “Just keep rubbing my feet, David. I hear better that way.”

  Delacourt leaned back into his chair, the one she’d instructed her footman to position at the foot of her chaise lounge. “You have a husband, Jonet,” he groused. “Let him rub your feet. After all, he is responsible for your misery, not I.”

  Jonet made a moue with her lips and flopped back down into the puff of feather pillows.

  Delacourt shoved one hand rather ruthlessly through his hair. “Anyway, as I was saying, Jonet, I really cannot think it proper she be exposed to such a place.” He leaned intently forward, gesturing plaintively. “Only think of it! A lady of her station, wading daily through the filth and rabble of the docklands! I think Cole must be out of his mind!”

  Stubbornly, Jonet lifted up the other foot and thrust it at him. With a long-suffering sigh, Delacourt dragged it across his knee. “Get the swollen ankle, too, if you please,” she insisted, goosing him ever so gently with her toes.

  Reflexively, Delacourt jerked. “Ow, Jonet! I hate that!”

  “Then rub!” she commanded.

  “Fine! Let your servants barge in!”

  “After bearing five children, I’m quite beyond modesty,” Jonet insisted. “Now, let us return to this situation at the mission. Are you not distressed, my dear, that Cole sent you? I should have thought those to be the first words from your lips.” She lifted her dark brows and looked at him inquiringly. “You are dreadfully angry, are you not?”

  Delacourt blinked for a moment, then his expression shifted. “Yes, of course,” he agreed irritably. “I cannot think what possessed him. I mean, I know he’s rather eccentric and intellectual... but how the devil could he forget what I went through with that red-haired hellion?”

  Jonet pulled a mockingly sympathetic face. “Indeed! How could Cole be so thoughtless?”

  Delacourt jerked his gaze from hers and resumed rubbing, sliding his fingers expertly around the arch of her foot. “And that’s hardly the worst of it,” he muttered quietly. “You would not believe, Jonnie, the insults that spiteful cat spit at me.”

  “My poor boy!” Jonet made a little clucking sound. “Shall I insist that Cole release you from this bargain?”

  Delacourt’s head snapped up. “Absolutely not! It would be ungentlemanly.”

  “Even if I should ask on your behalf?” she responded, cocking her head to one side to study him.

  “Particularly so!” Suddenly, his intelligent green eyes narrowed, and he began to massage her foot more thoughtfully. “Do you know, Jonet, I still believe Cole did this out of spite. I cannot think of anyone less appropriate to such a duty. Though I’ll be damned if I’ll admit it to Cecilia Markham-Sands. Or Lorimer. Or whatever the hell her name is.”

  “Oh, it is Lorimer,” said Jonet softly. “She married Lord Walrafen, you’ll recall.” Suddenly, Delacourt rubbed too deeply. “Ouch!” Jonet jerked back her foot.

  Inexplicably, her brother blushed. “Sorry!” he exclaimed, sounding like Robin caught in an indiscretion.

  Jonet struggled into a seated position, then leaned intently toward her brother. “Look, David, why do you not simply tell me what troubles you? I think it’s something more than an empty insult from an old lover—”

  “She was never that, Jonet,” he interjected. “Indeed, she has made it rather plain that I am far beneath her touch.”

  “And that does not trouble you?” Jonet asked slyly. When her brother merely glowered at her, she answered her own question. “No, of course not. But something does. Will you not tell me? As you said last week, we have no secrets.”

  “I’m just worried,” he insisted roughly. “My dislike of Lady Walrafen aside, I am now responsible for her welfare. The East End—indeed, all of Middlesex—is perilous. And it might as well be Afghanistan for all I know of it. Already, there has been a murder. A poor girl who came to the mission for shelter was knifed to death in Pearl Street, and for no good reason.”

  Lightly, Jonet lifted her brows. “You seem to know a vast deal about that.”

  “Well, someone must, if your husband means to leave!” Delacourt’s mouth tightened. “After the funeral, I went down to the High Street Public Office to call upon the chief magistrate—a blithering idiot who started whining that he hadn’t the staff to investigate a prostitute’s death. He seemed to feel that since it was a River Police informant who’d found her, they should deal with it!”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, and to be sure, we’d all be better off if they did,” fumed Delacourt. “At least they are said to be competent—and more vicious even than Bow Street. Still, I made it plain that if he wished to keep his situation, he’d best stay on top of it, or I’d set a fe
w rabid hounds from the Home Office on him. Peel would be happy to oblige me, since it is just this sort of confusion and understaffing which he rails against.”

  “Really, David!” exclaimed Jonet, well aware that her brother’s threat was not an idle one. His influence was great, when he troubled himself to use it. “Perhaps my husband has not made such a grave error after all.”

  “Good heavens, Jonet.” Delacourt looked astonished. “I have no notion what you mean.”

  Jonet merely smiled. “First you tell me how worried you are for Lady Walrafen, a woman who, by your own complaint, you dislike inordinately. And now I find you concerned for a young prostitute whom you do not even know, and lecturing on behalf of the Home Secretary!”

  Delacourt gave her a piercing look. “Jonet, what manner of man do you take me for? That conniving husband of yours may have rooked me into this miserable job, but I’ll bloody well see it properly done.”

  Jonet heard an uncharacteristic chill in his tone. “You think this girl’s death could be other than random violence?” she asked.

  Delacourt looked uncharacteristically pensive. “I think it highly unlikely.” His voice was suddenly quiet. “But I’m sure there are people—very unpleasant people—who do not want the flesh markets interfered with. It is remotely possible someone wishes to cast a pall over Cole’s work. Has he considered that, Jonet? Has he?”

  “I don’t know, my dear,” she said soothingly.

  “Then someone must.” Abruptly, he stopped and ran a hand wearily down his handsome face. “But in truth, I can scarce find my way past Bloomsbury! I begin to see just how little I know of life beyond Westminster.”

  “You do have a point.” Jonet felt more than a little worried. “Listen, when you meet with Cole this afternoon, you must tell him all that you have told me.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, as if sorry to have distressed her.

  Absently, Jonet leaned forward and began to neaten the folds of his neck cloth. “And do you know, darling,” she said thoughtfully, giving the cambric a perfecting twitch, “I fancy that valet of yours is falling down upon his duty. Indeed, I believe I shall find you a new one. You may send Pringle on a long holiday tomorrow.”