A Woman of Virtue Page 16

  He looked about the gathering, but almost everyone there was either married or approaching their dotage. And then his eyes fell on Giles. Damn it. Yes, he was handsome enough. Very handsome. And a sober-minded, solid citizen who, if he had any wicked tendencies, saw fit to keep them circumspectly hidden. And now that he thought on it, Cecilia had seated Giles at her left. Moreover, the fellow had been periodically leaning near her, touching her proprietorially on the arm, and speaking just a little too softly. Delacourt found it oddly disconcerting.

  He was almost relieved when, over the fish course, the dinner conversation promptly turned to business, and he was obliged to participate. Surprisingly, he was better prepared than he had expected, for he was able to answer most of their questions and make a few minor suggestions. The most pressing issue was money, for the January coal bill had been onerous.

  Another concern was the death of Mary O’Gavin, and the board murmured approvingly when he explained, in carefully veiled terms, what he had learned about the investigation’s progress. At the end, Cecilia was perfectly silent. Sir James looked mildly impressed. But despite being very nearly blind, Colonel Lauderwood somehow kept tossing suspicious glances at Delacourt, just as he had done all evening.

  Delacourt chose to ignore him, and soon, he became vaguely aware that the talk had shifted to a lively political debate. But his mind kept returning to the trouble at the mission, specifically the murdered girl and her missing friend. Was it somehow all of a piece? Or was he simply making too much of it? And what should be done with the sister? He felt strangely responsible for the whole tragic situation. And in a way, he was.

  While dressing for dinner, he’d spoken to Kemble at length about it. The man raised a wealth of theories and questions, all of which Delacourt meant to discuss with de Rohan. It seemed his valet was a student of human nature—the very darkest sort of human nature.

  Mentally, he reviewed the salient points of de Rohan’s letter. The inspector had confirmed that Mary had indeed had an illegitimate child, now deceased, father unknown. Kitty O’Gavin insisted that her sister had possessed no jewelry, no finery, and no money, thus making her an unlikely target for robbery. A visit to Mary’s former brothel netted nothing further.

  At the foundling home, Mary had left at eight that night, just as she’d done weekly for well over a year. The physician’s report said that Mary had neither struggled against her attacker, nor had she been raped, although Delacourt had neatly avoided mentioning that before the ladies.

  But Cecilia had been too much exposed to the harshness of life. Eventually, she would ask. Oh, yes. She would. At the thought, Delacourt squeezed shut his eyes. He did not think he could find it within himself to answer. If that poignant vision of Cecilia slumped in her chair this morning had taught him nothing else, it had taught him that it was more likely his own callousness he’d been justifying when he thought of her as a cold, heartless bitch. She wasn’t. He almost wished she were. Sometimes, it was safer that way.

  He looked up again to see that Cecilia was engaged in a heated conversation with Lord Ridge. He found himself watching the sparks of blue fire in her eyes and listening to the lilt and timbre of her voice without really hearing the words. Then, suddenly, Ridge’s retort cut through the fog.

  “Oh, no, Lady Walrafen!” he cheerfully boomed. “I am not your enemy! Save your scold for Delacourt here, for he’s as High Tory as they come!”

  For an instant, Cecilia forgot her impassioned debate with Lord Ridge. David’s eyes, which mere moments ago had been closed, now held her gaze with a startling intensity. It was as if he’d been abruptly awakened, only to behold something which he could not fully grasp. His thick, sooty lashes were wide open, his lids no longer heavy with that strange, seductive languor which had always seemed such an essential part of what she believed him.

  And then, his confusion cleared, and Cecilia sawsomething deeper. A quiet, almost sorrowful knowledge. And something else. Frustration? A secret carefully hidden?

  She was not sure. But she was distinctly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Indeed, he may as well have had his mouth on hers again, tilting her world out of focus, as he always did.

  Sweet heaven, she did not know herself when he touched her, teased her, and told her things that simply were not true. Still, the desire she felt for him was almost overwhelming. At that moment, to her relief, David’s mouth tightened, the thick lashes dropped half shut, and, again, he was Delacourt.

  Warmth flushed up her neck. How fanciful she had become! Lord Ridge had issued a challenge which wanted answering, and she was dithering.

  Awkwardly, Cecilia set down her fork, and hid her unsteady hand in her lap. “Lord Ridge,” she said quietly, forcing her voice to calm. “We have all set aside our differences and come together to make this mission a great success. All I ask is why cannot Parliament do the same? Must we resort to sending ladies into the House of Commons, as well as into our charitable organizations?”

  Lady Kirton laughed. “Oh, Cecilia! Your late husband would be aghast to hear you speak so.”

  Cecilia shook her head. “No, I am still a loyal Tory. I merely seek compromise.”

  “My dear girl,” grumbled Lauderwood, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, “with your views, you are too much like old Giles there—naught but a Peel Tory!”

  Opposite the colonel, Lord Ridge shook his fruit knife at her. “And it’s not a t’all the same thing, m’dear!”

  “Perhaps not,” Cecilia lightly confessed. “But I think Peel has done a fine job as Home Secretary, and Giles says it’s but a matter of time before he reconvenes a new Parliamentary Committee to push for police reform. Then your Peel Tories will help ensure we no longer have innocent women butchered in the East End.”

  “Bah—reform!” chided Lord Ridge. “I’ve come to hate that word. And Giles needs to watch his loyalties, m’dear!”

  Giles cleared his throat, lifting one finger pensively. “I fear our optimism about Mr. Peel’s priorities is premature, Cecilia. Irish opposition is brewing again, and the emancipation issue may soon occupy much of his time.”

  “Yes, and that’s another thing we oughtn’t waste our time on,” groused Lord Ridge as the servants began to clear.

  Lauderwood roused again and lifted his wine glass at Ridge. “Here, here,” he concurred, draining it.

  Inwardly, Cecilia chided herself for seating two such crotchety malcontents near one another. “Perhaps we could use a little Catholic emancipation,” she asserted boldly. “For my part, I think the Irish take the leavings of our political system. Fully a quarter of our mission inmates are Irish. Just look at what happened to Mary O’Gavin.”

  “Really, Cecilia,” interjected Lady Kirton gently. “I cannot think her being Irish was the problem.”

  “No,” snapped Cecilia, setting down her wine glass with a clatter, “her being poor and Irish and raised in a St. Giles ghetto was the problem.”

  Abruptly, Delacourt shoved back his chair and jerked a heavy gold watch from his waistcoat. “Good God, look at the time!” he exclaimed, barely glancing at it. “Port, gentlemen?”

  ———

  After coffee had been taken in the drawing room, Delacourt deliberately lingered in the background as Cecilia’s guests departed. With every hat and stick the butler fetched, Delacourt could see her anxiety ratcheting ever so slightly upward. Almost desperately, she watched each carriage roll up, peering out into the night to study the color of the livery, despite the fact that his coachman had not yet been called. Still, Delacourt hung back, knowing that there were words which must be said between them.

  He had expected Giles to linger, but surprisingly, he had murmured something about an engagement at his club and promptly departed. Lady Kirton and the colonel were the last to leave. The obviously ill Shaw looked as if he might collapse under the weight of their wraps.

  “Goodbye, my dear,” Lady Kirton murmured against Cecilia’s cheek. “Do try to stay out of trouble.”

>   Cecilia laughed lightly. “But you have invited me to tea on Friday, Isabel! I can hardly run into trouble in so short a time!”

  “Oh!” chirped Lady Kirton as the butler helped the colonel with his greatcoat. “That reminds me—I had a very peculiar caller yesterday. Indeed, it nearly escaped me, but it was so very odd...”

  Cecilia leaned intently forward. “Who was it?”

  “Anne Rowland,” said her ladyship, her voice soft with amazement. “Edmund’s wife. And since I hardly know her, I was just perishing with curiosity as to why she would call on me.”

  Colonel Lauderwood snorted. “No surprise there! Woman’s an inveterate social climber. Thinks she can leave a card at any door she chooses. Surely you were not in?”

  Lady Kirton tossed him a skeptical look. “Don’t be silly, Jack,” she fondly chastised. “Social climbers would scarce trouble themselves to call upon me. Whatever good would it possibly do them? I never go anywhere.”

  “And did you see her, Isabel?” asked Cecilia curiously.

  Lady Kirton nodded, the tiny pink feathers of her toque bobbing merrily. “Indeed, and that is the peculiar part. You see, her husband wishes her to volunteer!”

  “Volunteer for what?” asked the colonel roughly.

  “Why, for the Daughters of Nazareth Society! Indeed, she was most keenly interested.”

  Cecilia shrugged her shoulders elegantly. “Then she may certainly do so. Another benefit dinner or musicale would scarce go amiss.”

  “A dinner!” snorted Lauderwood. “I rather doubt they can afford to feed themselves after that magnanimous donation.”

  But Lady Kirton was still shaking her head. “Oh, no, Cecilia! That’s not at all what she had in mind. She wishes to work in the mission. With the women. But I must say, she hardly seemed the type. And when I pressed her, it became rather obvious that her husband was pushing her to play the lady bountiful—” Lady Kirton stopped, looking appalled. “Oh, dear, that sounded unkind, did it not?”

  Colonel Lauderwood drew Lady Kirton’s carriage cloak snug about her arms. “What it sounded, my dear, was accurate,” he said, patting her affectionately on the shoulder. “Now, come along with you. This air is making Shaw’s cold worse, and it’s starting to spit an icy rain.”

  “I’m ordering Shaw up to bed at once,” Cecilia firmly announced, rising onto her toes to kiss Lauderwood’s cheek. “And dear Colonel! You must watch your step on those slippery stairs.”

  “Watch my step! Watch my step?” grumbled the colonel, turning toward the now open door. “Sound advice, young lady! Heed it yourself, and remember—sometimes blind old men see more than you think!”

  At last, the door was shut, and before Cecilia could direct Shaw to order his carriage and fetch his coat, Delacourt interrupted her. “May I speak with you before I go, Cecilia?” he asked quietly. Shaw discreetly withdrew, giving a tiny muffled sneeze as he left.

  Cecilia looked resigned. “Yes, of course,” she returned, gesturing politely toward the drawing room. Delacourt followed her in. Absent the crush of guests, the room looked intimate and inviting.

  For a moment, he let his eyes drift across the walls, which were elegantly hung with slate-blue silk. The thick Aubusson carpet was woven in a similar shade and accented with a warm red-brown. The ceiling was high and beautifully plastered in panels of slate blue, with white Grecian plasterwork sumptuously applied into medallions and garlands.

  Three windows draped in dark blue velvet gave onto the crescent, and Delacourt imagined that from the floors above, the view was magnificent. In the hearth, Cecilia’s fire was fast dying, but the room was still warmed by the light of a dozen candles. The furniture was plush and comfortable rather than stylish. Two upholstered chairs and a matching settee surrounded the hearth, with a delicate writing desk just behind them. On the whole, it was a room which invited you inside and encouraged you to linger.

  But Cecilia was not encouraging anyone to linger. Instead, she stood by the open door and did not ask him to be seated. No doubt she wished him to be brief and then get the hell out of her house.

  But the words were slow to come. Absently, Delacourt picked up one of the Chinese porcelains from the carved writing desk. Cecilia seemed to have several such objets d’art, but this one was eye-catching, a small ewer, delicately fashioned into the shape of a dancing girl and beautifully enameled in green and red. Nervously, he balanced it in his hand. “How lovely this is,” he finally said.

  “It is Ming dynasty,” she explained, crossing from the door to the edge of the settee. “That one is my favorite, a gift from Giles for my twenty-first birthday.”

  “You have a great many,” he said, glancing absently about the room.

  Cecilia tilted her head gently to one side. “I collect Ming ornaments,” she answered, stepping a little nearer. “My one extravagance, I fear.”

  “They are all... quite lovely,” he said again.

  At last, Cecilia looked directly at him, her deep blue gaze strong and steady. Perhaps she was not so nervous after all. Perhaps the grief which they had shared this afternoon had somehow altered things between them.

  “Have you some fondness for Oriental porcelain, my lord?” He was surprised to hear a light challenge in her voice.

  Delacourt looked up at her and set the ewer down. “Not really,” he admitted lamely.

  A wry smile played at one corner of her mouth. “No, I thought not,” she said, motioning toward the two chairs which flanked her hearth. “Come, you may as well sit down. Then tell me what it is you really want.”

  Tell her what he really wanted? Not in a million years, thought Delacourt. Not even if I knew. But what he said aloud was, “I wish us to declare a truce.”

  “A truce?” echoed Cecilia, settling herself onto the edge of one of the chairs, her spine perfectly straight.

  Delacourt took the seat opposite. “And I wish to apologize,” he said quietly. “My behavior two days ago was unconscionable.”

  Cecilia’s strong, steady gaze had fallen to her lap. Now, she picked nervously at the folds of her skirts. “Then, I wonder... I wonder if you would tell me why you did it?”

  “I do not know,” he answered honestly. “I know only that I want peace between us, Cecilia. At least until these dreadful months are behind us. And then, when I am gone from the mission, you may resume hating me with the full force of your personality if you wish.”

  Her head jerked up at that. “I do not hate you, Delacourt. Perhaps I once thought I did, when I was very young and foolish, and thought I knew what tragedy was. But you, my lord—” Abruptly, she pursed her lips and gave her head a little shake.

  “What, Cecilia?” he demanded. “Speak! Let us get past this—this thing which makes us jab and scratch at one another like bad-tempered children! Good God, I cannot bear it.”

  Cecilia sighed deeply and stared into the fire which was now dying in the grate. At last, she spoke, but without really looking at him. “You are angry, my lord. And I believe you cling to that anger like—like a shroud, drawing it all about yourself, cloaking yourself in it while shutting others out.”

  Her insolence—no, her sincerity—took his breath away. “Perhaps you do not hate me, then, Cecilia,” he tightly replied. “But I don’t think you like me very much.”

  Her gaze left the fire, caught his eyes, and nailed him to his chair. “I don’t think you like yourself very much, Delacourt,” she returned. “People think you proud, arrogant, even vindictive. But I have begun to believe that you are just a very unhappy man. And I wonder why.”

  Delacourt felt his heartbeat slow, almost stop. He felt as if a door had cracked open before him, revealing a dark, unknowable void beyond. He wished very much to slam it shut again. And yet he did not. “You spoke of tragedy, Cecilia,” he answered instead. “Can you tell me what your definition of tragedy is? I should very much like to know.”

  At once, Cecilia rose and went to a small mahogany table laid with decanters and glasses. She mad
e an elegant little movement with her hand, as if to pull the stopper from one of the bottles, then abruptly drew back and simply stood, looking at it. “I suppose,” she said quietly, without facing him, “that to some, tragedy is simply not having one’s life turn out as one had hoped. We go through life with... with certain expectations. Perhaps we even take them for granted. And yet, when they do not come to pass—”

  She paused, obviously measuring her words, and when she spoke again, her voice was very quiet. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I find I have not the heart for a philosophical discussion tonight. May I offer you some small refreshment before you go?”

  It was her way of suggesting he leave, a civil, even generous hint given the circumstances. And yet, Delacourt found himself unwilling to take it. “I should welcome a little brandy, if you have it. The night is very raw.”

  In silence, he watched as Cecilia poured out a measure of what looked like very good cognac, along with a glass of sherry. Then she crossed the room and pressed his drink into his hand. For an instant, his fingers slid over hers. Cecilia’s touch was warm, gentle, and oddly comforting. And then, it was gone, and he held nothing but a glass of brandy which he did not really want.

  Suddenly, Delacourt realized that he was still staring at her. Good God, she must think him an idiot. Her odd remarks had shaken him more then she could know. He had to grab hold of his wits, recoup his famous composure. He searched his mind for some glib, flattering remark.

  “You look very lovely tonight, Cecilia,” he managed to say, in his usual indolent tone. “That green silk is most striking... but I rather fancy you’ve altered it in some way since last I saw it.”

  Cecilia stared down at her skirts, sliding one hand across the emerald silk while holding her wine glass with the other. “Yes, it was a quite new evening gown,” she said almost brightly, as if welcoming the return of banal chitchat. “Though I’ve only worn it once since I put off my black. But then Etta scorched a hole in the shawl, so I just cut off all the trim and made it a dinner dress. I’m shocked that you guessed.” Suddenly, her hand froze, and her gaze came up to catch his.