Regency Society

Chapter Twelve

Tony dropped into the wing chair in his study, staring pensively into the fire before him. He was not moved to work on the lock, though he knew he must. He wanted nothing more than to sit in the gathering darkness, alone, for the rest of his life, if need be. Would that the end were not too distant.

Patrick, sensing his mood, brought the tray with the brandy.

Tony poured a snifter for himself and waved the rest away. ‘It is over,’ he said.

‘How so?’

‘I have proposed to her, and she has refused.’

‘This is most sudden.’

‘It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. She hid from me, when I tried to visit her. And when I found her in the garden, she was crying. Patrick, I was defenceless. It seems that other men are offering for her in ways that are less than honourable, and she longs for matrimony. I offered my services in that department, and they were firmly declined.’

‘Even after she knew who you were?’

‘The matter of my identity did not come up,’ Tony muttered.

‘Did not…’ Patrick sank into the wing chair on the opposite side of the fire, and poured himself a glass of his master’s brandy. ‘You expected her to take you, sight unseen, on a very limited acquaintance, and are surprised that she turned you down.’

‘She seemed willing to accept many other gentlemen, with little previous acquaintance, as long as they had money or position. And before I offered, I gave her a fair description of our childhood together. There were enough clues that, had she cared to, she could have seen the truth.

‘But it does not matter, whether she knows me or not. It is the reason she gave, not the denial itself that creates the problem. She said she could not marry a thief.’

Patrick shrugged and sipped his brandy. ‘Then the answer is simple. If you want the girl, stop stealing.’

‘There is the little detail of ten years of crime.’

Patrick waved his hand. ‘Immaterial to the discussion. How much have you personally profited from it?’

Tony considered. ‘Very little. When I began I had a small inheritance, and I invested it well. But it was in no way enough to support the family. So I stole. And since I enjoyed stealing, I continued. But my own money is still there, should I choose to retire.’

‘So you did not steal for yourself. You stole for others. And when you steal now?’

‘There is really no cause for it, other than to cover the activities I perform for Stanton.’

‘So you are, in effect, stealing for the Crown,’ Patrick reasoned.

‘I cannot very well tell her that, though, can I? It defeats the purpose of covert activities, if one goes trumpeting them about the neighbourhood.’

‘But you are not exactly trumpeting about the neighbourhood, if you reveal the truth to one person. Or do you not trust her to keep a confidence?’

He glared at Patrick. ‘I would trust her with my life. I already have. For she knows the truth about me, and has had the power to ruin me for several weeks. If she wished me ill, she had but to say something before now, to see me carted off to Newgate.’

‘Then reveal the better part of your occupation, since you have revealed the worst and not come to ill. Along with your true name and history, of course,’ Patrick added.

There was an annoying emphasis on the last bit of advice, and Tony chose to ignore it. ‘Perhaps when I have run Barton to ground…There are risks involved. He is a dangerous man, if Stanton is to be believed.’

‘All the more reason to tell her the whole truth, since she was involved with him before you entered the picture. It is the curate in you speaking again, sir. Humility does you no credit when you are using it to mask cowardice. And that is what it is. While you think nothing of staring death in the face while attempting a burglary, you stick at speaking the truth to Constance Townley since you are convinced that, once she knows who you are, she will reject you. But since she has already done that, sir, the worst is over.’

Tony readied a response, and then checked himself. What did he have to lose, after all, in telling her everything? ‘Much as it pains me to have a valet who continually points out my stupidity, you are right again, Patrick. It can be no more dangerous to her than it was at the beginning, when Stanton believed her an accomplice in treason. And whatever she thinks of me, I cannot let her go blundering about, where she might thwart my schemes, or put her own freedom at risk by inadvertently aiding Barton in his plans.’

And if revealing his reason for robbing Barton raised her estimation of him? He could not help smiling at the thought.

Tony knocked firmly on the front door of Constance’s house, hoping for better results in the evening than he had achieved in the afternoon. He had spent an embarrassingly long time on his toilet. His boots were polished to mirror brightness, his coat was fresh from Weston. His cravat was sublime. He had forced Patrick to shave him so close that he suspected he was missing a layer of skin, but his cheek was soft.

He hoped to be able to demonstrate the fact to Constance later in the evening.

She would be home, of course. He knew for a fact that there were no balls, soirées, or musicales of any value that evening—if there had been, he’d have been invited to them. His original plan had been for a quiet evening at home with a glass of port and his new safe, until he realised that Constance would be having a quiet evening at home as well. He had rehearsed his speech in his head, willing himself to stick to the plan and not be dazzled by the fineness of her eyes or the nearness of her lips. He would find her, and beg an audience. She would entertain him in the sitting room and they would chat casually of things that had nothing to do with Barton or her financial state.

He would make it clear over the course of the evening that his interest had nothing to do with the business of the deed, and everything to do with the high esteem in which he held her. In which any sane and decent man could not help but hold her.

He would explain his current interest in Barton, his present occupation and the relative safety of it, compared with his life of a year ago, when he had been stealing full time. Should he ever be caught now, Stanton would manage to free his neck from the noose and explain all. While it was not without scandal, and not so honourable as a title and land, it was not such a horrible thing as she imagined and she would not be embarrassed, should the whole truth of it come to light.

And then he would explain to her that they were not the strangers she might think them, and that it would make him the happiest man on earth if only she would consent to marry him.

But he remembered the kisses and the way she’d responded to them and changed his plan.

He would tell her that it would make him the happiest man on the planet if she might consent to marry him tomorrow, and consent tonight to everything else. Because he was quite mad with desire for her, and had been so for as long as he could remember. And there was little hope of him progressing with the Barton matter or anything else until he’d had her.

He grinned at the thought. Doubts presented themselves, of course. He had lacked the nerve to strike when the iron was hottest, the woman in his arms, and the bed scant paces away.

But he remembered the previous night, the way she had clung to him, when he had turned to go, and asked if she would see him again with such sweet hope in her eyes. That must have been more than gratitude. She might deny him in daylight, but the sun was down and his luck was about to change.

The maid, Susan, opened the door, and he was surprised to see fear in her eyes before she recognised him. And then, as she always did, she told him her mistress was not at home.

‘Susan, let us have no more of that tonight. Be honest with me. Is she not at home, truly, or is she not at home to me?’

Susan was looking at him as though she expected him to eat her. ‘Not at home, sir.’

‘Because I will hear no more nonsense on the subject, from you, or from her. If she is hiding in her bedroom, or the garden, or any other room in the house, you are to go to her immediately and tell her I wish to speak to her, just for once, in the parlour over a cup of tea, like a civilised gentleman. Tell her, if you would, that I have fallen off the ivy and twisted my ankle, and will not leave her sitting room until it is healed.’

Susan now looked both baffled and terrified.

‘It is a lie, of course,’ he assured her. ‘My ankle is fine, as is the ivy. But say anything you need to, to get her down out of her room.’

‘I cannot, sir.’

‘Can you say it for a crown, then?’

‘Sir!’

‘A guinea?’

‘I cannot…’

‘A five-pound note, Susan. Name your price, and I will pay, but you will not put me off.’

She ignored the money in his hand, closed her eyes and said, ‘Mr Smythe. I will not take your money, for it will mean disobeying my mistress. And she said I am, under no circumstances, to tell you that she has gone out this evening, to Vauxhall, with Lord Barton. If you arrive, I am to do whatever is necessary to get you to leave this house so that you are not here when they return for the evening.’ Susan seemed no happier saying the words than he was in hearing them.

He could feel the muscles of his smile tightening to a rictus. ‘Thank you, Susan. I will not seek her here, then. I feel the need of some night air. Perhaps a trip to the Gardens.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Susan whispered. ‘And be careful. He’s a bad ’un.’ And she closed the door to him.

The glitter of Vauxhall at night was lost on Tony, as he paid his admission to enter. Acres of land, much of it secluded walkways. How was he to find her in the throng of revellers present? He must trust that Barton meant to keep her where she could be seen, since there was little point in stepping out with her if he did not intend for them to be noticed.

Tony scanned the crowds in the avenues, and the people gathered around the tightrope walker, and worked his way around the dance floor near the orchestra until a flash of crimson caught his eye. She was there, on Barton’s arm.

She was stunning, as only she could be. He had grown quite used to seeing her about town in mourning, or half-mourning, but even after her recent return to fashion, he had not seen her looking so splendid as this. The deep red of her gown made her skin glow luminous in the lantern light, her dark hair was dressed with tiny red roses, and her throat and ears were adorned with pigeon’s-blood rubies that would have left the thief in him quivering with excitement, had the man in him not been more interested in seeing the bare skin beneath.

The image of her as she had been when she came to his rooms was still burning in his mind: the true outline of the body hidden just under the satin. There was the swell of her breast and the place where the nipple would raise the fabric of the gown, and there was the curve of her stomach, and the place where the gown would pool where her legs met. Her cruelty knew no bounds if she had revealed herself to him in that way only to give herself to another.

But now Barton was escorting her along the dim pathways, deeper and deeper into the dark walks of Vauxhall Gardens.

Tony knew the reason that a gentleman might escort a lady into the grounds, for he had done it himself. But the ladies were rarely ladies, nor did the gentlemen have any intention of keeping to manners.

Her dark eyes were unreadable and her face revealed neither joy nor sadness. She was as cool and aloof as any of the statues adorning the garden walkways. After all the fine talk of marriage and reputation earlier in the day, she showed no sign of caring how her behaviour must look to any who saw it tonight.

The couple disappeared around a bend on the darkened path, and Tony hopped the nearest hedge and cut across the grass, staying out of the glow of the lanterns to keep pace with them as they proceeded. Around him, on other paths in the darkness, he could hear the sounds of other couples: giggles, sighs and the occasional moan.

And a few yards away from him, Barton had stopped, and pulled Constance close to speak into her ear.

She was leaning into him and looking up into his face, and when he whispered to her, she did not pull away. She glanced around, to see if there was anyone following.

Tony stepped further into the darkness to be sure that he was hidden.

When she was sure they were alone, she kissed Barton quickly on the lips.

The bastard tilted his head and spoke again.

And again she kissed, more slowly this time, with her sweet mouth open to his. It was nothing like the kisses Tony had seen between them, in Barton’s own garden. That night, she had been awkward and it had appeared that she could barely tolerate the man she was with.

Tonight, she was kissing him with her whole spirit, her body tight against his, her arms clutching his shoulders.

Tony’s heart sank. Had anyone noticed the pair together, other than him? Most probably not. It was Vauxhall, after all, and the other couples walking these paths had secrets of their own to keep and no time to pry.

But Constance must have known what would happen if she came here. Why would she let Barton take such a liberty, after the way she had acted in her rooms, and his?

She had said that Barton had the deed to her house. And she had offered her body in trade to Tony if he could get it back.

But had she truly said that Barton’s attentions were unwelcome? Tony swallowed. Perhaps he had misunderstood. It was only the theft of the deed that was unwelcome. If she owned the house, she could invite who she chose to share her bed: him, or Barton or anyone else.

So perhaps what Stanton had first claimed was the truth. She was a faithless traitor, with no more loyalty to Barton than to anyone else.

The thought made him ache.

And yet, he could not stop wanting her. He had wanted her all the time she was married, he had wanted her before that, he had wanted her when they were children, before he even knew what he wanted her for. And because he was a fool, he would continue to want her, if she belonged to Barton or married another. It was lucky that he had not told her when he’d had the chance, or she’d have known the strength of her hold over him and left him with even less dignity than he already possessed.

But if he could not have her, the least he could do was get her clear of Barton before the man’s inevitable destruction.

The garden was as it ever was, gay and enchanting in the darkness. Robert had disapproved of Vauxhall, saying it attracted too common a crowd, but the few times she had gone, she had found it strangely exciting to be able to mingle with royalty and courtesans, watching the entertainments, and listening to the orchestra while eating overpriced ham sandwiches and drinking cheap wine. The pavilions glittered with gilt and mirrors. There was dancing and laughter all around her. And later, there would be fireworks.

She doubted she would be there to see them, for she would be home, in bed. With Barton. He had already led her down one of the dark walks so that they might kiss. She tried not to think of it as a preamble to what was coming. At least it had not been quite so horrible as when she had admitted defeat and kissed him in the sitting room, earlier that day.

This time, she had been able to close her mind to who she was with, imagining that she had been lured down a walk by another who wished to pull her into the darkness, a few steps away from the familiar world, and kiss her to insensibility.

And she had gone willingly, for after a few glasses of wine, the familiar world had seemed intolerably dull, and wickedness in the darkness of Vauxhall excited her.

When she was sure they were alone, she had kissed Barton once, and asked to go back to the dancing. But he had told her that she would need to try much harder. So she had closed her eyes and thought of how different it might be if she were here with Tony. And a few minutes later, Barton had pulled away and declared himself pleased with her response and led her back towards the light.

When they neared the orchestra pavilion, she requested another glass of wine, and he left her alone in the crowd to go find her refreshment. She suspected it would take many more glasses to get through the evening, but it would be worth any price to settle Barton’s vicious temper until she could think of a better plan.

The music began again. It was to be a waltz. She looked around her with resignation. Barton would return and claim her for a dance. She had been lucky so far, and seen no one familiar. But if any who knew her were present, there would be talk. It could not be helped.

A hand from the crowd seized hers and pulled her out on to the floor. And she found herself not in the arms of Barton, but staring into the face of Anthony Smythe, inches from her own.

‘There, now. Did I not promise you that you would run into me at many gatherings, now that you know me? And here the truth is proved, for you are waltzing with me.’

She looked over her shoulder, in panic. ‘I had promised this dance to another.’

‘I suspect it is Barton, for he is coming towards us and looks most furious.’

She struggled to escape from Tony’s grasp. ‘He must not see us together.’

Tony’s grip held tight and he pulled her closer. ‘I do not see how he can help it, for we are together before his very eyes.’

She stared into the crowd, looking for Barton, sick with dread of what was to come.

‘Do not search after other men, when you are in my arms. I find it most damaging to the spirit to think I cannot hold your attention for the space of a single dance.’ His tone hardened. ‘Particularly if you must look at Barton. I had hoped, after what I needed to do for you last week, and all the fine talk in the garden about wanting an honourable marriage, that you would have the sense to stay away from him.’

‘I could not help myself,’ she admitted with honesty.

‘Nor could you the last time. You needed my help, as I remember it. And were willing to go to surprising lengths to get it.’

She lifted her chin. ‘And I do not need you any more.’

‘You are done with me, then?’

‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘I wish you to leave me alone. And leave Barton alone, as well.’

‘And what happened to all the pretty words about preferring my attentions to those of Barton’s?’