The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace) Page 21

  ‘Does he know he’s going to be a papa next year?’ Tamsyn asked.

  ‘Oh! How did you know?’ She followed the direction of Tamsyn’s gaze to where her hands had settled again and laughed. ‘No, he doesn’t. I wanted to be certain, and now I am and I will tell him tonight.’

  Tamsyn was happy for her, she truly was, and she thought her smile showed nothing but delight for the other woman, but Tess was both observant and sensitive. ‘Tamsyn? Have you—have you a child from your marriage?’

  ‘No.’ Now her smile was too bright, she could feel it. ‘No, I was not so fortunate. Jory and I were not married long. Just nine months before he died.’

  ‘I heard what happened, Gabriel told me. You were there?’

  Tamsyn nodded.

  ‘It must have been appalling.’

  ‘It was…quick. Better than prison and a trial and a noose. But it was a terrible shock.’

  She kept her tone as neutral as she could, but Tess was intuitive. ‘It was more than a shock, wasn’t it? Were you pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked down at her hands, willed them to stillness.

  There was a little silence, then Tess turned the subject and began to talk about the reception Cris had asked them to hold in order to entrap Franklin. ‘He said to make it for a week today. He seems very confident he can amass the evidence he needs for then.’

  ‘I have the suspicion that if he hasn’t he will bluff and I’m sure he will be excellent at that. But if his Bow Street Runner can lay hands on the so-called Mr Goode, then I think it will be all right.’

  They chatted about decorations and the menu for supper and whether a string quartet or Pandean pipes would be best and by the time Tess took her leave, off to give her husband her glad news, Tamsyn found that the need to retreat to her room and weep that she had been fighting for an hour had left her.

  You see, she told herself. You can manage this. You can leave him without your heart breaking.

  *

  Five days passed. Tamsyn fretted about the pictures, wrote long, chatty letters home, spent too much on clothes and helped Tess with the planning for the reception.

  Despite it being July there were still enough people in London to garner a respectable number of acceptances, including, to everyone’s relief, Lord Chelford’s.

  ‘I made sure he heard there would be plenty of card tables and some heavy play.’ Alex sat on the arm of his wife’s chair, his hand possessive on her shoulder. He was having to fight not to fuss over her as though she was spun glass, Tess had confided.

  They were at the Weybourns’ town house, expecting Cris and Gabriel for a council of war, as Alex termed it. ‘And about time,’ he added as the two were announced. ‘There’s only four days to go.’

  ‘Jem Clarke, the Runner, has got Goode safely locked up at Bow Street,’ Cris said, dropping into the chair next to Tamsyn’s and sending her a rapid assessing glance followed by a hint of a smile. ‘He is singing like a canary because the magistrate has hinted that if he only meant to wound Ritchie, and if he gives us the full story, then he will be transported, not hanged. It means that we’ll not be able to get Chelford for conspiracy to murder, because I doubt any jury is going to believe that Goode would be hired to kill and not carry it out, not with his record.’

  ‘If this is the only way he is going to be brought to justice—’ Tamsyn broke off, shivered. ‘I hate the thought of anyone hanging. One thing worries me, though.’

  ‘Only one?’ Cris reached across and took her hand, ignoring the interested stares of the other three.

  ‘Aunt Izzy is going to be devastated by the scandal. Franklin is her nephew, after all, and if he comes to trial I do not know how she will cope with it.’

  ‘So we had best make certain he finds a pressing necessity to leave the country and not come back,’ Gabriel said dryly.

  ‘It is hardly justice,’ Alex commented. ‘What of Ritchie’s family?’

  ‘I have made enquiries,’ Cris said. ‘Fortunately he was not married, had no parents living and I can’t locate any dependents. He seems to have been something of a loner, which is one small mercy.’

  ‘Who is Chelford’s heir?’ Tess asked.

  ‘His younger brother, Michael. A nice young man as I seem to remember,’ Tamsyn said. ‘I haven’t seen him for years, but Aunt Izzy said he is a lawyer somewhere in Somerset and is married with a family.’

  ‘Couldn’t Chelford discover he has weak lungs and must go and live in Italy, or the South of France or Greece or somewhere hot?’ Tess said. ‘I am only thinking aloud, but if he hands over the estate to his brother in return for a pension—’

  ‘A modest one,’ Alex said.

  ‘Yes, although the world at large need not know that. Then the brother could take over and have the benefit of the estate and Chelford would be exiled for the rest of his days.’

  ‘We could see to that, certainly,’ Cris said with a thin smile that made Tamsyn shiver. ‘There would be no scandal for the family.’

  ‘What about his debts? They must be serious if he is prepared to do what he has and if he needs to sell a pair of Rubens’s paintings to cover it.’

  ‘Yes, those must be paid.’ Cris pinched the bridge of his nose in thought. ‘I’ll cover them, then talk to the brother about making it a long-term loan on the estate. He’s a lawyer, he can sort something out.’

  ‘Now we just need to make sure Goode doesn’t name Chelford in court,’ Gabriel said. ‘And hope his brother will see this the same way as we do. He has a young family and the opportunity to save the estate and family name for them. That should do it.’

  ‘We are conspiring to help a criminal to escape justice,’ Tamsyn said worriedly. ‘Just because the family is going to hate the scandal… Is this really the right thing to do?’

  ‘We are conspiring to subvert the law,’ Cris said. He was still holding her hand. ‘But I think this is justice. We cannot be certain Chelford would be convicted in court—it would be the word of a habitual criminal against a peer of the realm.’

  ‘But we have got to convince him that it will go to trial, that he will be convicted,’ Gabriel said. ‘Then we can reluctantly offer him a way out and he should snatch at it.’

  ‘It’s a plan,’ Cris agreed. ‘And this is what we will do on the night—’

  ‘But not Tess,’ Alex said.

  ‘Alex, I am not ill,’ his wife protested. ‘It is a perfectly normal state of affairs.’

  ‘You’ve news for us?’ Gabriel asked with a grin.

  Tess blushed, but nodded. Gabriel got up and shook Alex’s hand, but Cris, to Tamsyn’s surprise, went to Tess and bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Can I hope to be a godfather?’

  ‘Of course!’ Tess laughed.

  Gabriel took Cris’s seat and leant towards Tamsyn. ‘Cris is as soft as butter over children. You wouldn’t think it, would you? He’s going to make an excellent father.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamsyn said, a growing hollowness below her diaphragm. ‘I am sure he will.’ Why was she upset? She had known all along he was not for her. Why should this revelation hurt so much? Perhaps she had been harbouring ridiculous dreams after all, she thought drearily. And all the time she had told herself she was being realistic and keeping control of her emotions.

  Cris reclaimed his seat and she pulled herself together. ‘I know what to do about the paintings, if we can’t get Franklin out of the country. When we meet at the reception he will want to know why I am in London. I will tell him and while he is reeling from that, you men can spring your trap.’

  ‘Tell us,’ Cris said. ‘Then we can weave our noose.’

  *

  Tess had planned a glittering reception with an orchestra in the gallery of their town house, masses of flowers and greenery in every corner, card tables set out in one room and little sitting areas scattered throughout to allow for intimate conversations.

  The staff were hurrying back and forth, setting out the buffet tables, when Tamsyn arrived ea
rly to find Cris waiting for her.

  ‘You look like a mermaid,’ he said as he drew her into an alcove screened by a vast display of ferns and orchids. He studied her gown of sea-green silk with a mass of white net foaming over it and an edging of tiny pearls and little shells made of mother of pearl. His eyes darkened, his lids lowered with what she was all too aware was arousal and she found herself short of breath in the confined space.

  ‘That was rather the idea,’ she confessed. ‘I simply could not resist it when I saw the fabric and the trimming.’

  Cris reached out and trailed one ungloved fingertip along the edge of the scooped neckline, over the curve of her breasts. He made no attempt to delve beneath it, or to pull her closer, but the gesture was both possessive and provocative.

  ‘You will spoil my concentration,’ she murmured. ‘I need all my wits about me tonight.’ It was difficult not to sway towards him, to beg with her body for his hands, his mouth.

  ‘Come, then, see what we have arranged.’ He led her to a little grouping of chairs. ‘That is the door to the card room just there. We are certain Chelford will make directly for it when he arrives—it is his normal pattern of behaviour. You will be seated here, talking to Gabriel, who will inevitably gather a small group around him. He appears to have a magnetic attraction for a certain kind of young lady and for rakish young men who wish they were just like him.’

  ‘He is very attractive,’ Tamsyn said, with deliberate intent to provoke.

  ‘I know,’ Cris said grimly. ‘There should be a law against it, at least according to most anxious mothers.’

  ‘You are very attractive, too,’ she conceded, still in a teasing tone, meaning every word.

  ‘I am exceedingly respectable, boringly eligible, debt-free and apparently sober, most of the time. I could have the looks of a horse as far as the ambitious mothers are concerned.’

  He probably has to beat the fluttering debutantes off with sticks, Tamsyn thought, suddenly plunged into gloom.

  ‘Anyway, you are seated here, facing the way he will come. Even if he doesn’t recognise you and react, you will see him. Call him over with no sign that you’ve the slightest suspicion of him, drop your bombshell about the pictures and one of two things will happen. Either he’ll make a scene, in which case Gabriel and I will get hold of him and steer him out of the room, which will make an unfortunate, but hopefully small, disturbance. It will be better if he is thrown into confusion by your revelation and so distracted that we can quietly cut him out as he goes into the card room and get him away without a fuss.’

  ‘And the Bow Street Runner and Goode are here?’

  ‘Yes, with Sir Peter Hughes, a magistrate, behind a screen with another Runner on guard.’

  She nodded, as much to quiet the butterflies in her stomach as to reassure Cris that she had it all clear.

  ‘Nervous?’ They were in full sight of the bustling servants now and the sounds from the entrance were signalling the first arrivals. He did not touch her, but the concern in his expression was enough to bring her chin up.

  ‘Certainly not. Just excited and keyed up.’ Cris’s left eyebrow rose and she had to laugh. ‘Oh, all right! I admit it. I am quivering like a jelly inside.’

  ‘No one would ever guess.’ He stepped in close as the servants began to leave the room, or take up position around the walls. ‘You’ve got courage, Mrs Perowne. Your Jory would be proud of you.’ Cris’s kiss was swift, hard, scandalous, a moment of affirmation and desire, then he was striding away across the room towards the card room. He paused in the doorway, turned and looked back. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear.’

  Then he was gone. Tamsyn sat down, tried another chair, told herself to relax and instead fidgeted with her gloves. They were new, made of pearl-grey kid as soft as satin, and they fastened above the elbow with ribbons. Cousin Harriet had assured her that the slightly loose fit was perfectly fashionable, but, unused to evening gloves, she found the sensation that they might slide off at any moment unsettling.

  Worrying the ribbons until they were even looser occupied her for a frustrating five minutes, then Gabriel wandered over, two young bucks on his heels. ‘Mrs Perowne.’

  ‘Lord Edenbridge. On your way to play cards?’ The young men, who had not been introduced, looked enthusiastic at the thought.

  ‘Later, perhaps. There does not appear to be anyone to make up a serious game, as yet.’ The young men wilted. ‘May I?’ He indicated the seat beside him and, at Tamsyn’s smiling gesture, folded his length into it. He should have looked out of place in a formal setting, Tamsyn thought. His evening dress had been beautifully cut, but was worn with a carelessness that included slightly wilted collar points, a loosely tied neckcloth, an off-centre stick pin in its folds and a crimson silk handkerchief escaping from the pocket in his coat-tails.

  Against the two young men, starched and groomed to a point of utter perfection, he looked feral, dangerous and, she acknowledged, worryingly attractive. No wonder anxious mamas kept their daughters away and wise fathers forbade their sons to follow him into gaming hells or even less reputable places.

  She smiled at the two lads and Gabriel obligingly said, ‘Mrs Perowne, may I make known to you Lord Brendon and Mr Elliott. Gentlemen, Mrs Perowne, a visitor from Devon.’

  She shook hands, encouraged them to sit and no sooner had they embarked on a careful conversation about the beauties of Devon and the possibilities for stag hunting than three young ladies fluttered past, giggling, just as Cris had predicted.

  ‘Oh, Lord Brendon, good evening.’ The boldest, a plump and pretty blonde, came to a halt, smiled at the young man and managed, at the same time, to bat her eyelashes at Gabriel.

  Hiding her own smile, Tamsyn obligingly invited Lord Brendon’s friends to join them and, camouflage complete, settled down to make conversation and watch the entrance door without appearing to do so.

  Guests began to arrive, the room filled up and Tamsyn stayed in place, resisting all invitations to take a turn around the room, admire the paintings in the gallery or accompany any of the young ladies on an expedition to find the retiring room.

  How long was it since she had seen Franklin? Only months, she realised, calculating while she tried to keep at least part of her mind on social chitchat. ‘Yes, indeed, Miss Wilberforce, a very striking colour for a gown.’ It had been when he came to invite the Barbary household to take up residence in his dower house so he could ‘watch over them’. ‘Thank you, Lord Brendon, I think I will sit a little longer. No, some ratafia a little later, perhaps.’ So she couldn’t have failed to recognise him. But where was he?

  The crowd shifted and he was walking directly towards her. Tamsyn suppressed a gasp. He looked changed and not for the better. His blond hair was still carefully groomed, yet somehow seemed lank. He had put on weight and at only medium height could ill afford it. There were dark circles under his eyes and his gaze shifted restlessly around the room as though he expected an attack at any moment. It passed over her without recognition so she fluttered her fan in a clear gesture of greeting.

  He stopped, looked and took a step backwards. Then he seemed to recover himself and came forward to make a jerky half-bow. ‘Tamsyn. Mrs Perowne! What a surprise to see you here.’

  Beside her she felt Gabriel gathering himself, although he still sat elegantly at his ease. ‘So formal, Cousin Franklin. Or must I call you Lord Chelford?’ she chided him. ‘It was Cousin Tamsyn last time we met. But doubtless you will tell me I am showing my country manners.’ This was the man behind the ‘accidents’ on the farm, the man who had tried to implicate her in murder. She had no doubts now she was face-to-face with him, his eyes failing to meet hers, his mouth hardly capable of maintaining a social smile.

  ‘Not at all, not at all. But I must confess my surprise at seeing you here.’ The smile was more successful now.

  ‘Shopping, you know.’ She smiled vaguely. ‘Oh, and tasks for my aunts. I must go down to Dulwich soon.’
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  ‘Dulwich?’

  ‘The picture gallery, surely you know of it? Aunt Isobel has a pair of paintings at Barbary Combe House that she thinks deserve to be shown to a wider public, and I believe the gallery could accept them on a long loan. So much safer as well, don’t you think?’ She appealed to the men in the group. ‘Do you agree, gentlemen? Works of art deserve an audience, and, besides, I am not certain a remote country house is the best place for treasures.’

  There was a chorus of agreement and some flattering remarks about the generosity and vision of Tamsyn’s aunt.

  Franklin was sweating. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, seemed to realise what he was doing and patted it flat again. ‘But dear Aunt Isobel is not—’

  ‘She is the custodian for her lifetime,’ Tamsyn said, turning to the others in the group with a proud, affectionate smile. ‘She takes her responsibilities very seriously. Oh, you are leaving us, Lord Chelford?’

  ‘I am meeting someone in the card room, excuse me.’ He gave a jerky bow and strode off.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Perowne, ladies.’ Gabriel got to his feet. ‘I am reminded that I, too, have a rendezvous.’ He followed Franklin into the card room and Tamsyn wished her imagination was not conjuring up images of silent black panthers padding in pursuit of their prey.

  There was no point in worrying. She had done her part, she told herself. Franklin was unsettled and off balance. It was all in Cris’s hands now. Cris’s hands and Justice’s scales.

  ‘Do you know, Lord Brendon, I think I will accept that drink you offered me. But a glass of champagne, if you would.’ Ratafia was nowhere near sustaining enough.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cris watched the exchange between Tamsyn and Chelford, then crossed the card room to intercept the man just as Gabriel reached his side. As he passed he took a glass from the tray a footman was holding, stumbled and spilled the contents down Chelford’s waistcoat.