Viscountess of Vice Page 22

  “No. I haven’t seen him before.” Michael handed him a card.

  Well, he could at least find out what the man wanted. “I’ll see him.” He stepped out into the foyer. “Good morning Mr.”—he glanced down at the card—“Biedermeier. I am Angus Atleigh, the Society’s vice-president. Won’t you come in and sit down?”

  The blond man nodded and was soon seated across from him.

  “Thank you for seeing me. I came on a lark, really. Found myself with some time to spare this morning and thought I might have a look at the place, meet Dr. Burnham’s colleagues.”

  “Oh, you’re a friend of Dr. Burnham!”

  “I’m Georg Biedermeier.” After a beat of silence, the man’s brow furrowed slightly. “From Birmingham.” When Mr. Atleigh’s confusion still forestalled a response, the furrow grew deeper. “From the gun works?”

  He had no idea what the man was talking about. How mortifying. “I’m sorry. Have we met? You’ll have to forgive me. I’m terrible with names and faces.” Mr. Biedermeier was beginning to look more than a little vexed. The perspiration that had begun to accumulate around Mr. Atleigh’s neck in the meeting room now ran in rivulets down his back.

  “I own the gun works that Dr. Burnham is using for his study.”

  “Ah! Perhaps that explains Dr. Burnham’s absence from our meeting last week! We all wondered where he was. He’s usually so reliable.”

  The visitor leaned forward abruptly, causing Mr. Atleigh reflexively to lean back, as if compensating. “Correct me, this is the Society for the Comfort and Elevation of the Poor and the Betterment of Their Children? The same group that is sponsoring Dr. Burnham’s study of educational reform in my gun works?”

  Suddenly feeling as if he’d stumbled into something he shouldn’t have, Mr. Atleigh was at a loss. “Perhaps you should come back and speak to Mr. Phillips, our president, when he returns. I’m sure I’m not familiar with the details of all the projects conducted under the aegis of the Society. It’s possible that—”

  “Yes, I’ll do that.” Scowling, the man rose. It was only when he was halfway out that he seemed to remember he hadn’t taken his leave and turned back. “Thank you.” He nodded brusquely, leaving Mr. Atleigh alone to ponder the puzzle that was human interaction.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “This is the last time.” Truly, it was. She would never come back here again.

  Blackstone didn’t respond to Catharine as she looked around the drawing room. Some elements of it were familiar—the scarlet silk walls, the fireplace. But much of the furniture had been moved out, and the doors to an adjoining room that was usually used for dining stood open, creating one large, nearly empty space. Empty of furniture, that is. The place was positively teeming with people. Men, mostly. The ratio of gentlemen to ladies, while always high, was tonight tremendous.

  Using the white-gloved hand that rested on Blackstone’s arm, Catharine pulled his head down. Whispering in his ear, as if to voice her thoughts repeatedly would somehow legitimize them, she said, “This is the last time I’m ever setting foot in this place.”

  They’d been threading their way to the refreshment table. The earl halted their progress and turned to face her squarely. “The last time,” he echoed.

  Satisfied, she nodded and set them back on their path. The room was terribly overheated, and she did want a glass of lemonade.

  “Lady V,” said Amelia, who stood near the refreshment table, “don’t you look…different.” It was a barb, veiled in a smile.

  Catharine glanced down at herself. Yes. She’d agreed to accompany Blackstone here tonight, but as during her last trip to Madame Cherie’s, she’d shed her typically risqué attire in favor of something more conventional. White gloves replaced black and her neckline was fashionably, but not indecently, low. Instead of her usual deep-toned silks, she’d chosen a silvery-blue taffeta evening dress, taking pleasure in how well the color picked up the blue feathers of her mask and the blue of her eyes. But Amelia probably hadn’t noticed what seemed to Catharine like the biggest difference: her unadorned neck. She still felt the absence of the ruby, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to put it back on after her encounter with Biedermeier. While performing her toilette earlier, she had tried and rejected the few other necklaces she owned. None of them felt right, so she’d decided to forgo ornamentation this evening, selecting only a pair of small pearl earbobs.

  Catharine refused to rise to Amelia’s bait. Sliding a hand into the hidden pocket she’d had Lucinda add to her dress, she closed her hand around the familiar stone. Even though she would never wear it around her neck again, she needed it tonight for strength. She smiled and murmured her thanks for the questionable compliment as she allowed Blackstone to steer her toward the far wall. He bent his head to her ear as they walked. “He’s here, behind us, near the woman in green by the door. Now, laugh as if I’ve said something delightful.”

  With a final squeeze of the ruby, she followed his instructions, marveling at how the spymaster’s eyes seemed to be everywhere simultaneously. Reaching the wall, Blackstone leaned against it rakishly and positioned her so they were facing each other but had a prospect of most of the room, putting them on display.

  Sure enough, they spent only a few minutes engaged in idle, flirtatious chitchat before Biedermeier began making his way toward them. She felt his approach as much as she saw it. A shiver ran through her, even in the humid room.

  “Lady V.” He bowed, and when he straightened, inched a little closer to her, eyeing Blackstone.

  “Mr. Biedermeier, how wonderful to see you.” She flashed what she hoped was a smile that told him he was special. She turned to Blackstone. “My lord, allow me to present Mr. Georg Biedermeier to you. Mr. Biedermeier, the Earl of Blackstone.”

  Blackstone offered a miniscule nod, putting on his most intimidating front. It appeared to work, because when Mr. Bailey chose that moment to approach, Biedermeier seemed glad of the interruption, greeting the newcomer heartily.

  The addition of Mr. Bailey and Biedermeier meant that the quartet stood in a circle. Catharine, her back to the crowd, listened as the men discussed gun stocks, the habitual topic of conversation between Biedermeier and Mr. Bailey.

  The rise and fall of their conversation faded into the background din of the room as she retreated into her thoughts. Just a week ago she’d exposed her body to this man! It seemed now as if it had happened to someone else, like she’d been an actress playing a role. This is how spies are made. She saw it all clearly now. It seemed so awful at the outset, but eventually, one managed to divorce emotion from action. Just like Blackstone—this was how he’d withstood weeks courting Amelia. For a good spy, there was no morality, simply a series of actions that must be taken. It should have seemed difficult to live that way. But really, she already did. It was precisely how she had conducted her careless romantic liaisons in the ton. No morality, just actions, detached from any cause or consequence.

  She turned her attention to Blackstone. A natural actor, he managed to participate in the conversation even as he maintained an aloof, slightly bored air, as if too much discussion of trade would sully his aristocratic pedigree. He gazed around the room from time to time while Biedermeier spoke. Mr. Bailey played his part well, too. She’d heard so much about his imaginary cousin that she could almost picture the fictional beech trees being felled to aid the war effort.

  Blackstone caught her eye as he turned his attention back to the group from one of his scans of the room. But his face communicated nothing. It was a perfectly blank canvas, and his eyes moved quickly away from hers. His glance pulled her attention back to the conversation. Mr. Bailey and Biedermeier were preparing to decamp for the billiards room.

  “You’re sure you won’t join us, my lord?” Mr. Bailey asked.

  “I appreciate the offer, but no,” Blackstone said in a way that suggested he did not at all appreciate the offer. “It will take more than billiards to tempt me from Lady V’s side.”
<
br />   Mr. Bailey smiled at her. “One can hardly blame you, my lord.”

  Biedermeier could not disguise his agitation as he looked from Blackstone to her, eyes narrow and angry. An awkward silence settled over the group. Catharine knew she was perfectly safe here, standing with the earl in the midst of a crowd, but she felt a chill nonetheless. She reached for the comforting physicality of the ruby again.

  Blackstone fixed the gunmaker with a raised eyebrow stare and settled his hand on her waist. It seemed he meant to literally keep his promise to not leave her side all evening. The earl prevailed. Biedermeier bowed and followed Mr. Bailey away.

  They were good men, Blackstone and Mr. Bailey, performing a noble, thankless task, driven only by a strong sense of duty, a devotion to the right and the good. She supposed the earl would argue that if he and Mr. Bailey were good men, then she was, in turn, a good woman. They were all tangled up in the same world of espionage, making similar sacrifices, giving up the happy, settled lives that others took for granted. She could imagine, if circumstances were different, taking an odd sort of pride in her actions.

  But she knew another good man who prevented her from doing so, a truly good man. His motives were pure, his every action considered. At the same time, he wasn’t at all the straitlaced, humorless reformer that one might expect him to be. Quite the contrary. His dry wit was born of incredible intelligence, and though he cared deeply about his work, he never let it delude him. She had seen compassion in his beautiful emerald eyes, and, amazingly, desire. She flicked open her fan, knowing full well that the warmth gathering between her legs had nothing to do with conditions in the overheated drawing room. Picturing his dark, neat, shortly cropped hair, she closed her eyes for a moment and remembered what it looked like up close after they’d made love: tousled and flecked with white around his temples. The hollow between her collarbones itched, a visceral memory of how often he had caressed her there. She could hear his voice, low in her ear, as he molded himself to her, showing her how to skip stones. “I was waiting for the right lady to present herself,” he’d said. “I have very exacting taste.”

  “Catharine.” His voice was low and clear. She heard it over—or perhaps in spite of—the buzz of the crowd.

  She turned, pulled irrevocably toward the voice. “Yes?”

  He was going to unmask her. James stood obscured in a shadowy corner of the drawing room watching Catharine converse with Biedermeier, the Earl of Blackstone, and Mr. Bailey. Wouldn’t the pure-hearted Mrs. Watson be shocked to learn about the company her friends kept? He’d been cycling between grief and anger this past week. Now, seeing her, the anger rose, dominant. Searing, white-hot rage of the sort that made men insensible. He knew it, and all his life he’d striven to be the opposite, to be measured and logical.

  But he was going to give in. With each breath, a little more of the helpless, grinding heartbreak that had consumed him all week seeped away. Devastation transformed itself into intent; helplessness became power. He merely had to wait until Biedermeier left her side. The gunmaker could not see him here, or he would grow suspicious. There was no reason for an upstanding social reformer to be in a place like this. If he were caught that would be the end of James’s experiment—and his plan to save the children. Once the vile man was gone, James would remove Catharine’s mask and disappear into the ensuing chaos.

  It hadn’t been his initial plan. He’d come here merely to accuse her privately, to ask for the money to start the school. The children’s welfare secured, he planned to visit the Home Office on Monday. But here she was talking and laughing with Biedermeier and the Earl of Blackstone with not a care in the world. Careless. No, that wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t nearly strong enough for the damage she had done. His breath caught in his throat.

  But now…

  Revenge. A base, animalistic impulse, but it beckoned, and it was within his grasp. Lady V’s real identity would be revealed to all, and she would learn what it was to be forsaken. All he needed to do was allow the scientist to give in to the rage, to reach out and pull off her mask. And then walk away. So simple.

  His heart thudded and his hand shook as he reached up to adjust his suddenly too-tight cravat. Revenge was something he’d thought he was above, but it seemed his civility was yet another thing she had taken from him.

  “Dr. Burnham, may I speak frankly with you?”

  Dammit! Madame Cherie laid her hand on his sleeve, the light touch yanking him back to earth. It was all he could do not to violently shake the bejeweled hand away, as if it were the devil’s own. Biting his tongue to keep from shouting his rage, he gave her his attention, but turned fully toward her so his back was to the crowd. It was essential that Biedermeier not see him, and chatting with the house’s madam was not the best way to remain hidden.

  “You don’t belong here, Dr. Burnham.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I didn’t invite you tonight.”

  It was true, but was she really going to have him ejected from the throng? A bitter laugh escaped as he scanned the crowd, intent on keeping his eye on Biedermeier.

  “You’re too good for this place,” she said, not unkindly. “I’ve decided it’s for the best if you stay away.”

  Gone was her usual seductive tone. Strangely, she seemed sincere as she gazed at him evenly. He would have been at a loss for words if he hadn’t noticed Biedermeier on the move. He and Mr. Bailey took their leave of Catharine. The earl, a possessive hand on her waist, remained.

  “It’s no use, my dear Dr. Burnham.” Madame’s gaze had followed his and was also settled on the pair. “Whatever tendre you hold for Lady V, it’s never going to come to anything. That’s the Earl of Blackstone with her. They’re devoted to each other, though it’s hard to see why. I’m beginning to wonder if she’s a highborn lady after all. Perhaps she indulges him because she hopes—”

  “Oh, she’s an aristocrat, all right,” James said, summoning the rage again as he watched Biedermeier retreat. This time he did shake Madame’s hand off his sleeve, no longer caring about appearing rude. “And soon everyone will know it.” He strode across the room, letting his fury propel him. The Earl of Blackstone had seemed a good sort at the Watsons’ party. But he was clearly her lover, too. James understood now that it was all a game to her. People were pawns, tenderness was to be mocked, devotion rewarded with scorn. It wasn’t right.

  A few more strides. People stepped out of his path, clearing the way for him as if they could feel the grim determination that pressed him forward.

  “Catharine,” he said, when he was a few feet from her. He did not speak loudly. But the conversation around them had died, so she heard him and turned, leaning toward his outstretched hand.

  “Yes?”

  It was the smile that undid him. It contained all the best things he’d seen in her these last few weeks: compassion, seduction, intelligence. And delight. It said she was glad to see him. Her smile did not lie, and it immediately and utterly dissipated the anger that had driven him this far. Whatever he thought he had witnessed between her and Biedermeier had an explanation. He knew it suddenly, as surely as he had ever believed in any of his causes. And he was not giving up, not this easily. He would fight for her.

  For a moment, he allowed himself to smile back, to believe for one instant that they were alone, lovers on the brink of a reunion. Then everything went to hell.

  It started slowly. “Catharine?” was repeated in urgent, questioning whispers by onlookers, and as her smile faded, the crowd grew more agitated. The blood roared in his ears, crescendoing so that all he could hear from the still-chattering crowd were snippets: highborn, whore, ruined.

  Confused, she broke with his gaze and turned her head from side to side, realization dawning.

  A sob caught in his throat, and he forced it down. The hand he’d intended to use to unmask her was still extended, but the intent behind the gesture had changed utterly. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, reaching for her, this tim
e intending to comfort, to soothe, to pull her to him regardless of how improper it was and despite the fact they had an audience. The rest of the world could go straight to the devil, as far as he was concerned. “I love you,” he said, and though he whispered, the room had grown quiet. His declaration, heard by all, incited murmurings anew throughout the crowd.

  She took a step toward him, and the vise clamped round his heart eased a little. She shook her head. “You don’t know what I’ve done.” Her voice was thick with tears, tears that felt like they might drown him.

  She looked at him with such sadness, almost a burden beyond bearing. But there was love in her eyes, too. He saw it, suddenly, as clearly as if it had been illuminated with a sunbeam from heaven. She might not even be aware of it herself, but he saw it, and seeing it made everything clear. No matter what else happened, he would fight for her.

  “I do,” he said. “I do know.” He wanted to say more: that it was all right, that the details, even if he didn’t understand them, didn’t matter. But before he could get the words out, another hand intruded on their exchange, clamping down on his shoulder from behind.

  “One would think a man like you would find his entertainment elsewhere.” An accent. German. Delivering words dripping with scorn. “I think it’s time we all see who your whore is, Dr. Burnham.”

  “No.” James heard himself speak, but the voice seemed to come through him, from some deeper place. The rage was back, but this time it was directed at Biedermeier, and this time it was lethal. He pivoted to block Biedermeier at the same time the Earl of Blackstone did.

  Neither man moved fast enough. Biedermeier grabbed Catharine’s mask near her forehead, along with a handful of the flame-colored hair and pulled with enough force that she stumbled into the gunmaker’s chest. Flinging the wig and the mask to the ground, Biedermeier heaved her off him, the force of his shove sending her careening back.

  “And you,” spat Biedermeier, lunging at James. “You contemptible blackguard. It’s not enough that you’ve misled me with your sham of an experiment, now you’ve taken up with a whore? Isn’t that against your righteous, reforming morals?” Ignoring the diatribe, James dove for Catharine, mad with fear, intent upon shielding her identity from the now-silent crowd.