Chapter 3
Departing Lady Milford’s town house a short while later, Ellie gripped the blue velvet pouch beneath her drab brown cloak. The bag held the dancing slippers that had pinched Beatrice’s toes so much that the girl had exclaimed in discomfort and kicked them off at once.
Consequently, Ellie had at first declined to try on the shoes. But Lady Milford had insisted, and by some miracle, the slippers had fit Ellie to perfection. She still didn’t understand why. Though she and her cousin shared the same proportions in gowns, Ellie could have sworn that she herself wore a full size larger in footwear.
That mystifying thought evaporated under the joy of cradling the gorgeous shoes against her bosom. From the moment she’d slid her stockinged feet into the garnet satin lining, a sense of buoyant pleasure had uplifted her. It had felt as if all of her troubles had floated away. She’d wanted to wear them home, though her practical side had swiftly overruled such foolishness.
And although she’d put the slippers back into the soft pouch for safekeeping, her gloved fingers continued to trace the slim shape and the bits of crystal beading. It had been a long time since she’d possessed anything so lovely—not since her papa had been alive. He’d often showered her with presents, though upon his death everything had been sold to help her uncle pay off the creditors.
Ellie didn’t want to remember that now. Nor did she wish to heed the sullen expression on her cousin’s face. In a peacock-blue cloak, her hands tucked into an ermine muff, Beatrice marched toward the black brougham with the gold Pennington crest emblazoned on the door.
That scowl foretold trouble. No doubt Ellie would be soundly chastised on the way home. Nevertheless, she didn’t believe for an instant that her cousin’s ill humor had anything to do with a pair of cast-off dancing slippers. After all, Beatrice owned a cupboard overflowing with fancy shoes.
No, the girl’s sulkiness was rooted in the failure of her marriage scheme. Having been pampered all her life, Beatrice had expected to persuade Lady Milford to do her bidding. Now, Beatrice would have to be soothed and placated, and Ellie didn’t look forward to the task.
A footman in forest-green livery sprang to open the door of the brougham. However, Beatrice didn’t climb inside. Rather, she stopped so abruptly that Ellie nearly collided with her.
Beatrice peered down the town-house-lined street where a few carriages and drays rumbled over the cobblestones. As if transformed by the wave of a fairy godmother’s wand, the petulant set of her mouth altered magically into a coquettish smile.
“Oh, splendid!” Beatrice pushed past Ellie, leaving a cloud of rose-water perfume in her wake. “Wait here, or you’ll spoil everything.”
Ellie turned to see a gentleman on a fine bay mare cantering toward them. He looked like the consummate fashion plate in his double-breasted blue coat, a white muffler tucked at his throat. As he drew nearer, Ellie recognized his boyish features. He was the son of one of the Earl of Pennington’s acquaintances.
The man reined in his mount, swept off his tall black hat, and bobbed his fair head in a nod. “Upon my word, is it truly Lady Beatrice Stratham? What a lovely surprise on such a cold winter’s day.”
Standing on the curbstone, Beatrice simpered up at him. “Why, Lord Roland. Are you out paying calls, too?”
“Quite. And a dreary prospect it was, until I saw you standing there like an angel descended from the heavens.”
A girlish giggle escaped Beatrice. While they exchanged flirtatious pleasantries, Ellie remained by the open door of the brougham. The chill wind bit at her cheeks and poked icy fingers beneath her cloak. She wanted nothing more than to settle herself in the carriage and tuck a woolen blanket over her lap.
Unfortunately, duty required her to keep an eye on her cousin. A girl not yet launched into society oughtn’t be seen flirting with a gentleman in public.
Yet surely a few minutes couldn’t hurt, especially since this impromptu meeting appeared to have put Beatrice in a better frame of mind. With luck, she might forget about betrothing herself to a duke who was twice her age. The younger son of a marquess, Lord Roland was only three years her senior and a far more suitable marital prospect.
Watching them, Ellie let her mind wander to the meager contents of her wardrobe. She debated the necessity of buying fabric at the linen drapers to sew a new ball gown. Such a purchase would require dipping into her precious stash of coins. Yet she couldn’t abide the notion of wearing the shoes with a cheap, outdated frock.
A pity Lady Milford hadn’t realized the impracticality of the gift.
For a moment, Ellie wondered at her wisdom in taking charity from a mere acquaintance. Always before, it had pricked her pride to accept hand-me-downs, and those had been from her own family. Had it merely been the exquisite shoes that had tempted her so greatly? Perhaps, but there had also been a lack of condescension in Lady Milford’s manner. She had exhibited a sincere desire to be helpful, and it would have been churlish of Ellie to refuse such a kindness.
The chirp of Beatrice’s laugh floated on a gust of wind. She chattered animatedly while Lord Roland leaned down from his mount as if to hang on her every utterance. Luckily, no one of consequence was out for a stroll on this frigid afternoon. The few pedestrians trudging up and down the street appeared to be servants or workmen bundled up against the cold.
Only then did Ellie notice the man seated in an open phaeton a few doors away.
A pair of spirited grays stamped their hooves and blew clouds of mist into the chilly air. With a slight tug of the reins in his gloved hands, the stranger controlled the horses with ease. He was clad entirely in black, from the hat with a curled brim pulled low over his dark hair to the greatcoat that created the impression of a hulking beast. A scarf swathed the lower portion of his face, and she had the oddest impression that it was meant for disguise rather than warmth.
With curious intensity, he was staring at her cousin.
Ellie’s skin prickled, but she attributed the shiver to the weather. The man must be waiting for a neighbor, that was all. His interest in Beatrice was nothing more than idle curiosity.
Nevertheless, Ellie decided that her cousin had been conversing with Lord Roland long enough. Anyone could be peering out of the nearby windows. It took only a whisper of gossip to brand a girl an incorrigible flirt and to tarnish her reputation.
Thankfully, at that moment, Lord Roland tipped his hat and bade Beatrice good-bye. He continued on his way as she came prancing back to the brougham, her face rosy with pleasure. She and Ellie climbed inside and, as the vehicle rumbled through the streets of Mayfair, Beatrice launched into a soliloquy on Lord Roland’s fine manners and how he’d begged her to save him a dance at her come-out ball.
Ellie relaxed, letting the girl babble while offering a comment now and then. How mercurial her cousin was, how easily distracted by a handsome face. Perhaps Lady Milford was right; once Beatrice came to enjoy the courtship of gentlemen closer to her in age, she would relinquish her scheme to marry a reclusive duke.
As the brougham slowed to a halt in front of Pennington House in Hanover Square, Ellie decided that she was quite happy to be a spinster on the shelf. Nothing interested her less than flirting with an array of gentlemen in the hopes of attracting a husband. She had a far better plan for her life than wedlock.
A footman opened the carriage door. Beatrice stepped out first, her peacock cloak swirling as she abruptly turned back. “Oh, drat! I’ve forgotten my muff. Ellie, do be a dear and bring it into the house.”
The white ermine muff had tumbled onto the floor. As Ellie closed her fingers around its furry softness, a movement at the other window caught her attention. A carriage was passing slowly in the street, a phaeton with a dark-clad gentleman perched on the high seat.
Ellie’s eyes widened. Those swarthy, hard-edged features looked eerily familiar. His lower face was wrapped in a black muffler, and a hat with a curled brim shaded his green-gray eyes. He stared with keen intensity as Beatrice walked toward the house.
With a jolt, Ellie realized he was the same man who had been watching her cousin outside Lady Milford’s town house.
* * *
Lady Milford had been watching, too.
The moment her visitors had departed, Clarissa had proceeded straight to the drawing room window at the front of the house. Through the lacy undercurtain, she gazed down at the street to see Lady Beatrice in her peacock-blue cloak shamelessly flirting with Lord Roland.
But Clarissa had no interest in the antics of that vain, spoiled girl. Her concern lay with the shabbily garbed woman standing forgotten by the brougham.
How appalling that Pennington had never bothered to launch his own niece. Miss Eloise Stratham was the orphaned daughter of his profligate younger brother, yet she’d apparently been given no debut, no dowry, and no opportunity to marry. Instead, it appeared she had been treated as the household drudge.
The injustice of it wrenched Lady Milford’s heart. It transported her back to her own youth when she had been plain Clarissa Wren, living on the sufferance of her widowed stepmother and two stepsisters in a manor house in the wilds of Yorkshire. By some legal chicanery, the stepmother had managed to have her husband’s first marriage declared invalid, thereby rendering Clarissa a bastard. The interlopers then had squandered her late father’s wealth on fine clothing and jewels while Clarissa was given rags to wear. She had been expected to cook and clean and fulfill endless demands. In the moment of her darkest despair, when she had sunk down by the ashes of the kitchen hearth to weep for her beloved Papa, a knocking had sounded at the back door.
An ancient Gypsy woman stood outside, begging for food. Fearing the wrath of her stepmother, Clarissa very nearly turned away the vagabond. But she took pity on the woman and offered to share her own meager dinner. In return, the wrinkled crone gave her a pair of garnet slippers and a cryptic message that they would lead her to true love …
A faint smile on her lips, Clarissa reflected upon the grand journey that had brought her to this point. She had come to London, married the aging Earl of Milford, and gained status and wealth as his wife. Yet only in widowhood had Clarissa finally realized the Gypsy’s prediction when she had fallen madly in love with one of the king’s sons. Though circumstances had made it impossible for them to wed, she and her darling Prince Frederick had engaged in a discreet affair of the heart for many blissful years. Upon his death, Clarissa had found solace in helping worthy young women find their own chance at happiness.
Now, as she gazed down at the latest recipient of the shoes, she sensed that Miss Eloise Stratham was in sore need of love. Yet never before had Clarissa loaned out the slippers without having first selected a specific gentleman as a match …
At that precise moment, she noticed the open phaeton parked a short distance behind the Stratham brougham. The restless stamping of the horses caught her attention. The driver controlled the pair of grays with an almost imperceptible tug on the ribbons.
Garbed from head to toe in black, he appeared to be a gentleman. Yet how curious for him to be waiting in front of a vacant residence, the owners having gone to their country estate for the winter.
Odder still, he was staring at Lady Beatrice. Who was he?
The girl gave a farewell wave to Lord Roland, then minced back to rejoin Miss Eloise Stratham. Both women entered the brougham, and as the coachman started down the cobbled street, the driver of the phaeton snapped the reins and began to follow the brougham.
On impulse, Clarissa twitched the lace curtain aside and rapped hard on the windowpane. As he glanced up, she stepped swiftly back and out of sight. But that one instant had given her a clear view of unusual green-gray eyes set in a harshly masculine face.
Astonished recognition rooted her in place. Why on earth would he have an interest in Lady Beatrice? Was it merely a coincidence? Clarissa stood there for a time, wondering, considering, pondering. Then she walked to the fireplace and tugged the bell rope.
A few minutes later, a distinguished butler with cropped white hair entered the drawing room. He proceeded forward in a stately fashion and bowed, waiting for her to speak. That was one of the things she’d always liked about Hargrove. He didn’t waste words—yet he had an encyclopedic knowledge of society.
“Do you know of a man named Damien Burke?” she asked.
Hargrove thought for a moment. “Yes, my lady. Mr. Burke was ousted from society seven years ago due to an unsavory affair. Now he operates a gaming establishment known as Demon’s Den.”
“I just now saw him following Lady Beatrice Stratham’s brougham. I should like for you to find out all you can about his present activities. There is something puzzling going on, and I need to know what it is.”
“At once, madam.”
As he departed the drawing room, Clarissa knew that no further instructions were necessary. Hargrove had a network of trusted spies, and he would use them with the utmost discretion. She had only to wait—and to ponder the secret that she had kept for nearly thirty years.