Barbara Metzger - Truly Yours

Lady Royce was not a fool. She had a footman stationed in the corridor.

Lady Royce's plan-one of her plans, anyway-appeared to be working. Soon invitations to the countess included ones for Miss Amanda Carville, and their escorts, of course. All but the highest sticklers welcomed the party from Royce House, and one or two of those who refused to countenance the countess's questionable guests actually canceled their evening plans altogether, rather than offend Lady Royce. She was on too many charitable committees, behind too many worthy foundations, too big a contributor to political causes. Besides, as her son was quickly learning, too many people actually liked his… mother.

As for the others, what a coup it was for a hostess to have the latest scandal broth brewing right on her doorstep. The ladies vied to have their invitations accepted, sending round notes and reminders. They stopped inviting Sir Nigel after the countess declared she would not attend any function where the barrister was present. No one wanted to be excluded from her ladyships's elegant dinners; no one wanted to be in her black books. An official of the high court was nothing to a peeress of the highest social standing.

The beau monde was happy enough to have the dangerous cousins and the killer among them. Then, too, if Lady Royce claimed Miss Carville was innocent and not bachelor fare as they'd heard, they would believe it, also. The countess was known to be the most upright of matrons, with nary a whisper of wrongdoing in all the years apart from her peculiar husband. Loyal to a fault, she would never hear a word against Lord Royce, either, the ton had soon learned. What, believe that scurvy, scrimping Sir Frederick instead of one of their own? Never.

Amanda was treated with courtesy, if not warmth. She sat beside the countess and made pleasant conversations without being pushing. She did not encourage the gentlemen, would not dance or go off alone, and she wore somber colors. The polite world agreed that she was a prettily behaved miss. But they had always thought so, they told each other and the countess.

Everyone watched to see Rex's behavior toward the young lady. He felt as if he were a canary in a flimsy cage surrounded by hungry cats, all of whom were sharpening their claws. He could not dance with Amanda, take her out to the balconies, or find hidden paths through darkened gardens. He could not sit beside her all night, keeping her safe from the tabbies and the gossips. He could not stare at her, admiring her poise, her charm, her luminous beauty. He could not even tuck an errant blond curl back under her bonnet, not without having the banns called.

So he took a page from Daniel's book and disappeared as soon as he saw the ladies seated at whatever affair the countess decreed they attend. That is, Rex tried to escape the scrutiny and the speculation. Instead, he found himself swamped with gushing misses, all wanting to declare they had not killed Sir Frederick, just so they could be thrilled and chilled by looking into his startling eyes. Young men wanted to know what he called the knot in his neckcloth. He called it a knot. They dubbed it the Rexford Knight Fall, in honor of his quest to rescue the lady.

Older men pressed him to join their political parties, their committees to reform this or to bolster that. He nodded politely without committing himself. Older women met the same fate: no promises, no encouragement. They bored him to tears, every one. Worse, he was wasting time, Amanda's time. The men on his list of suspects or conspirators did not attend the same gatherings as the countess. Lydia Burton certainly did not.

Daniel went where the countess directed, but was better at finding the card room or the refreshments table or an empty library with comfortable sofas for a nap. He had no title, no fortune, so had no metaphorical bull's-eye painted on his back. Every time a female spoke to him, he found a new itch to scratch.

"Why the devil can't they tell the truth?"

"What, they should say your neckcloth is a shambles, your dotted waistcoat is dotty, your conversation is dull, and dancing with you is a torture that their poor feet will never recover from? Be happy they lie and say it was a pleasure."

After a few days of this, both cousins rebelled. The countess allowed them to attend the theater instead of a rout party, where Daniel enjoyed the farce, and Rex enjoyed watching Amanda laugh as if she had no cares in the world. And he got to hold her hand where no one could see. They also went to view the Egyptian Exhibit and the new waxworks, where no one told lies. Of course, no one was alive, but Daniel and Rex found that a relief. On pleasant afternoons the cousins dutifully accompanied the ladies' carriage to the park, but both gentlemen rode off as soon as Lady Royce's friends gathered around, halting the flow of traffic behind them.

Rex's elusiveness seemed to add to his appeal as a man of mystery, a dashing soldier with a doubtful reputation. His pursuit by matchmaking mamas and their desperate daughters was merciless, which amused Daniel as much as the mummies had. Showing as much sympathy as his cousin, Lady Royce reminded Rex that a betrothal announcement in the newspapers would end the chase immediately.

Amanda decided she had been seen enough. She'd rather stay at home with a book, one with a happy ending.

Almost every morning Rex had a real gallop in the park, before the fog lifted, and before the paths were clogged with the dandy set showing off their ensembles, or Corinthians showing off their highbred horses.

After his ride Rex often went to assist Inspector Dimm. Daniel disliked going to Bow Street, saying he had rashes for hours afterward, but Rex found the work interesting, the criminal mind a fascinating study. As for Dimm, the Runner was thinking of taking a holiday, his first in dog years, because the crime rate was so low. He was winning commendations and collecting rewards for all the convictions, plus making the streets of London safer. If he could only figure out how Rex could tell the guilty from the innocent, he said, he'd be a happy man.

No news came from the Aide, or Major Harrison, or whatever name the man was using that week. No messengers accosted the viscount; no messages awaited him at McCann's. All Rex could do was go over his list and call on the last remaining names, with little success.

Robert Vincent, Esquire, was indeed another lawyer, a solicitor who freely admitted drawing up some papers for Sir Frederick Hawley's prospective investors, but he did not recall the names or the amounts. His clerk had handled the petty details. No, the clerk was no longer in the lawyer's employ. He had emigrated to Canada. And no, Mr. Vincent did not have a copy. Lord Rexford could show all the warrants he wanted, his large cousin could glower until the cows came home, but a recent fire in the office had destroyed all of the files. Yes, he had invested some of his own money to finance a sailing venture.

"For what? Surely you must have asked what the ship was fetching?"

"I believe it was gold. Stolen gold. Gold from a sunken pirate ship that was recently discovered."

"You gave your gold to find gold?" Daniel was incredulous, but he was not itching.

"Hawley had the charts and records of the sightings, official ones, from the navy. It was all a hum, of course. No one knows where the Black Speculator went down."

With the name of the ship, Rex and Daniel could return to some of the people they had questioned before. Lydia Burton's door was closed to them, of course, but White's was not, and Lords Havering and Hove were both still dining there nightly.

Havering admitted he'd invested. Hove slapped his knee and laughed. He'd turned down the opportunity to bring back doubloons and bullion that existed only in a madman's pipe dream.

George Cuthbert had met with a hunting accident and was being sent to recuperate at his family's plantation in Jamaica. Now that Rex knew the right questions to ask, he discovered that Cuthbert was suspected of stealing maps and charts, old ones at that, from the Admiralty offices.

Joseph Johnston of the shipping business would not see them. He left by the back door of his office when they went in the front. He took refuge in his house, with six dock-workers guarding every entrance. No matter, one of his captains enjoyed the rum the cousins bought for him. What else was a sea dog like him to do, stuck in harbor? Yes, rumor had it they were to sail on some secret mission, but he was never ordered to outfit the ship for a journey, so here he sat, growing barnacles instead of rich. The Black Speculator! He laughed so hard he almost spilled his drink. Who would believe that old legend?

The banker, Breverton, had gone on a sudden vacation in Scotland, and Lysander Cord had moved out of the Albany, without a forwarding address. At least Roger Vandermere was still in Fleet Prison, but had no more information to add.

Bowdecker, the belligerent drunk, had been struck by a coach last week and was not expected to recover. Added to Cuthbert's injury and the fire at the law offices, Bowdecker's accident was looking highly suspicious.

By now Rex was having a hard time deciding which were the pigeons being taken, and which were the hawks doing the plucking. He could not tell the honest investors, if there was anything honest about the shady transaction, from those who had helped concoct the scheme. All he knew was that they were all left with nothing by Sir Frederick.

Then Murchison related a bit of information he had unearthed in the emigre community. Sir Frederick's former valet, Brusseau, not only had a brother, but the brother was known to travel to France, by the light of the full moon.