Night at the opera, p.9
Night at the Opera, page 9
“I was only following what you did.” His friend ran a hand down his face, which was returning to normal color. “Thanks for the warning.”
He gave Linwood a grim nod. “I believe I’ll walk her back.”
“I’ll join you,” Linwood said as he collected his horse from where Avery had left it. “I don’t have much inclination to race or ride anymore today.”
The walk back toward their respective townhouses was a somber one. Avery felt confident his horse would be fine. Though he couldn’t help feeling he was to blame for the injury. After all, the other horseman had intended to hurt the beast’s rider, not the animal itself. If Avery needed further proof regarding the foolishness of taking a wife, he had it right before him in the form of his injured horse. Worse still, it could have been Lord Linwood who’d been hurt if the man hadn’t acted as quickly as he had in getting out of the madman’s way.
Avery gritted his teeth against the awful possibility that his best friend might have been seriously injured, all because of Avery’s involvement with tracking down supposed German spies. His feeling of victory at apprehending Rodmill’s note had disappeared entirely. Now he felt only urgency and angered determination. It was time to track down this traitor once and for all—and find a trusted watchman to place in front of his own house from now on—before someone else he cared about was caught in the crossfire.
*
The trees surrounding the walled garden provided plenty of shade for afternoon tea outdoors. Gwen had expected her mother to decline the invitation from the Rinecrofts, but Cornelia had pursed her lips for only a moment before relenting. She hadn’t even brooked a complaint when Syble had asked if the two friends could take their tea outside.
Was her mother scheming again? Or did Cornelia possibly feel as her daughter did—relieved to visit with an old friend rather than managing the usual whirlwind of conversing with near strangers?
Whatever the reason, Gwen was grateful for another rare moment with her best friend. The loveliness of the garden behind the Rinecrofts’ rented townhouse added to her pleasure. Perhaps there was a way to turn a section of the courtyard at Heartwell House into a similar space so the children could sit among the leaves and flowers.
“Shall we begin?” Syble asked, brandishing a notebook and pencil.
Gwen took another sip of her tea. “Begin what?”
“Narrowing down the identity of your mystery man.” Her friend opened to a blank page. “I promised to help you, remember?”
Setting down her cup, Gwen smiled. “I remember. But how is this going to help?” She motioned to the writing utensils.
“I was thinking now that we’ve been in London for four weeks and have met a significant number of society’s young men, we could make a list of everyone you can recall seeing that night after the opera was over. That way we can narrow down who your young man isn’t.”
“That’s a brilliant idea, Syble.”
Her best friend grinned. “I know. Now who are some of the gentlemen you recall seeing that night?”
Gwen sat back in her chair, thinking. “Let’s see. I met . . . Bert’s friends Lord Whitson and Mr. Hanbury for the first time that night. Mr. Fipwish was there too.”
“Ah.” Syble wrote their names down. “Your three ardent suitors.”
“Maybe to my mother but not to me.”
“You don’t find any of them agreeable?”
Studying the nearby flowering bush, Gwen shook her head. “So far, when the earl isn’t offering me false flattery, he’s boasting about what elite events he’s to attend. Mr. Hanbury, on the other hand, says little, and Mr. Fipwish only wants to talk about decanters and his new mare.” Her next words felt vulnerable to voice, even to Syble. “I want to find someone I love and admire to marry. Not settle for someone who’s just agreeable and willing to overlook my shortcomings.”
“Deep down, I think that’s what most of us want,” Syble admitted in a low voice as she glanced toward the house.
Her admission surprised Gwen. “Do you love Mr. Kirk?”
“I think I could learn to love him.” Syble straightened in her seat and pointed her pencil at Gwen. “Speaking of Mr. Kirk, was he in attendance at the opera that night?”
Gwen tried to remember. She’d finally been introduced to Syble’s suitor at the Stouts’ dance. But could she recall seeing him at the opera?
“I don’t think he was there.” At the distressed look that crept onto her friend’s face, Gwen hurried to add, “But didn’t you tell me the other week that he doesn’t enjoy attending the opera?”
Syble visibly brightened with relief. “Yes. I don’t think he’s attended the opera at all this season, so I’ll write his name on our list too.”
They continued adding names as they reviewed the different young men they’d both met. The prospect of whittling down whom her opera man couldn’t be felt far less challenging as she watched their list grow in length.
“What about Mr. Winfield?” Syble looked up from her notebook. “Did you see him after the opera?”
Gwen frowned, as much at the reminder about Mr. Winfield as at the mental struggle to recall if she’d seen him from afar that night. The man was a mystery all right, a mystery of contrasts and contradictions. Or maybe that was just the feelings he’d evoked in her after every one of their conversations. Her frown deepened at the thought.
“No, he wasn’t there.”
Syble’s expression revealed her excitement at Gwen’s response. “Do you think he’s your injured gentleman?”
“I doubt it,” Gwen replied with a shake of her head.
She couldn’t imagine the insufferable yet sometimes charming Avery Winfield as the stoic man from the opera box. Certainly his kiss wouldn’t inspire the same sort of sweetness. Or would it? a traitorous thought whispered.
Only then did Gwen notice the way her best friend was watching her. “What?” She brushed at her mouth, wondering if she had crumbs from the tiny cake she’d eaten with her tea.
“You like him.” Syble punctuated her statement with a nod. “I haven’t seen you this agitated over a young man since Randolph.”
Gwen lowered her hand to her lap. “And look how well that turned out.”
“Randolph was a devious rogue, Gwen, pretending to be an admiring suitor.”
“What if these other men are the same?” She waved a hand at Syble’s list, though inside she was thinking only of Mr. Winfield. “They don’t seem to mind my limp as the bachelors back home did, but I don’t think they care about me as much as they do my fortune.”
An uncharacteristically somber demeanor settled over Syble as she fiddled with her pencil. “I know what you mean. And yet we didn’t expect any less, did we? Or we shouldn’t have, I suppose. We’re here to make good matches, and hopefully in the process find husbands who will come to care as much about us as they do our money.”
Syble’s speech lacked her usual animation. Instead, she sounded as if she hoped to convince herself of its validity as much as she did Gwen.
“Is that really what you want, Syble?”
Her friend offered a little shrug. “Does it matter? If we go against our parents’ wishes and refuse to accept a match that meets with their approval, we’ll be cut off financially and socially.” She twisted her teacup around in its saucer. “I’m not afraid of having to find employment, but I am afraid of . . . ending up alone.”
“Whatever you choose, you won’t be alone, Syble.” Sitting forward, Gwen reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand. “You’ll always have me and you have God.”
Syble squeezed her hand in return. “You’re right. And truth be told, I do want a love match. Just like you do, Gwenie.” She eased back, a sad smile on her lips. “But I’ve decided I have to be realistic too. A love match may be too much for me to hope for in the beginning, but given time, years even, a marriage can become that.”
How ironic that the usually impetuous Syble seemed almost content with the idea of working and waiting for a marriage to become one of mutual love. On the other hand, Gwen didn’t want to wait. She wanted her marriage to be built on love from the start—if such a thing was even possible.
Mr. Winfield’s words from the dinner party ran through her mind. Clinging to one’s faith and to notions of romantic love is far more difficult than you might believe when you are living among London’s upper class. They were certainly proving to be true, especially when Gwen felt no stirrings of romance or love in the company of any of her would-be suitors.
And yet, foolish as it might sound, she had felt that very thing when she’d kissed the wounded gentleman inside that opera box. Surely that meant Gwen could feel the same with someone else.
“Your mother is ready to depart, Miss Barton,” a footman announced as he stepped into the garden.
Gwen rose to her feet and Syble did the same. “Thank you for your help, Syble.” She gave her friend a parting hug. “I’m going to keep praying we both find love matches,” she whispered before stepping back.
“I think I will too,” Syble responded with a smile. “In the meantime, I’d like to get to know this Mr. Winfield better.”
Gwen tried to shrug off the flicker of jealousy such a plan sparked inside her. It wasn’t as if she had any claim on or understanding with Mr. Winfield. However, the image that rose into her head—of Mr. Winfield bantering with her best friend as he’d done with Gwen at the ball— threatened to sour her mood.
“I only meant to see if he was right for you, Gwen. Not because I’m interested in him myself.”
Gwen took a shuffling step toward the house. “Of course. I didn’t think you were interested in him.”
“No, you didn’t,” Syble said, linking her arm through Gwen’s. “But that look of dismay on your face just now certainly did.”
There seemed no way to respond without incriminating herself, so Gwen settled for saying, “I appreciate your concern, Syble. But Mr. Winfield and I are not a match.”
“Very well, but I still won’t pursue him. I’ve already concluded Mr. Winfield isn’t right for me.”
“Oh?” Gwen hoped the bizarre relief she felt didn’t leak into her voice or expression. “Why is that?”
Syble shrugged. “Because he isn’t my Mr. Kirk.”
They shared a laugh as they entered the house. But as Gwen followed her mother out the front door and into the waiting carriage, she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have someone in her life she could call hers. Someone who felt she was his in return.
Memories of the events from the opera flitted through her mind again. Once she learned who the man was, could he be someone she could call her own?
She straightened on the seat, half-listening to her mother recount her opinions of the Rinecrofts’ townhouse. With Syble’s help, Gwen had made significant progress on figuring out who the occupant in the opera box wasn’t. Now she just had to keep trying to figure out who he was. It was no small task, especially with so many possibilities among all of the young men in London. But Gwen hadn’t survived a childhood accident and relearned to walk with an injured foot only to weaken at the sight of hard work.
She might not have a love match yet, but she did have determination—and faith. And hopefully both would serve her well as she continued to forge ahead through the season.
*
“May I say you look dashing, sir?” Mack brushed Avery’s evening coat. “You will certainly make an impression on the young ladies tonight.”
If he hadn’t felt a bit apprehensive about the ball this evening, Avery might have cracked a smile at his valet’s remark. Or at least rolled his eyes. Instead he settled for a simple, “Thank you.”
The older man knew Avery’s real purpose for attending tonight’s engagement—and it had nothing to do with impressing young ladies. He was more than ready to confront his target at last. Mack had successfully obtained word from the Rodmills’ servants that the entire family would be in attendance at the ball tonight. Including Miss Barton.
Avery schooled his thoughts from the American young lady to the situation at hand. He couldn’t allow himself to be derailed by memories of their past conversations. His horse had, thankfully, recovered from the incident in Hyde Park. But Avery couldn’t be sure his attackers wouldn’t strike again, though he’d hired two men of Mack’s acquaintance to discreetly watch his home day and night. Still, he’d kept to himself for the past several days. Tonight’s ball would be his first social event in a week.
Blowing out a slow breath, he tugged at his cuffs and eyed his reflection in the full-length mirror. “I believe I’m ready, Mack.”
“Everything properly tucked inside your pockets?”
He opened his coat to double-check the spot where he’d concealed a small knife. Avery didn’t want to try to apprehend a spy unarmed, even if his chances of needing a weapon were slim. He’d already arranged, through Captain Kell, for several policemen to meet him and Rodmill at eleven o’clock in the small park opposite the house where the ball would take place. All Avery had to do was procure proof of Rodmill’s involvement with spying for Germany, then entice him to duck across the street with Avery. The police would handle the rest.
“Everything’s secure,” he replied, dropping his coat back into place.
Mack stuck out his hand, which Avery clasped firmly in his own. “Good luck, sir. I’ll be praying for you.”
“I’m grateful for it, Mack.” He meant it too. While God didn’t care much for Avery, He surely would listen to the appeals of an honest, upright man like Gregory Mack. Or Miss Gwenyth Barton.
Again, Avery attempted to push thoughts of her from his mind, but as usual, he wasn’t successful. Would Miss Barton be devastated when she learned her cousin had betrayed his native country? A twinge of regret for her and her family shot through him. For his part, he was more than ready to see his hard work finally pay off. In his own small way, he was saving Britain from future disaster. Surely that meant he—and his life—amounted to something. Though if his father were still alive, Phillip Winfield would likely still find some flaw, some disappointment, in Avery and his mission.
“Have a successful evening, sir.”
The smile Mack likely meant to conjure up lifted Avery’s mouth. “I plan to.”
Settling his hat on his head, he drew on his gloves as he headed into the corridor. A few minutes later, he was settled inside his carriage. He could have walked, given the drive took less time than it did to ready the vehicle, but Avery needed to look the part of the quintessential gentleman tonight and not draw any questions or suspicion.
The ballroom was already teeming with people when he arrived. It wasn’t difficult to locate Miss Barton, seated to the side as she’d been at the last ball. However, this evening Mrs. Barton hovered near her daughter along with the arrogant Lord Whitson. Avery felt a flash of compassion for Miss Barton. Tonight he wouldn’t be at liberty to save her from a tiresome, one-sided conversation as he had done before.
Finding Rodmill proved harder. The young man wasn’t dancing, so Avery widened his search to include the billiards room and the card room. At last he located Rodmill in the smoke room.
Avery had no desire for a cigarette, so he feigned interest instead in talking at length with a friend of his uncle’s who was puffing away on a cigar. When Rodmill finally stood and left the room, Avery followed a few moments later. This time the young man went to the ballroom, but he didn’t dance. Instead, Rodmill stood along the periphery of the room, looking sullen and clearly ignoring the pointed looks from the young ladies not dancing and their mothers.
After checking his pocket watch, Avery knew he had less than thirty minutes before he was to meet the police in the park—with Rodmill in hand. He couldn’t secure proof of spying here, though. Not among all these people. He needed to get the other man away from any listening ears. But how?
He discarded several ideas before settling on one that seemed to have the greatest potential to work. Avery would reveal just enough information from what he’d gathered about Rodmill to surprise the man and pique his interest enough to leave the party.
Decision made, he moved slowly toward Rodmill, whose back was to him. Avery stopped slightly behind him and to the side. “I know about the secret meetings,” he whispered, loud enough for Rodmill alone to hear him. “If you wish to know more, meet me in the library. Now.”
Rodmill’s shoulders tensed. But before the other man could turn around, Avery strode off in the direction of the library. He could only hope—and perhaps pray a little—that his plan would work.
Chapter 8
With the train of her pink satin ball gown in one gloved hand, Gwen edged slowly away from where her mother and Lord Whitson sat, deep in conversation. They hadn’t asked Gwen a question in several minutes and didn’t seem aware of her presence anymore. Which suited her splendidly. Unlike at the Stouts’ ball, she didn’t want to simply sit and observe those around her. Tonight Gwen felt restless and in desperate need of a quiet corner after listening to the earl drone on for nearly a half an hour.
She reached the ballroom doors and allowed herself a small sigh of relief. Not that she couldn’t still be overtaken. But a glance over her shoulder revealed she hadn’t yet been missed. And that was a tiny miracle in itself.
Gwen smiled as the cooler air in the hallway greeted her, pushing away the stifling warmth of the crowded ballroom. She considered which way to go to find her moment’s reprieve. From the open doors to her right, raucous laughter and a constant drone of conversation spilled outward. Gwen turned to the left and its promise of stillness. An open doorway farther down the hall to the left beckoned. She entered the room and immediately felt at home when she realized she’d discovered the house’s library.
In the light of the single lamp, she studied the shelves filled from floor to ceiling with books. A fireplace with a large ancestral picture over the mantle reigned supreme on one side of the room, while a settee and armchairs gathered before the hearth. Other small seating arrangements were tucked into various corners.
