Taking advantage of the civilized atmosphere the music created, she circulated about the room. Adam followed her to comment, “Efficient and ferocious. A good friend of Madame Rachelle’s.”
She’d had time to reflect, and she spread her fingers. “I probably did more harm than good. Such anger only feeds the speculation. Look at them. They’re still not leaving. It is the midsummer madness.”
“Madness of some kind. They wander about, restless as beasts, waiting for the final act in this farce.”
Distracted by her desire to protect Rachelle, she almost failed to notice his self-mockery. “I dare not even visit with her, reassure her. To do so would center all eyes on her.” As his words penetrated, she snapped her head around. “What do you mean, they’re waiting for the final act?”
“The final act.” He bowed to her. “It begins now. Your elderly beau approaches.”
Lord Sawbridge bore down on them with Daphne on his arm.
“My elderly beau?” Bronwyn chuckled, wavering with the shocks of the evening. “You jest.”
“He would have gladly warmed your bed,” Adam told her. “He’s been most distressed that I took what he was too impotent to achieve. Now he’ll have his revenge.”
“Rawson?” Lord Sawbridge peered at him myopically. “It is you. Can’t believe you’re here tonight.”
Adam raised a haughty brow. “Where should I be?”
“You have the nerve to put in an appearance.” Lord Sawbridge harrumphed. “After what you’ve done.”
Adam drew out his carved box and flipped it open with an elegant movement of his hand. “Mint pastille?”
“No, damn it.” Sawbridge mopped his brow. “Wouldn’t take anything from you. God knows how you got it.”
Dizzy with the malice that filled the air, Bronwyn asked, “Why wouldn’t you take anything from Lord Rawson?”
“Like father, like son,” Sawbridge quoted. “As the sapling is bent, so grows the tree. The sins of the father and all that.”
“Polonius indeed,” Bronwyn observed. “Pray continue.”
Lord Sawbridge smirked in self-righteous indignation. “If you wished to take a lover, m’dear, you should have taken me.”
Cold as the north wind, Bronwyn retorted, “I didn’t want you.”
“Your mistake. Your mistake.” His pudgy fingers pinched at her side before she could step away. “I’m as rich as Rawson, and my father never taught me the trade his father did.”
Blank as a schoolboy’s slate, Bronwyn stammered, “Taught a trade? What do you mean? Lord Rawson was never taught a trade by his father.”
“He can tell you, m’dear.” Lord Sawbridge rubbed his belly in solemn emphasis. “He can tell you.”
Bronwyn looked to Adam.
A bored smile stretched Adam’s lips. “He means I am a counterfeiter.”
“A counterfeiter?” Bronwyn suspected she’d stumbled into a nest of Bedlamites. “Of what?”
Daphne clarified it for her. “Your lover has been counterfeiting South Sea stock.”
The two bearers of bad tidings, Lord Sawbridge and Daphne, awaited Bronwyn’s reaction. She stared at them, noting their pleasure. She wondered what they expected from her—another explosion of wrath? A scene of denunciation?
She stared at Adam, noting his studied indifference. She thought she knew what he expected of her. A modicum of dignity, a dismissal of few words. “What rot,” she said crisply.
Lord Sawbridge and Daphne still waited with avid anticipation. Adam still smiled his chilly smile. Pinching the skin between her eyes, Bronwyn pronounced, “This is a most unusual evening.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Lord Sawbridge asked.
She took her hand away. “What do you want me to say?”
Swelling with triumph, Daphne suggested, “Perhaps her callous attitude betrays her knowledge of the crime.”
“Madness.” Bronwyn turned away from all of them. She wanted to be with someone sane, someone who understood the people and events surrounding them. She started across the room, no longer caring if she brought attention to Rachelle. At Madame’s side, she repeated, “Pure madness.”
“You’re in the midst of a whirlwind, aren’t you?” Rachelle took Bronwyn’s hand.
“I’m in the midst of a whirlwind?” Bronwyn gave a half-hysterical laugh. “You heard what Judson said about you?”
“How could I fail to hear?”
“Now Daphne and ol’ Sawbones are accusing Adam of counterfeiting.”
“I know.” Leading her past the new footman, Rachelle asked, “Do you believe it?”
Rolling her eyes, Bronwyn protested, “No one who is acquainted with Adam would believe it. Only a fool would fail to see his integrity. But why are they saying such a thing? Don’t they understand how he can hurt them?”
Rachelle stopped on the sill of her study. “Hurt them?”
“A rich man has his ways,” Bronwyn said sagely, “and Adam is a very rich man.”
Rachelle suggested, “Perhaps they believe they can hurt him more.”
“How?” Bronwyn demanded.
“By striking at his reputation and his family honor.” Rachelle put her cool hand to Bronwyn’s cheek, as if she wanted to emphasize her words with her touch. “It is well known Lord Rawson is tender about his honor.”
Repulsed, Bronwyn pushed her way into the study. “I wish to scream at them.”
Shutting the door behind her, Rachelle followed in a graceful glide. “Why didn’t you?”
Flopping back in a delicate chair, Bronwyn grimaced. “A childish tantrum will impress those idiots in quite the wrong manner. I apologize for my earlier outburst.”
Rachelle hesitated as if torn. Bronwyn lifted her brows in inquiry, but Rachelle shook her head in some inner denial and said only, “I think you for your spirited defense.”
“If I had been free to speak, I would have told them how Henriette died. How did such an ugly rumor get started?”
“Once someone discovered the old tale of why I left France, I suppose it was inevitable they would accuse me of Henriette’s death.”
“It’s an indication of the small minds that litter our society….” Bronwyn tilted her head. “What old tale?”
Moving cautiously, as if she didn’t want to alarm Bronwyn, Rachelle perched atop the desk. “They say I left France because I killed my husband.”
Her legs stretched out before her, Bronwyn wiggled her feet and watched them with a detached fascination. “Outrageous.”
“Not at all. It’s the truth.”
All Bronwyn’s joints locked. All her mental functions ceased. She couldn’t speak.
“I did kill him. He was a nobleman, I was his wife, and I stabbed him to death.”
Forsaken in the salon, Adam ignored the whispers, the stares. Bronwyn had abandoned him. Abandoned him like a newly diagnosed leper. Sawbridge and Daphne had brought their accusations, Bronwyn had made a weak comment, and she’d left. Gone to Rachelle and left.
The blow staggered him. He’d expected, he’d hoped for, loyalty from Bronwyn, and she’d deserted him. Sickened, bumping into furniture and people, he walked out. He would go now. Go back to Boudasea Manor, go back and try to rescue his ailing business. He would just walk out—
But he found himself climbing the stairs to the room under the eaves, going like some wounded animal in need of succor to the den he shared with Bronwyn.
Maybe she’d made a mistake, he thought as he climbed. Maybe she’d been so stunned by the counterfeiting charge, she’d been unable to deal with it in public. Opening the door, he heard movement within, and his heart leaped when he saw Bronwyn’s beloved face, streaked with tears. He opened his arms, and she rushed to him. She crushed his waist with her hug, and he hugged her back. His jubilation couldn’t be contained.
Bronwyn supported him. She believed in him.
Without care for his still formal toilette, she clutched his waistcoat. “Do you know what Rachelle just told me?
”
His leg collapsed under the impact of his surprise. “Rachelle?”
“Are you well?” She led him to the chair, settled him on the cushion, perched on the arm, and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “This night has been a shock, I know, but Rachelle gave me permission to confide her secret in you.” Anguished, she dug her face into his cravat. “Dear God, Adam, she killed her husband.” He stiffened, and she hastened to add, “For good reason.”
“I see.” He didn’t see. He didn’t see anything. Why was she talking about Rachelle?
“He beat her. He beat her so badly she still bears the scars. She showed me….” She shuddered.
Unable to help himself, he offered comfort in the squeeze of his hand.
“Her family wouldn’t help her. They blamed her. No one would help her, although everyone at Versailles knew what he was. She could do nothing, nothing.” Her voice broke, and his other arm hugged her waist. “Then she became pregnant.”
“Was it his child?”
She glared through threatening tears. “Of course it was his.”
“It’s a reasonable question,” he pointed out. “If he beat her so unmercifully, perhaps she found solace elsewhere.”
“It’s a stupid question!” she ripped at him. “Why would a woman who’d been raped in every way by her husband, who’d had bones broken by her husband—why would she ever want another man? She has no use for men.”
He paid her vehemence the compliment of gravity. “Why did she kill him?”
“Because he beat the baby! Henriette was a child of five, and he broke her ribs.” Tears trickled down her face, but she seemed unaware.
Without hesitation he declared, “He deserved killing.”
“God, yes. Her family was too powerful for her to be tried. His family didn’t want a scandal attached to his name, so they gave her money enough to live the rest of her life. Old King Louis ordered her into exile, and she came here to raise her daughter in safety.”
Her nose was rosy, her eyes were puffy, and yet the sight of her tugged at him. Perhaps her compassion to Rachelle had blinded her to his plight. He pushed his handkerchief into her hand. “Wipe your face,” he commanded.
A spot spread on the embroidered silk of his waistcoat, and she dabbed at the damage.
“Never mind that. Blow.” He directed the handkerchief to her nose and she blew.
Twisting the handkerchief, she said, “Her daughter died of the very fate Rachelle sought to avoid, and the rumors accuse Rachelle of the crime which most fills her with dread.”
“Most unfair, but I have reason to know how unfair rumors can be.” He was testing her, he knew, and he rejoiced when her hand pressed the place over his heart. Now she would be indignant on his behalf. Now she would be compassionate. Now his faith in her would be rewarded.
Solemn and sweet, she replied, “And I, but I don’t believe our troubles are as weighty as Rachelle’s.”
Incredulous, he searched her every feature. Her tender mouth trembled, her sherry-colored eyes clung to his. The blotchiness of weeping was already passing.
Where was her righteous indignation for him?
Her calm passed, changed to bewilderment. “Adam? Why do you look at me like that?”
“Is this all you have to say to me?” he demanded.
“Well, I—no.” She fumbled for words, her face suffused with guilt. “I suppose you’re talking about Henriette.”
His calm exploded. “Henriette?” he shouted.
She flinched. “I know I should have told you before, but Olivia and I rescued Henriette before she died.”
Her audacity confounded him. How dare she discuss a dead woman whom he’d never met, when he’d been stripped of trustworthiness? “You’re talking to me about Rachelle’s daughter now?”
“I should have trusted you, but I was afraid you’d be angry.” She took a breath. “As you are. I didn’t even tell my father, but she said something I think you’ll understand.”
“Henriette said something you think I’ll understand?”
“And if you’ll stop yelling at me, I’ll tell you what it is.”
Rage, thick and blinding as a sea fog, overwhelmed him.
“She said that the bastard who abducted her had threatened to kill a man by dropping a stock on him. Now I have deduced—”
He didn’t shout this time. He whispered, “Don’t say another word.”
She opened her mouth.
“Nothing.” The ice of his soul chilled each word, and her eyes widened as the cold struck her. “I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want to hear you.”
Her mouth worked, tears welled up once more, and she asked, “Are you going to leave me?”
Bitter laughter rocked him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It would make it so easy for you.” Some monster reached up from inside him and made him say the one thing he shouldn’t. “No, I won’t leave you. I’m going to stay here and make your life hell, my dear. Living hell.” His walking stick in hand, he opened the door, then turned back. “Be here when I get back.”
Her cry didn’t bring him back, but he was tempted. Damn her, he was tempted. That made him angrier than ever, for he knew his father had destroyed him once more, but this time he had an ally. Bronwyn, his beautiful Bronwyn, had stabbed him through the heart.
Chapter 14
Change Alley had a frantic look about it. Noblemen and chimney sweeps scurried like ants, as if by their activity they could create prosperity where there was none. A September heat wave never checked their enterprise, for ruin stalked them. Adam sat at his table in Garraway’s watched with grim amusement, and wondered how he would ever find a conspiracy in a place where no one would speak to him.
Whoever had created the rumor of counterfeiting had chosen his target well. Adam had never been popular in himself. As Walpole told him, he was too serious, too menacing. But people used to deal with him because he was a respected, licensed broker.
Now he was only licensed.
All believed he’d cheated them. They wanted to believe it—they liked to believe it. Why not? It provided them with a focus, a person on whom to blame their troubles.
He lifted his finger for a refill of coffee. Garraway glanced his way and sent the barmaid.
He wouldn’t have minded the snubs, the jeers, the overloud comments, but did Bronwyn have to pretend she thought nothing of his disgrace? She never questioned him about his father, so he knew she’d been gossiping behind his back. It grated at him when he thought of how she’d shrugged or, worse, laughed. Like a fool, he stayed at Madame Rachelle’s, waiting for the moment Bronwyn would declare her faith in him. The moment never came, and the tension between them mounted.
Oh, she felt it. But she considered any agony of his to be unimportant. Why? Too easily he knew the answer. She only toyed with him. His grand design to seduce her, trap her by affection, and then marry her had fallen to dust. Seduced, trapped, he cared for a woman who believed every lie spread about him. Believed them and didn’t care enough about him to clear his honor.
He wouldn’t even make love to her, although she pleaded for reasons. He slept on a chair, ignoring her temptations. Something in him rebelled at being used like a fancy man, to assuage the desire he’d taught her. But he wanted to. Oh, God, he wanted to. Misery moved through him slowly, like the darkest sludge of the river Thames.
A harsh, feminine voice interrupted his melancholy. “Ye Lord Rawson?”
The woman, painted, thin, obviously a prostitute, stood with one hip thrust to the side, her arms crossed over her chest. The odor of the docks clung to her. Warily Adam answered, “I am Lord Rawson.”
She threw a clump of paper on the table before him. “’Ere’s some of yer stock.”
After picking one certificate loose from the damp wad, Adam held it up. Ink ran from it, blurring the picture on the stock certificate. “If I had printed this, I would have done a better job.”
“They tell me this ain’t S
outh Sea stocks. They tell me t’ find ye an’ get me money.”
“Who told you?” Adam asked.
“That snip o’ a clerk at th’ South Sea Company.” Hands on hips, the woman sneered, “Ye’re a fine gennaman, ain’t ye? Got so much money, ye got t’ rob us that ain’t got so much. I know men like ye. I’ve ’ad customers like ye. Cheat an ’onest woman out o’ an ’onest wage.”
Adam held up his hand. “Madam, cease your harangue.”
“Who’s goina make me?”
Although her tone was belligerent, her expression belied her resentment. Tears hovered in her eyes. She wiped her nose on the fringe of her shawl. With a calm born of seaboard command, Adam ordered, “Straighten that back! Pull back those shoulders!”
Instinctively she did.
“First of all, I would know who sold you those stocks.”
She slumped again. “Some flunky o’ yers, no doubt.”
“Describe him, please,” Adam said crisply. “If you can describe him so I can discover his identity, I’ll pay your debt.”
“M’Gawd!” The woman sprang erect. As respectfully as any of his seamen, she asked, “Are ye ajokin’ me, m’lord?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of gold coins, and tossed them on the table. She edged closer, gaze bound to the money. “Go on, take it,” he invited. In the blink of an eye, she snatched at it. He caught her wrist before she could bury the money in her pocket. “Tell me.”
“’Twas another ’ore, just like me.” She glanced around. “I know ’er. I’ll ast ’er who sold t’ ’er.”
“You know where to find me.” He released her and sat back.
She bounded away as if she expected him to change his mind, but when he didn’t move she whispered, “Ain’t ye th’ one?”
“No.” His lips formed the word, and he burned with renewed fury.
“Then I’ll find th’ bumhole bastard.” She grinned a gap-toothed smile. “Me loyalty can be bought, an’ ye jus’ found th’ way t’ do it.” Her hips rotated in wide circles as she left.