Lady Maryann’s betrothal ball had taken place on a Saturday. When the last guest finally left well past two o’clock Sunday morning, she had been only too glad to fall into bed and close her eyes without a thought to spare for either her betrothed or his friend, Mr. Stephen Farrell.
But all day Sunday, Maryann was at leisure to consider Mr. Farrell and his reprehensible and utterly tasteless remark. She wished she had never heard his name. She certainly, definitely, would not smirch the pages of a letter to her friend Bella Effingham with the name Farrell.
How faulty one’s judgment could be. The man had impressed her with his vitality, his earthy looks and keen, clear gaze. She had been intrigued and curious. And when she learned he had been a spy during the war, she had been utterly fascinated.
Some Englishmen, her father for instance, held spies in contempt, judging them lower than the smugglers who had filled Bonaparte’s coffers with British gold. Maryann admired the courageous men who had, unprotected by government or army, gathered intelligence in enemy territory. They were her heroes.
Yet this hero had proven beyond a doubt that he was a cad.
He had offended her and insulted the man who regarded him as a friend by speaking of Tammadge’s preferences in the marriage bed. Or was it outside the marriage bed? It mattered not; one was as unseemly as the other.
And why she hadn’t alerted her fiancé to his friend’s disgustingly loose tongue was more than she could understand. It certainly wasn’t because she feared to be overcome by missishness.
Neither did she understand why, above perfectly justified anger, she should feel sadness and disappointment at Mr. Farrell’s perfidy.
All in all, on Sunday, April 14, Lady Maryann’s emotions more closely resembled those of a woman left waiting at the altar than those of a young lady whose betrothal to Viscount Tammadge was considered the coup of the season. But Monday morning, as Maryann got ready for her stint in Mr. Salisbury’s Botanic Garden, she dismissed all negative thoughts.
She had rose bushes to mulch, wilted tulips and narcissi to clip. Mr. Farrell was of no importance compared to the work that lay ahead. As she would pluck a weed from the soil, she’d pluck him from her mind and toss him out with the rubbish.
Having made up her mind not to think of Stephen Farrell again, she was more than a little irritated to find a curricle drawn up behind her carriage when she stepped outside, and the detestable man himself in conversation with her groom at the foot of the marble steps, where she could not help but take notice of him.
If it had been the old coachman speaking to Stephen Farrell, she might not have minded. But Robert was her friend, her childhood companion, and even though he could not know that Farrell had insulted her, his chatting with him was like a betrayal.
“Robert,” she said, addressing the groom in an unprecedented imperious tone. “I am ready to leave.”
Blushing to the roots of his sandy hair, the strapping young fellow pulled off his cap and jumped aside to let her pass. Maryann intended to sweep past Mr. Farrell with no more than a cool nod, but, whether he anticipated her move or whether by accident, that gentleman suddenly stood directly in her path.
“Lady Maryann, please allow me to apologize for my inexcusable behavior Saturday night.”
She wanted to ignore him but refused to resort to cowardly sidestepping. Instead, she fixed her gaze on a point just off his sun-streaked hair.
And why the dickens did he not wear a hat like other men?
“You did apologize, Mr. Farrell. Nothing more need be said.”
“You’re wrong. Much more must be said, but words are inadequate to convey my regret for having caused you distress.”
She tilted her head, focusing fully on his face. “Mr. Farrell, I assure you, I’ll gladly accept your apologies, inadequate or otherwise, if you will only step aside. I am pressed for time, and besides, I don’t like to keep the horses standing.”
“Neither do I. Why don’t you ask Robert to return your carriage to the mews, and we’ll exercise my horses while I explain what prompted me to go beyond the pale.”
He clasped her elbow, clearly expecting her to accompany him. But Maryann was not easily persuaded. He couldn’t possibly have an explanation for his offensive behavior. Or could he?
Unmoved by the gentle pressure of his hand, she contemplated the set of his jaw while contrariness and curiosity fought a brief if violent skirmish in her breast.
Curiosity won. She started walking toward the curricle.
“Since it’s such a lovely morning,” she murmured, giving him a sidelong look.
His dark gaze touched her hair, her nose, lingered on her mouth, as he assisted her into the seat. “Too lovely to waste in a closed carriage.”
Her face grew warm, but nothing would induce her to admit she was flustered and felt unsure of herself in the presence of this unpredictable man.
Arranging the folds of her skirt about her feet, she called out to her groom. “Robert, you may fetch me at the usual time.”
Farrell climbed up beside her, and with a flick of the reins they were off. For a while they drove in silence, Maryann determined not to betray by word or look that curiosity had prompted her to accept the invitation. By the time they turned into Park Lane, she was ready to toss resolve to the wind. Would he never get around to the promised explanation? Or to saying anything at all?
Uneasy, she shifted on the seat. Her foot touched something soft. “Ho,” she said, leaning down to feel behind her skirts. “Are we carrying a stowaway?”
“Dash it! If I didn’t forget.”
Farrell slowed the horses to a walk. His long arm shot out, and after a brief tussle with an ankle and her hand, he came up with a posy of violets rather the worse for wear.
“For you,” he said, giving her a crooked grin. “Thought you might need some inducement to drive out with me.”
She accepted the limp blooms, cradling them in her hands. Poor things. They needed water. She looked at Farrell. His expression, an odd mixture of uncertainty and boldness, made her sit up straighter.
“You offered an explanation, sir. That was inducement enough. Pray get to the point.”
“Yes, my lady.”
But Stephen took his time. When he made the sudden decision in the wee hours of Sunday morning to see the Lady Maryann once more, to drop a word of warning about Tammadge in her ear, it had seemed a simple task. He’d hint with a delicate phrase or two at the viscount’s unsuitability as a husband and be off the hook, his conscience salved.
To get Tammadge was his primary concern. He would say or do nothing to jeopardize his position of trust in the viscount’s circle of intimates. During the eight weeks since his brother’s suicide, he had pretended to be a Captain Sharp, an adventurer, a ruthless opportunist in search of easy money. Instinct told him that Tammadge was on the point of offering a cut in his dirty deals.
And that would be the end of Tammadge, cheat, despoiler, peddler in human flesh. With Stephen’s evidence, the magistrate of the Bow Street court could place the noose around Tammadge’s neck.
But, then, there was Lady Maryann, Tammadge’s betrothed. Perhaps by the time Sir Nathaniel was in a position to act, she’d be married to the viscount—a thought that tore at Stephen’s guts, toughened as they were by his experiences in the Peninsula.
The scandal, justly or unjustly, would annihilate Lady Maryann. Unless he warned her away from Tammadge. Unfortunately, the young lady beside him did not look as though she’d listen meekly to whatever he might say, thank him, and take her leave—or that she would heed his warning.
Under the guise of negotiating the heavy traffic at Hyde Park corner, Stephen studied her closely, taking note of the primed mouth, the haughty tilt of the nose, which would have delighted him if it hadn’t added to the aura of determination surrounding her. Inquisitiveness as well as intelligence shone from her wide gray eyes, and instinct told him to tread with the utmost wariness.
“Lady Maryann,” he stated cautiously. “You must understand that I was quite bowled over when I learned such a very young lady is betrothed to Lord Tammadge. Too bowled over to choose my words with care.”
“Young? Or do you mean naive? The two don’t necessarily go hand in hand.”
“But perhaps they should?” he countered, irked but not surprised that she would immediately split hairs.
With an impatient gesture, she brushed aside the question. “You must think me very naive, indeed, if you believe I’ll swallow that yarn about being bowled over. It wasn’t until I said you weren’t a skillful liar and asked how you convinced Tammadge of your friendship that you made your vile remark. You hit back like a villain unmasked.”
Not a fool, the Lady Maryann. He had indeed felt unmasked, but he would not be caught off guard again.
And neither would he allow her to distract him. If Tolly’s directions were correct, they’d reach Mr. Salisbury’s Botanic Garden in another block or two. Even at a sedate walk, the distance did not allow time to pussyfoot around a warning.
“Well?” Her clear voice mocked coldly. “Are you a coward as well as a liar?”
“Neither coward, nor liar.” At least, no more a liar than when he pretended to be a Portuguese or Spanish peasant in order to gather vital information for Wellington. “But I fear I may be the world’s biggest fool.”
“And how is that, Mr. Farrell?” she asked sweetly.
“Because I’m risking Tammadge’s friendship by meddling.” That sounded good. Even noble. Encouraged, he spun the yarn further. “I’m trying to warn you, to save you embarrassment, Lady Maryann. And I’m trying to spare your betrothed the pain of hurting you later on.”
She made a sound that was not quite a sniff nor a snort, but conveyed a wealth of meaning—disdain, irritation, and utter disbelief.
“Warn me? Is that what you meant to do when you flaunted propriety and decency and spoke to me of Tammadge’s preferences in the marriage bed?”
“I didn’t want to repeat the offense,” he said mildly. “But since you mention it … Lady Maryann, I spoke of preferences better accommodated outside the marriage bed. You see, I don’t think your betrothed is cut out to be a husband.”
Her small hand balled into a fist, and he feared he might get his ears boxed for his pains.
“You take great pleasure in trying to put me to the blush,” she said angrily. “But let me tell you, Mr. Farrell, I am not so innocent that I am unaware of Tammadge’s interest in the muslin company. Nor am I too missish to acknowledge it.”
Tammadge’s high fliers weren’t quite what he meant, but they must do for now.
“And you don’t mind?”
Under his gaze, a blush seeped from the neck ruffle of her spencer to her hairline, making her look just like the innocent young maiden she had hotly denied.
“I think we had best part company,” she said with icy dignity. “Pray stop the carriage, Mr. Farrell.”
Ignoring the request, Stephen speculated about the kind of marriage she anticipated. Was she resigned to a husband who’d seek his pleasures elsewhere?
Sharply, he called himself to order. What he ought to tell her had as little to do with extramarital affairs as a Covent Garden nun had to do with a convent. But he could not, must not, let on that Bow Street was investigating her betrothed.
He could, however, frighten her just a little by using some of the brutal facts he had learned in his association with the viscount.
“You are naive.” He spoke bluntly, harshly. But, then, there was no other way of saying it. “Preferences outside the marriage bed refer to cravings, as sadistic as they are perverted, to which a wife or even a lady of easy virtue would not willingly submit. Tammadge is known to—”
“Stop! I won’t listen to such filth.”
Oblivious to danger, Lady Maryann scrambled to her feet and would have jumped from the moving vehicle had he not clasped her arm and forced her back on the seat.
Wrath blazed from her eyes. “Let me go! How dare you speak to me of matters no decent man would broach to a young lady! How dare you approach me with lies about my betrothed!”
Tightening his grip on her arm, Stephen pulled up in front of the Sloane Street gardens. He wanted to shake her. He had risked all to spare her the humiliation of a marriage to a swine, and she wouldn’t listen. She’d probably cast herself on Tammadge’s bosom and complain bitterly about his false friend.
“Why the deuce should I lie, knowing you only have to ask Tammadge to expose me? Go ahead,” he urged, hoping the bluff would save his groats. “Go ahead and speak to him.”
“I will!” she spat.
Taking him by surprise, she tore free and sprang to the ground. She ran a few steps in stumbling hurry, then turned to look back at him.
“You are despicable. Tammadge holds you in high esteem, and you stab him in the back. Just tell me this! Did you bribe my groom to ferret information about me?”
Stephen kept an eye on the restive horses and a firm grip on the reins. “I had no information from your groom.”
“I did not tell you where to drive me this morning, yet you took me straight to the gardens.”
Another slip. Damn, but the girl was a distracting peck of troubles.
“Don’t blame the groom,” he said gruffly. “I have other sources.”
Tolly, his brother’s faithful butler, who had dragged his arthritic bones into every church, park, and public house where one of Lord Rivington’s servants might while away an hour on a Sunday. Tolly, who had learned that Lady Maryann left at nine sharp every morning for Mr. Salisbury’s Botanic Garden—come rain or shine, Monday through Friday.
“I forbid you to question our staff about me!”
“I have no need of your servants, Lady Maryann. Already I know more about you than you know about your betrothed.”
A sound like a sob tore from her chest. “I despise you!”
He hardened his heart against compassion for the slender girl, hat askew, fury and defiance blazing from her eyes. But he could not steel himself against the whiplash of her voice. Her disgust cut too deep.
“I know, for instance, that you’re a hard-headed bargain driver, Lady Maryann. That you wouldn’t consent to wed Lord Tammadge until a fortune was settled on you.”
“You’re scum, Mr. Farrell! Hateful, detestable scum.”
Stephen watched her run until a hawthorn hedge swallowed her from view. His hands clenched on the reins, but he did not give the horses the office to go.
He shouldn’t have added that rider. He had accomplished his purpose, had delivered a warning, perhaps planted a seed of doubt in her mind. Reminding her that her betrothal was a business arrangement as much as, or more than, a pledge of affection, had probably done more harm than good.
Bloody hell. Once again he had botched, had discarded logic and reason to indulge in an emotional act. Because her accusations and disgust had cut him.
Fool! Emotion, he reminded himself bitterly, was a dangerous encumbrance he could not afford to lug around. He was already burdened with bitterness against William, who had thrown away his life; he must not add to that weight by letting Lady Maryann get under his skin.
He should have stuck to his decision to stay away from her, but he had to follow his blasted conscience and bloody well jeopardize the whole investigation.
Forget her now. She had parents, hadn’t she? Let the all mighty Earl of Rivington protect his precious daughter.
But in case, just in case she should have a need of him, he had given that strapping young groom of hers the name of the Fighting Cock tavern.
Stephen sent a last glance at the spot where Lady Maryann had stood and called him scum; a few feet away, on the flagged walk leading into Mr. Salisbury’s Botanic Garden, he saw the posy of violets—more wilted, more battered than before.
He hesitated only an instant, then got down from the curricle and picked the flowers up.