No true gentleman, p.9
No True Gentleman, page 9
He sounded very much as if, given the choice, he would prefer the latter. And yet there was a hint of something more in his question. Mercifully, Catherine was saved from an answer. The last strains of the waltz ended, and, with an enigmatic smile, Walrafen escorted her across the room to Isabel’s side.
De Rohan arrived at Lord Walrafen’s ball in a hackney, attired in his best evening clothes. By the ton’s standards, his dress was not impressive, but nor was it unfashionable. And by those same lofty standards, a hired conveyance was an only marginally acceptable mode of travel. Still, it had seemed vain to bring his carriage the four miles from his grandmother’s house, merely to transport him the few blocks which separated his lodgings from Walrafen’s house in Hill Street.
As far as his career was concerned, de Rohan had no business possessing either the clothing or the carriage. Yet, whatever he had chosen to make—or in this case, not to make—of himself, Nonna Sofia had had no part in it. Still, he was no more a merchant than a vintner. He no longer had it in him—particularly the latter. He had seen too much, had hurt too deeply, and wanted something different.
But having thwarted Sofia’s grand plans for his life, he had not the heart to disappoint her in any other way. And since she occasionally required his escort, such luxuries as clothing and carriages became necessities, for de Rohan would be damned before he would let his personal choices cause his grandmother a moment’s embarrassment. So de Rohan shrugged his shoulders beneath the tailored fabric of his opera cloak, then went slowly up the stairs like a man going to the scaffold.
She saw him the moment he stepped over the threshold. The surrounding conversation faded to an indistinct murmur as Catherine watched Maximilian de Rohan place his hand solidly into Lord Walrafen’s. It was no formal greeting, either. More of a hail-fellow handshake. Good Lord. They were friends? Such a thing would never have entered her mind. Indeed, she had no more thought to see him here than to . . . well, than to see him in Harry’s drawing room yesterday afternoon.
Tonight he wore a black coat and breeches cut in the severest, most formal style one could imagine. His linen was flawlessly white, unadorned by so much as a pearl. It was the perfect foil for his dark skin and strong nose. He was tall, too, well over six feet. If his legs had looked long beneath trousers and boots, they looked impossibly so in breeches and stockings. Tonight his posture was stiff and formal, as if he were a soldier. Or a policeman.
But he wasn’t. He had lied to her. Isabel had blithely confirmed that much. Instead, he was a Westminster magistrate on special assignment to the Home Office, a position which was such a far cry from his professed career that even country-bred Catherine couldn’t fathom it.
Oh, he had once been an inspector with the River Police, it was true. According to Isabel, he was something of a crusader, having lived and worked for many years in the docklands and rookeries of the Middlesex parishes, a grim part of London which was far removed from Westminster. And Isabel had whispered the rumor that as a very young man, he’d served as a captain of the infamous Bow Street Runners—that bane of the criminal class and, oftentimes, of the aristocracy.
Of course, police inspectors and Bow Street Runners did not mingle with polite society. It was all but unheard of. And yet Mr. de Rohan recently had been hand-selected by Mr. Peel and Lord Walrafen to work within the Home Office. What a shock it had been to learn that Isabel knew him and, what was more, so highly esteemed him. And so Catherine had been unable to confide in her aunt the ugly thing which Mr. de Rohan had said to her. But she could still put him in his place, could she not? Abruptly, before she could reconsider the idiocy of her actions, Catherine gathered the skirt of her dark blue gown into her fist and began marching across the floor toward him, impelled by another spate of righteous indignation.
But halfway across the dance floor, she was saved from her folly. Walrafen cut a swift glance toward the front entrance as if looking for newly arrived guests and then placed a hand on de Rohan’s shoulder. As though they were the best of friends, he drew the magistrate toward the corridor which led to the private rooms of the house.
Suddenly, Catherine felt a light touch beneath her elbow. She turned at once to see that Isabel had followed her. “Catherine, my dear?” she began a little anxiously. “Can we work our way toward the drawing room? Lord Bodley has begged an introduction. Though I cannot like the man, I can think of no way to refuse him.”
Lord Walrafen remained sequestered in his private study with de Rohan for only a quarter-hour, which, given his other guests, was probably longer than civility permitted. Still, it was long enough. De Rohan left their meeting with a renewed sense of optimism. He and Sisk had spent the better part of the day speaking with Lady Sands’s neighbors and their servants, in the faint hope that someone had seen or heard an intruder. But they had not. Retracing Lady Sands’s movements on the day of her murder had also yielded little. So he had come to this ball tonight with his hopes pinned elsewhere.
Good manners had required that he lay his cards upon the table at once, and so he had shown Walrafen Cecilia’s list. His lordship had been gracious and had confirmed that four of the men were present. Indeed, he had gone so far as to offer to make the introductions. Introductions which de Rohan knew were required before members of the ton would even trouble themselves to speak with one another, let alone someone who looked suspiciously as if he mightn’t be one of them at all. So he spent the next few minutes at Walrafen’s side, circulating through the crowd and being introduced to various guests. De Rohan made careful note of those whom he wished to revisit. And if Walrafen was embarrassed to present a former policeman as his guest, one could not discern it from his demeanor.
After making the rounds with his host, de Rohan left him near the card room and went off to question each guest more privately. The first he spotted was Rupert Vost, a languid, golden Adonis of a man who had a dangerous look about his eyes. Cecilia had noted him as one of Lady Sands’s on-again, off-again lovers, a man of no known accomplishment and very little means. He was perennially in debt. But, given his looks, would Lady Sands have cared? De Rohan rather thought not.
Vost still stood to one side of the card room, idly observing the play. He caught sight of de Rohan’s approach from the opposite side of the room. Then, with an elegant gesture, he lifted his glass of champagne, as if to salute de Rohan’s audacity. Reeking of sandalwood cologne and condescension, Vost was beautifully dressed. De Rohan reached him just as a nearby game of whist broke up, the four players shoving back their chairs amidst jovial chatter. “Do you play, Mr. Vost?” asked de Rohan, casually tilting his head toward the table.
With a muted smile, he shook his head. “Not cards, Mr. . . . er—de Rohan, was it? No, the sort of games I prefer wouldn’t be appropriate here. Yourself?”
De Rohan shook his head. “I am not a gambling man.”
The smile turned cynical. “Oh, we all of us gamble in one form or another, de Rohan,” answered Vost, lazily swirling the dregs of his wine in his glass. “Make no mistake about that. Now, did I understand Walrafen to say that you’re with the Home Office?”
When de Rohan agreed, Vost nodded. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard a few rumors about Mr. Peel’s newest obsession. I daresay you’d like to ask me about this dreadful mess with Julia. Yet you cannot quite think how.”
In spite of himself, de Rohan felt a grim smile tug at his mouth. “There really is no polite way, is there?” he admitted. “But I cannot imagine you would wish her killer to go unpunished.”
Vost’s brows went up at that. “No, I shouldn’t like that at all. Still, one wonders it wasn’t old Harry.” He tossed off the rest of his champagne. “I might have been tempted, had I been in his shoes.”
Vost’s casual attitude about infidelity angered de Rohan. “But you weren’t, were you?” he quietly challenged. “In fact, you were quite the opposite—”
“Oh, I won’t make this difficult for you, de Rohan,” Vost softly interjected. “I was her lover. Sometimes. What of it?”
“How long prior to her death had you seen her?”
“Seen her? Or slept with her?” asked Vost. “I’d seen her that night at the theater. It was quite crowded, you know. But I daresay I hadn’t bedded her in six months or better. I really cannot recall.”
“You cannot recall?”
Vost shrugged. “Julia was, you see, so very available. But she was not—contrary to her own view—anything special.”
“You seem almost pleased to say so,” de Rohan remarked.
Vost heaved a weary sigh. “Mr. de Rohan, I am not pleased about any of this,” he remarked, setting his empty glass down on a passing waiter’s tray. “But just now, I cannot afford any untidiness. I’m newly engaged, you see. To a delightful widow from a fine family, who would abhor the very breath of scandal. No, far better I should tell you whatever you wish to know, rather than have you ask about. I daresay you understand?”
“Indeed,” answered de Rohan tightly.
Vost smiled again. “So it is like this: I found Julia amusing. She found me charming. Occasionally, we saw one another. I did not care enough to kill her, nor did she care enough to do anything which might make me wish to.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
“And as to that night,” he dryly continued, “I met my fiancée at the theater, then saw her safely home.”
“And did you remain there?”
Vost looked taken aback. “If I had, I certainly would not impugn her honor by admitting it. But as it happens, I did not. I returned to my rooms at the Albany, probably around three.”
“Were you seen, Mr. Vost?”
Vost shrugged. “I daresay the porter saw me enter.” With his left hand, he withdrew a thin gold case, extracted a card, and handed it to de Rohan. “By all means, call if you should think of anything else to ask. I shall try to bestir my memory.” He made a faint, dismissive gesture with the back of his hand. “Now, good night, Mr. de Rohan. This has all been most fascinating.”
A little annoyed by the dismissal, but having little else to ask, de Rohan drifted from the card room into the ballroom. He would save the drawing room for last. There was someone there whom he particularly wished to see.
The responses of the next two men ranged from embarrassment to anger. Lord Trevor Reeves, the estranged son of the very prominent Duke of Wain, seemed almost relieved to speak with de Rohan. Though he was generally considered to be a wastrel—he had an expensive mistress and a string of sadistic creditors—Reeves admitted his relationship with Lady Sands with a touch of red-faced chagrin.
But the connection was an old one, and the young man had an alibi. “Afraid to say I was a bit jug-bitten,” Reeves confessed. “Lost a small fortune at the Oriental Club, then seem to have dishonored myself on the carpet. Some chaps I know carried me home to bed. You can ask ’em if you’d like.”
De Rohan handed him a card and moved on to Sir Everard Grant.
The wealthy, widowed Sir Everard was an undersecretary in the War Office. With one eye on his debutante daughter who stood across the ballroom, the baronet lifted his nose. “Never laid eyes on the woman,” he said coldly. “Or if I did, I don’t recall it. She certainly is not the sort I would associate with.”
And indeed, he hardly looked the type. Still, de Rohan knew firsthand the power of seductive women. It was likely Sir Everard was lying, but that would not be proven tonight. De Rohan thanked him and left.
The last of the four was a man with powerful political connections. Lord Bodley, in de Rohan’s opinion, was the worst sort of man. A rich, aging roué with a penchant for pretty girls, and the younger the better. During de Rohan’s early career at Queen Square, Bodley’s name had turned up during the investigation of a ring of pedophiles, and de Rohan had never forgotten it. But, as usual, nothing could be proven against the men who supported such a vice. Instead, two bawds from the East End had been sent off to Bridewell for ensnaring little girls, and that was the end of it. With barely suppressed hatred churning in his belly, de Rohan went in search of his quarry. Perhaps once that miserable task was done, he could go home to his own bed and leave these self-absorbed aristocrats to their bad champagne.
He saw at once that Bodley still stood in a distant corner of the drawing room, holding court as he had been half an hour earlier. Slowly, de Rohan made his way through the crowd, but after having pushed his way past the rotund gentleman who partially obscured his view, de Rohan was stunned to realize that the lady to whom Bodley was speaking was none other than Lady Kirton.
A feeling of dreadful unease seized him. But it was too late. Lady Kirton had seen him. “Oh, look!” she cried, sounding just a little relieved. “Here is the very man himself! Mr. de Rohan, have you been introduced to the Marquis of Bodley?”
De Rohan tried to ignore the beautiful woman at Lady Kirton’s elbow. Neatly, he bowed. “The pleasure was mine, just this very evening,” he murmured.
Bodley nodded civilly. Lady Kirton laid her hand upon de Rohan’s arm, as if she wished very much to draw him into the conversation. And, despite his efforts, de Rohan’s eyes fixed at once upon Lady Catherine Wodeway, whose face had flooded with color.
“Lord Bodley is a great benefactor of the Nazareth Society, Mr. de Rohan,” Lady Kirton continued. “We were just discussing your work last year with our mission.”
But Bodley seemed disinclined to chat. “A pleasure, sir,” he remarked, thrusting an arm in Catherine’s direction. “And now, ma’am, I believe the violins have struck up again. Might I beg the honor?”
Looking suddenly flustered, Lady Kirton somehow managed to drop her reticule onto the floor. “Oh, dear!” she interjected, shooting de Rohan a plaintive look just as Bodley bent down to scoop it up. “I fancy Mr. de Rohan asked Catherine for this dance.”
Asked Catherine to dance?
An outright lie. And dancing with the woman was the last thing de Rohan wished to do. But what choice did he have, save calling Lady Kirton a liar? At least she had the good sense to keep her niece from the clutches of a pervert like Bodley. But Lady Catherine was glancing anxiously back and forth between them. De Rohan was certain she meant to refuse. Finally, she gave her dance card a hasty glance. “Perhaps so,” she lamely murmured. “I cannot quite make it out.”
De Rohan found himself compelled to face the inevitable. He seized Lady Catherine’s hand and dragged her toward the ballroom, ruthlessly ignoring the whispers which followed in their wake. As they crossed onto the floor, the swell of the music surrounded them, and it was only then that the tune sank into his head.
A waltz! Maledizione! What damnable luck.
Impulsively, he jerked Lady Catherine toward him, catching her in his embrace just as the cellist drew a particularly resonant chord. She gasped into the folds of his cravat. “No doubt I’m about to reap the punishment you think I deserve, Lady Catherine,” he murmured as he circled her waist with one arm.
“Oh?” She lifted her gaze to his as they began to move. “Drawn and quartered right here?”
“I should be so lucky,” he growled as the crowd surged about them. “I’ve not danced the waltz in a good while. And now I’m about to publicly humiliate myself by trodding upon every toe you possess.”
But Lady Catherine had fully recovered her aplomb. “I hardly think it is my toes which ought to concern me,” she remarked as he spun her into a turn. “I did not wish for this, Mr. de Rohan. In fact, what I do wish is that you would waltz me toward those french windows, then do me the honor of vanishing into the darkness and out of my life.”
Before de Rohan could answer, another couple whirled perilously near, the gentleman’s elbow catching de Rohan’s. At once, he felt the toe of Catherine’s slipper beneath his heel. She winced, but her steps did not falter.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He felt heat flood his face.
“Pray do not regard it,” she said, her voice coldly civil. “I am unhurt.”
De Rohan lifted his gaze, but he could not quite meet her eyes. “And I am sorry,” he said quietly. “Perhaps more sorry than you know.”
Lady Catherine clearly caught the double entendre. “Are you?”
“Yes.” Though his hands touched only her hand and waist, he could feel the strength and energy—the sheer joie de vivre— which, despite her anger, coursed through her lithe body. He swept her into another turn and stared down into the bottomless pools of her brown eyes.
He was shocked to see Lady Catherine’s expression gentle. “How long has it been?” she asked softly.
Suddenly, his heart lurched. “Since—?”
“Since you’ve waltzed?”
Relief flooded through him. Silently, he calculated. “Nearly twenty years,” he said quietly. “And then only with my mother in the schoolroom.”
Catherine considered his words for a moment. Who was this man, Maximilian de Rohan? Certainly, he was not quite what he pretended to be. Catherine might be an uneducated rustic, but even she knew that poor men weren’t apt to recognize the literary work of Barbauld. And rarely did they display such innate, Continental courtesy. Certainly, they did not learn to dance in the schoolroom with their mamas.
She looked up into his grim black eyes, then let her gaze drift lower, taking in the lean, hard bones of his face and a mouth which looked forbidding, perhaps even a little cruel. And yet she sensed he was not an unkind man. She opened her mouth to speak, to demand some explanation of such odd contradictions, but could find no words. Could barely find her breath. There was only the searing heat of his hands, the strange, commanding strength of his eyes. And suddenly, something more intense. A stab of longing, keen and quick, more compelling than anything she’d ever felt. Attraction. Obsessive attraction. The allure of something beautiful but faintly dangerous, like walking along a cliff ledge while one watched the churning white surf below.
