Chapter Eighteen

Cecily took two steps into the Gold Drawing room and stopped. “Oh! I didn’t realize you were alone.”

Alex rose rather stiffly from the sofa, a bunch of violets in his hands. He was feeling the effects of last night’s brawl, but he could not have waited any longer to see Cecily. “Good morning, Lady Cecily,” he said, without a hint of a smile. “Did your father not tell you I was here?”

“Yes, but he said you would tell me what it was all about.” Cecily sank gracefully into a chair, her back straight, her head erect, watching Alex warily. “What in the world happened to your face?”

Alex grimaced. “I ran into a spot of bother last night. Looks worse than it is.”

“It looks very bad indeed.” She studied him. “Is your business over, then?”

“Yes. You may have heard what happened at Carlton House last evening.”

Cecily’s eyes widened. “Good heavens! The attempt to kill Lord Liverpool?”

“Yes. We had word, some time back, of a plot to overthrow the government. Most of the conspirators have been arrested.”

“But not all?”

“No, Edge—no, but we’re certain we’ll catch them soon. Alex shifted uneasily in his chair. He didn’t want to discuss this just now. Already he’d spent an uncomfortable hour with Marlow, explaining how Cecily had been implicated in the plot and what he had been assigned to do. They knew, now, that any mention of her name had been brought in deliberately by Edgewater; he had told his valet, Simpkins, to use the name Randall and had, apparently, considered it something of a joke. To say that the duke was displeased was an understatement. However, he had soon come to a grudging acceptance of the matter, and he was grateful for Alex’s efforts to prove Cecily innocent. Alex wanted never to face another such interview. “Here. These are for you,” he said, with none of his usual charm, and crossed the room to hand her the violets.

“Thank you. They are lovely.” Cecily buried her face in the bouquet and then raised her face to him. “Alex, why are you here? Yesterday you said you wanted nothing more to do with me. Until after I’m married.”

“Hell, Cecily, I’m sorry. That was inexcusable of me. But I had just learned something that upset me and I’m afraid I took it out on you. Can you forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, softly, gazing down at the violets. “It hurt, Alex, that you lied to me. Oh, don’t deny it, I know you did. Do you trust me so little, then?”

“Trust has nothing to do with it.” He shifted uneasily again. Trust had everything to do with it.

“Trust has everything to do with it,” she said, echoing his thoughts. “Alex, why are you here?”

“Your father has given me permission to pay my addresses to you.”

“What!” For a moment she stared, and then a smile crept upon her face. “You’ve reformed so thoroughly, then?”

“Completely. I swear.”

“I thought you’d be interested in me only when I’m older.”

“Well, yes, of course. And now, too.” Suddenly he smiled, the smile she loved so well, the one that transformed his face and made him look young again. No wonder he had been able to charm so many women. In spite of herself, Cecily could feel herself responding. “Cecily, marry me.” He leaned forward, his voice urgent. “I’ll make you happy, I promise.”

Cecily beamed. At last she was hearing the words she had thought never to hear. Everything in her urged her forward, to go into his arms and answer that of course she would marry him, yet something held her back. Something still bothered her. “Alex. What happened yesterday?”

“I can’t tell you about that, Cecily. You’ll have to trust me.”

“How can I, when you won’t trust me?”

“It has nothing to do with that, Cecily!” Restlessly he paced the room.

“Then tell me! I need to know.”

“Oh, hell.” He stroked his upper lip as he stared out the window, and then turned. “I didn’t know what would happen last night. If something happened to me I wanted you to be able to forget me and go on with your life.”

“Fustian,” she said, crisply. “You’re lying.”

“Cecily, I swear—”

“Listen to me, Alex! If it has something to do with what happened last night and you can’t tell me, I’ll understand. But I had the feeling yesterday there was something more personal to it than that. Let’s not start with a lie.”

Alex looked at her measuringly. He was not used to dealing with women in a straightforward manner; in his experience, most women wished to hear sweet lies, rather than the brutal truth. No matter that she seemed to be able to see into his soul; in the past, his charm had always worked for him.

And so Alex smiled, and made his fatal mistake. “It does have something to do with last night,” he said, “and that is all I can tell you. Cecily.” He pulled a footstool over and sat before her, taking her hands in his. “Can’t we just put this all behind us? It’s over. Once Edgewater is arrested—”

“Edgewater!” Cecily looked startled. “Was he involved in the plot?”

“Hell.” He rose again, striding across the room. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that.”

“Was he?”

“He was its leader.”

“Good heavens! Why?”

“How do I know, Cecily? Power, I suppose. I don’t know what motivates a man like that, who already seems to have everything, money, position, a beautiful fiancée.”

“You thought I was involved,” Cecily said, so quickly that Alex had no chance to guard his expression. For a moment, the truth was in his eyes. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Hell.” Alex sank down onto the footstool, his head in his hands. “Oh, hell. I didn’t want you to know, Cecily.”

“You really thought that?” she said, stunned. “Simply because I was engaged to Edgewater?”

“No, not just that.” He straightened, looking her in the eye. “We had received information that you were involved somehow. We just didn’t know how. And you didn’t make it easier, Cecily,” he accused. “Going into Whitechapel.”

“But I explained that!”

“And then being seen with one of the conspirators.”

“Who?”

“Josiah Worley.”

“What?” She stared at him. “Alex, how do you know all this? No, don’t answer. You investigated me, didn’t you?”

“Cecily, I had to. Don’t you see—”

Cecily rose and went to stand behind her chair. “Then it was a lie, from the very beginning.”

“No, not all of it. I was attracted to you.”

“Of course you were, you’re a rake. Oh, Alex!” It was a cry of pain. “Oh, how could you do this?”

“Cecily, I never meant to hurt you, I swear—”

“It was a lie, all of it,” she said, her hands over her face. “Even now, how do I know that you’re not using me to catch Edgewater?”

“Because I wouldn’t do such a thing! God’s teeth, Cecily!” He took a few angry paces about the room and stopped, staring at her. “Do you really think I’d do that to you? Do you trust me so little?”

Cecily lowered her hands and gazed at him, the anger dropping away, leaving behind only an immense sadness. She would not cry. She would not give this man, who had made a career of breaking hearts, the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “How can I possibly trust you, Alex, when you so obviously don’t trust me? You don’t, do you?”

Alex took a deep breath. “Cecily, I don’t trust anyone,” he said, finally.

“I see.” Cecily reached for the bunch of flowers, and then dropped them. “Poor rake,” she said, and walked out, leaving behind her the fragrance of crushed violets.

“Cecily!” he called, but she was gone. “Oh, hell!” No woman had ever walked out on him before, never. He had always been the one to do the leaving. Ironic, wasn’t it, that the one woman he wanted to marry, was the one woman who was unimpressed by his charm. Unfortunately, he was in no humor to enjoy the jest. He had botched it this time.

Alex sank into the chair Cecily had vacated, his feet propped on the footstool. He was tired, so tired, in his soul more than his body. What did his life hold for him? For a moment he’d thought he had seen his future, shining and bright, had nearly been able to reach out and grasp it. Now it was gone, and the years stretched ahead of him, endless and grey. He had no hope of ever reconciling with Cecily; her parting words had had a terrible ring of finality. And all because, when it had been necessary, he had not been able to put his trust in anyone but himself.

He raised his hand to rub his eyes, remembering, just in time, to avoid his bruises. A necessary habit, that, of trusting no one, when he had been a spy. Of course he’d always had a certain reticence, but his life over the past years had only reinforced it. And during that time, he had found himself feeling increasingly lonely, had entered into relationships that were increasingly empty, wondering just what life was about, and never knowing why. Now he did. Now he knew, too late, that the essential connection to life was trust, and love, of another. When he had needed, at last, to let down his barriers and open himself to another, he hadn’t been able to do it. Because of that, he had lost Cecily.

The door to the drawing room opened. “Oh, excuse me, my lord, I didn’t know you were still here,” a footman said.

Alex rose. “I was just leaving. If I may have my hat and my stick?”

The footman bowed. “Of course, my lord. If you’ll just follow me.”

Alex inclined his head and followed the footman down the stairs. Life wasn’t over for him, of course. He’d find something to do, though what did a spy do in peacetime? He’d gone on alone all these years; he would continue to go on alone, and no one would ever suspect the terrible loneliness inside him. Except Cecily. Poor rake, indeed.

At the bottom of the stairs Alex took his hat and walking stick, and then paused, glancing around the hall. In all likelihood this was the last time he would ever come here. “Thank you,” he said briskly to the footman, handing him a vail as a tip, and walked out. He couldn’t help glancing up at the window he thought might be Cecily’s as he passed the house. Several times in the past he had thought that his association with her was finished, only to be proven wrong. There would be no second chance for him this time. Cecily had made that quite clear. He would never see her again.

From her window Cecily watched as Alex walked stiffly away, drawing back when he looked up, though she knew he probably couldn’t see her through the sheer muslin of the drape. He was gone. Cecily sank down onto the window seat, at last letting her tears fall. Yesterday, when he had implied he had used her, she hadn’t believed him. Today, she did, and it hurt. Oh, it hurt. It hadn’t come easily to her, giving her heart; she had done so only when she had realized that she could trust him. What she had learned today destroyed only the trust, not the love. That would take a very long time to die.

Sniffling a little, she went to her dressing table for a handkerchief. No use crying about it, she admonished herself. Crying did nothing for her but give her a headache and red, swollen eyes. It would not bring Alex back, nor change the fact that he had used her. Even now, he would have used her if she had allowed it, she thought, anger beginning to replace her grief. The only reason he had ever paid any attention to her was because he had thought her in league with Edgewater.

How could he have ever believed such a thing of her? She could understand it, barely, in the beginning of their friendship, but not once he had known her. Not yesterday! He had never really cared about her, never trusted her. How lucky she was to have found out the truth now, or she might actually have married him. She had had a very narrow escape. Why, then, didn’t she feel happier about it?

Her handkerchief crumpled into a ball in her hand, she sat on the window seat again and leaned her forehead against the cool glass, unconsciously looking for Alex, though he was long gone. Gone, and this time it would be forever. She would have to accustom herself to that fact. She would never see him again.

 

Few took any notice of the man who stepped down the stairs of the tall, narrow house in Chelsea. On the surface there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. His dress was sober, of decent quality but not the best, in common with that of the other men’s in this quiet neighborhood, too far from the center of town to be fashionable. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. Were his former acquaintances to see him, they would not have believed the transformation. The Marquess of Edgewater was determined to do what he had to, to complete what he had come to see as a holy mission.

Several days had passed since he had taken sanctuary here, and the furor over the attempted assassination of the Prime Minister was beginning to fade. When Edgewater first had learned of the failure of his plot, he had been so furious that he had wanted to kill the man who had told him. Fools! He was surrounded by fools and incompetents. Who would ever have thought that the man he had recruited to perform the assassination would have needed to stoke his courage with a large quantity of gin, thus making him miss his shot? And who would ever have suspected that the government would send a substitute for Lord Liverpool, a man who had worn a breastplate of armor under his evening clothes to deflect the assassin’s shot? Someone had let the secret of the conspiracy out. Edgewater would give much to know who that had been.

He strode along the King’s Road, muttering to himself as he thought of the fiasco, so intent on his thoughts that he walked, full-force, into a man coming the other way. Instead of demanding an apology, however, the man scurried on his way, glancing back over his shoulder as he went and congratulating himself on a narrow escape. The light of fanaticism shone in Edgewater’s eyes. Liverpool would have to die. Until he did, the government would remain as it was, reactionary, inept, caring more for the protection of property than for the lives of people. Perhaps then they would appreciate a man like Edgewater; perhaps then they would see him as their savior, a visionary with a clear idea of how the country should be run. By himself, of course. He would come to power yet.

At the corner he paused, and then hailed a hackney. No, of course he would not come to power, he thought, the madness passing. If he stayed in England, he would instead be arrested. Better to go on with his original plans and sail to Jamaica, where he owned a plantation under another name. Before he did so, however, he would finish his mission. That, at least, he could do for his country.

He was ruminating on his plans when the hackney stopped in Westminster. It was chancy, he knew, but he was confident that few would recognize him. It was a risk he had to take. He needed information, if he were to succeed. He knew about Liverpool’s daily routine. He also knew that the man would be watchful after the attempt on his life. Any moves Edgewater might make would only lead to his arrest, or worse, and that wouldn’t do. Failure was not a word he cared to use. Only absolute success would do.

Mulling it over, he walked into a tavern near Parliament and sat with his collar up, slowly sipping at a tankard of ale. Members of the Commons were known to come here before, and after, a session. If he were careful, he might hear something to his advantage. In the meantime, he would content himself with thoughts of revenge against those who had thwarted him. Cecily, now. His eyes grew distant and an evil smile played about his lips as he contemplated the revenge he would like to take. He knew, however, that he’d never be able to get close enough for that, unless he were to abduct her. That, however, would interfere with his main objective, and so he began to consider his other plan, a more indirect form of revenge. If it worked, the entire Marlow family would feel the scandal. As for St. Clair…

“Can’t blame him for wanting to get out of town, after what happened,” a voice nearby said, and Edgewater’s ears perked up. Looking out from under the brim of his hat, he saw two men, one young, one older, take a table across from him. What luck, he thought, congratulating himself on his wisdom in coming here today. The two men, though unknown to him personally, held seats in the Commons and wore the white toppers that had come to denote someone with a radical philosophy. With any luck, he might hear something of interest.

“Bad ‘cess to him,” the older man replied in a gruff voice, after calling for ale. “The things he’s done, makes you wish the shooter succeeded t’other night.”

“Keep your voice down!” the young man hissed, glancing quickly towards Edgewater. “You don’t know who’s listening.”

The older man shrugged massive shoulders. “People know how I feel. High time there’s a change in things. You going to tell me you don’t feel different?”

The young man leaned forward and said something in a low voice, which Edgewater didn’t catch. Then he sat back. “Still, I think it’s a good idea he’s leaving town.”

“Not so sure of that.” The older man took a deep draught of his ale. “Heard he’ll be meeting with Canning, anyway, and maybe Sidmouth. God knows what they’ll think up. More repression, more like.”

Edgewater was listening intently. He had already guessed that the two men were talking about Liverpool, who apparently was planning an informal meeting of his cabinet and other trusted advisors at some unspecified location. Where? he demanded, silently. Tell me where!

“Any event,” the older man went on, “be good to see the back of him for a while. Should have a peaceful week while he’s at Cranbourne. Another round?”

Edgewater sat back, as the two men went on to discuss other matters. Cranbourne Hill, in Hertfordshire. Of course. The estate of Lord Milford, a friend of Liverpool’s. Invite the Prime Minister for an informal house party, and allow him to do some business, away from London and possible conspiracies. Or so they thought. Edgewater knew Hertfordshire quite well. He had been born there. All he needed to know was when Liverpool would go, and that should be easy enough to learn.

No one took any notice of him as he rose from the corner table and, after tossing down a few coins, walked out. He wanted nothing more than to laugh aloud with sheer pleasure, but to call attention to himself at this stage of the game would be fatal. Here, at last, was his chance to complete his mission, and the best part of it was that he would be able to get his revenge on Cecily at the same time. He was going to win. There was no doubt in his mind. This time, he would win.

 

London’s most notorious rake had of late become even more notorious. In whispers the on-dits had spread through the ton. St. Clair, it was said, had taken a new mistress, that pretty blonde opera dancer at the Haymarket. No, others said, he had already discarded her and had taken up with Lady Wentworth, his past flirt. Or, it was even alleged, both at the same time. He had been seen in a decidedly bosky condition staggering home in the small hours of the morning, and he had punished an opponent at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon so thoroughly that Jackson himself had had to step in and end the bout. And his spells of gambling at Crockford’s, Brooks’s, even Watier’s, were legendary. With great abandon he tossed down his markers, not seeming to care whether he won or lost. Most of the time he won, which was just as well. It could be quite expensive, as well as deliciously dangerous, having two mistresses on one string.

Alex sat slumped in one of the green leather chairs in the Duke of Bainbridge’s study, contemplating a misspent life. After only a few days of his former activities, he was heartily sick of them. Rumor hadn’t exaggerated his recent exploits. He had indeed gambled a great deal; he had also drunk more than his share of wine. His ravaged face had not dimmed the effect of his famous charm, nor had it repelled the females; if anything, it seemed to have stirred up protective instincts in the ample breast of the opera dancer, whom he was considering installing as his mistress. Already, however, her golden charms were palling on him. Her curves were too lush, her hair too brassy for a man accustomed to a slender girl with honey brown curls and huge, laughing amber eyes. Certainly he didn’t love her. He wasn’t even certain he liked her, which had never mattered before. Dimly he realized the course he was on was self-destructive. What he didn’t know was how to change it.

The door to the study opened and Bainbridge strode in. “Good morning, St. Clair,” he said, holding out his hand as Alex rose. “Good of you to come this morning.”

“Good morning, sir. Has there been word of Edgewater?”

“None, but with everyone in the country looking for him, we’ll get him.” Bainbridge sat. “Would you care for coffee?”

“No, thank you. No idea where Edgewater is?”

“No. He’s harmless now, without his accomplices.”

“I’m not so certain of that.” Alex’s face was sober. He wouldn’t rest easy until he knew for certain that Edgewater was behind bars. “Why have you called me here today? Not another assignment, I hope?”

“There is something—but we’ll discuss that later. There’s someone who wishes to meet you. We thought it more discreet for you to come here.”

“Who is that?”

“Lord Liverpool. He’s in the drawing room at the moment. If you’d care to come upstairs—”

A little while later Alex was ensconced in the same chair in the study, this time accepting the refreshment of brandy the duke offered. He had just spent an uncomfortable few moments with the Prime Minister, receiving his thanks, which made him feel uneasy. What, after all, had he done? Other people had arrested the conspirators; other people had taken greater risks than he had, the man who had impersonated Liverpool most of all. All he had managed was to allow Edgewater to escape, and to wound deeply the one woman he would ever love. It was not, he thought, taking a gulp of the brandy, one of his more successful enterprises.

“On the whole, it went well,” Bainbridge said. “The assassin is dead, revolution has been averted, and all without too much fuss. You are to be congratulated, St. Clair.”

“Thank you,” Alex muttered.

“In fact, we believe you could be valuable to the Home Office.”

Alex set his glass down hard. “No.”

“No?” Bainbridge raised an eyebrow.

“No. My spying days are done.” No more did he want anything to do with that world, where no one could be trusted, no one could be loved. It was too late for him now to have the life he had so briefly envisioned, but damned if he would continue spying.

“Oh, sit down, St. Clair, I agree with you.”

Alex paused in the act of rising, feeling foolish. “You do?”

“Yes. Hear me out. Too many people are aware of what you’ve done for you to be of any value as a spy. However, we could use men like you in the Home Office. You have knowledge of what it actually entails to be a spy.”

“So I would direct others, instead of actually spying myself,” Alex said, slowly.

“If you wish. There’s much that needs to be done. I needn’t tell you that the country is not in good shape. Any information we can gather to avert revolution is necessary.”

“Mm.” Alex took a sip from his glass, to cover his thoughts. Oddly enough, he had come to agree with Edgewater. Changes needed to be made in England, changes that had nothing to do with the repression the government seemed intent on enforcing, but instead had to do with people’s lives. Changes such as Cecily was trying to make, at the orphanage where she taught; changes that would give a man work, and his family enough to eat. Changes that he could possibly help to effect.

Alex shrugged. “I may as well. On one condition.”

“Yes?”

“I want to be in charge of catching Edgewater.”

Bainbridge opened his mouth, looked at Alex’s grim face, and then nodded. “Done,” he said, holding out his hand. “We’ll be glad of your help.”

“Thank you.” Alex held up his glass to be refilled, as they toasted his future. It wasn’t much, but it was something to do. At least it would give meaning to a life that otherwise was empty and purposeless. A life that stretched endlessly ahead of him, without Cecily. He wondered how he would survive it.

 

“Thank you, Jem,” Cecily said, early that afternoon, smiling at the groom as she opened the side door of Marlow House. The groom bowed, and she slipped inside, pausing in the hallway to make certain no one was about. Good. Once again she had managed to go to, and return from, the orphanage, without being remarked, and that was a distinct relief. Life had been empty these last few days, purposeless, and the social round had lost all meaning. Teaching at the orphanage had come to mean a great deal to her. It wasn’t much, but it gave some purpose to her life.

“Good afternoon, Timms,” she said to the butler as she entered the front hall. “Are my mother and sister at home?”

The butler bowed. “The duke and duchess went out sometime ago, my lady, but I believe Lady Diana is abovestairs.”

“Thank you.” Cecily went upstairs, her serene face hiding her troubled thoughts. The problem was, everything she did now reminded her of Alex. At a ball or an assembly, she always glanced about the room, expecting to see him, only to be disappointed. He was no longer to be found in the park in the early morning when she rode, nor had she seen him today at the orphanage. Of course not. There was no longer any reason for him to keep watch over her. It hurt, still, that he had used her so; it probably always would. Hadn’t he cared about her, just a little?

Her room was empty when she entered it, which was a relief; she didn’t think she could bear her maid’s chatter just now. Pulling off her gloves, she crossed the room to her dressing table. She had just taken off her bonnet and was smoothing her hair when a reflection in the mirror caught her eye. An envelope, propped up on the pillows of her bed.

There was no way she could contain her curiosity. Throwing herself across the bed, she opened the envelope and pulled out the sheet of writing paper within. “Dear Cecily,” it began, in Diana’s hasty, cramped script. “Edward told me not to tell anyone of this, but I couldn’t leave without telling you, dear sister. We are to be married....”

Cecily drew in her breath, sharply, and scanned the rest of the note. “Oh, the little fool!” she exclaimed, dropping the note from fingers gone suddenly nerveless. Diana had eloped with Edgewater.