A Pretty Deceit Page 11

  Though our relationship with Max Westfield, the Earl of Ryde, was complicated—because he’d served as Sidney’s commanding officer at one point during the war, and because I’d started to develop feelings for him when I’d still believed Sidney to be dead—Sidney and I both acknowledged we could possess no greater friend. Over the past four months, Max had been there whenever we needed him, ready to leap in with his assistance. And when we’d recently uncovered a heinous plot that involved not only Lord Ardmore and Lord Rockham, but also Max’s late father, he’d barely flinched before diving in to help us uncover proof. That we now suspected Ardmore of also arranging Max’s father’s death, and destroying any evidence of their connection, complicated matters. But Max had willingly agreed to search through the remainder of the meticulous records his father left behind to locate whatever information he could find that might help us in our quest to expose Ardmore’s treachery and to discover the endgame behind all his machinations.

  “Maybe,” Sidney replied doubtfully. “But you are right. We do need to return to London.”

  Despite the unpleasantness of Mr. Green’s death, the past four days had served as a welcome distraction from the shadow Ardmore had cast over our lives. And a much-needed reminder that the elusive lord didn’t lie around every corner or hang over every mystery. One day we would find the proof we needed, one day we would snare him in his own trap. But in the meantime, life must go on.

  “But not before I give you this.” Sidney extracted a long, thin box from his coat pocket and handed it to me with a warm gleam in his eyes. “Given our recent exploits, I was tempted to arm you to the teeth instead. A pearl-handled pistol for your clutch, a dagger to strap to your thigh.” His voice softened. “But I’ve had this tucked away since our wedding.”

  I looked up from the box in shock.

  “I meant to give it to you on my first leave. But then, part of me started to think that, if I had this hidden away waiting for me to give it to you, then the fates would have to let me return.”

  I felt tears burn at the back of my eyes. “Where was it hidden?”

  He shook his head, a smile lurking on his lips. “If I tell you that, then where will I hide your Christmas gifts?” He nodded at the box. “Open it.”

  My hands trembled slightly as I lifted the lid only to gasp at the sight of the diamond and emerald bracelet nestled within—a perfect match to my wedding ring. “Sidney,” I breathed in awe, lifting the flashing gems up to the light. “It’s beautiful.”

  He took the bracelet from my fingers and then grasped my hand, turning it over and bringing my wrist up to his lips. His deep blue eyes watched me as he pressed a warm kiss to the delicate skin, making my pulse flutter. Then with a smile that I knew would only ever be just for me, he fastened the bracelet around my wrist. “Happiest birthday, darling. Here’s to many more.”

  CHAPTER 9

  I inhaled a deep breath of smoke, gin, and Tabac Blond perfume as the driving rhythm of the music filled my blood. The band at Grafton Galleries—one of the London night clubs Sidney and I frequented—seemed particularly uninhibited tonight. But then, they always seemed freer when my friend Etta Lorraine took to the stage. She stood at the center, gripping the microphone as she belted out “Royal Garden Blues,” her fingers and shimmying hips encased in gold silk keeping the tempo driving.

  Sidney and I had deliberately arrived at the club later than usual that evening. The day had already been a long one. My aunt had protested our departure, but since she’d taken to her bed again, she hadn’t been able to put up much of a fight. Seeing how pale and weak she seemed, I’d felt a moment’s qualm about leaving her. But Miss Musselwhite had returned, looking drawn and sad, and promised she’d look after her closely, lest she have a relapse of the illness she’d suffered a few weeks earlier.

  In any case, my mind was soon occupied by other worries when I noticed how Sidney winced every time he lifted his left arm. He strove to hide it, but from time to time the muscles in his chest that had been damaged when he was shot nineteen months prior still pained him, particularly when he exerted them more than usual. Between all the driving he’d done to Falmouth and back, and his thorough efforts the evening before on behalf of my birthday, I wasn’t surprised his old wound ached. So, despite my curiosity being piqued by the message we’d received from Max asking us to meet him at Grafton Galleries that night, I’d insisted that Sidney lie down and rest for a few hours before we set out on the town.

  Fortunately, Grafton Street and Piccadilly weren’t far from our flat in Berkeley Square, and within minutes of stepping into a taxi we found ourselves descending into the club. As a former art gallery, the club boasted some fine spaces, but no lavish décor. At least, none like those at the exclusive Embassy Club. But people didn’t come to Grafton Galleries to stare at the walls. They came to dance. As such, it was the perfect place to meet. Not only was it less conspicuous than closeting ourselves away in our flat, but the loud music foiled any would-be eavesdroppers. Given the fact that we were fairly certain Ardmore was having us surveilled, this was no small thing.

  My friend Daphne twirled by in the arms of a gentleman in white tie and tails, a red carnation tucked in one button hole, giggling as she waggled her fingers at me.

  “That is one brave fellow,” Sidney remarked, pressing a hand to the small of my back, where the deep vee of my jade-green gown exposed my skin.

  “I thought you’d developed some appreciation for Daphne,” I protested over my shoulder. Until a few weeks prior, he had barely tolerated her, while my friend had been determined to win his approval.

  “I’m not talking about Daphne, but that drink of hers.”

  I turned to see that she cradled a glass of the brilliant pink concoction called “Turk’s Blood,” one that came perilously close to spilling over the sides onto her partner’s white coat with each revolution.

  We wound our way through the crush of beautiful bodies, pressing a kiss to a flushed cheek here and shaking the hand of a grinning chap there as we searched for Max. Finding it impossible to make our way around the edges of the dance floor, Sidney whirled me into his arms as we gave in to the syncopated urges of our bodies and let the music pull us under its sway. My husband had always been a marvelous dancer, though I couldn’t help searching his face for any sign of strain.

  He dipped his head so that his mouth was next to my ear. “I’m fine, Verity. Stop fretting.”

  As if to illustrate this, he twirled me out and then pulled me back in, his eyes glinting in challenge. I needed no further encouragement, meeting him step for step as the fringe of my dress swirled about my sheer silk stockings. We danced two rags, and then I spied Max a few feet away from us as the band transitioned into a more traditional waltz.

  “Verity, Kent,” he declared with delight when he saw us bearing down on him. “I wondered if you would make it.” As always, he cut a handsome figure with his butterscotch-blond hair, soft gray eyes, and his easy smile. He led us toward a table a dozen feet away, scattered with empty glasses. Raising his hand, he caught the attention of a passing waiter and ordered a round of our preferred libations.

  We settled in the chairs with the walls covered in tissue paper at our backs, and the men each pulled out a cigarette. They lit them and leaned back in their chairs, for all the world as if we were about to discuss the latest film playing at the cinema or plans for a jaunt to the countryside rather than investigating treason.

  “Evidently, we received your message,” Sidney drawled.

  “Yes.” Max sighed, exhaling a stream of smoke. “I wish it was to report better news.”

  My shoulders must have visibly slumped, for Max cast me a chagrinned smile.

  “I’ve scoured the last of my father’s papers, and I simply can’t find any information linking him to Ardmore or to the incident with the Zebrina.” He arched his eyebrows significantly. “And note I say any. Not one notation to suggest they even knew each other.”

  “But we know t
hey did,” I countered. “That they must have had dealings in Parliament and over the war. And we’ve already confirmed your father and Lord Rockham, and almost certainly Lord Ardmore were involved with that hackneyed plot to smuggle opium to the rebels in Ireland on the Zebrina.”

  “Which means someone did a thorough job of scrubbing all mention of Ardmore and any questionable dealings they were involved in together from the late earl’s records.” Sidney’s expression was forbidding. “Better to remove it all than risk leaving something incriminating behind.”

  The fact that the discovery of such a scrupulous removal would not only confirm our suspicions but also frustrate us by the lack of tangible proof would merely be a boon to Lord Ardmore. He loved nothing more than to toy with people.

  “Then you haven’t found any explanation for your father’s last letter?” I asked, knowing it weighed on Max. The late earl’s missive, sent a year earlier while the war still raged, had been oddly vague, stating that he wished to discuss something important with him on his next leave home from the front. That he was going to do everything in his power to make that happen sooner rather than later. His failure to make any mention of it in the meticulous notes he had kept about everything had forced Max to leap to a troubling conclusion.

  “None. I still haven’t the slightest confirmation what he wanted to tell me. Or whether his sudden death before he could speak to me is somehow related.”

  We could speculate all we wanted about the possibility his father wished to confide in him about his ridiculous smuggling scheme, and how horribly wrong it had gone—resulting in the crew of the Zebrina, and their illegal cargo, going missing. Or that he’d discovered Ardmore was involved in even more traitorous activities. But we needed proof. Just as we needed proof that Ardmore was behind the deaths of Lord Rockham, three others, and possibly the late Lord Ryde, all in an effort to cover up the events on the Zebrina.

  Max took one last drag on his fag before savagely stubbing it out in one of the dishes littering the table. “For all I know, he could have simply wanted to wish me a happy birthday.”

  I knew he didn’t believe that any more than I did, but given the fact his father had died almost exactly a year ago, it did draw my attention to something else. “When is your birthday?”

  He cast an uncertain look at me. “Friday.”

  I laughed. “Mine was yesterday.”

  He sat taller. “It was?”

  “And as it just so happens, it wasn’t the most auspicious of celebrations, despite Sidney’s stellar efforts,” I replied, reaching for his hand with the arm wrapped in his lovely gift.

  His mouth quirked upward at the corner. “I can’t be held responsible for the dead bodies which seem to appear in your wake.”

  Max’s eyes widened.

  “He’s teasing,” I said, brushing the matter aside. I had no intention of discussing Mr. Green and his untimely demise. “We planned to hold a little impromptu birthday gathering tomorrow at the Savoy, but why don’t we make it a joint party. You invite whatever friends you wish and I’ll invite mine, and we’ll make an evening of it.”

  “You don’t mind?” His gaze darted from me to Sidney, who didn’t appear to be the least ruffled by this suggestion.

  “No, it’ll be fun,” I said. “You’ll see.”

  “Well, all right, then.” He smiled. “My sister is in town, and she has been pestering me to do something special to celebrate.”

  “Then this is perfect.”

  But later, after we exited the club before the playing of the national anthem that ended every evening, and hurried through a phalanx of photographers hoping to snap a few pictures of the young and wealthy out and about in their glad rags, I asked Sidney how he actually felt about my idea. “I hope I didn’t overstep,” I told him in a low voice, snuggling close lest the taxi driver overhear us. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that the three of us couldn’t be in the same room together without feeling the strain of what had occurred, or almost occurred, on Umbersea Island.

  “I admit, I was surprised at first. But no, I don’t mind.” The gleam of the passing streetlamps reflected off the windows, casting his profile in highlight and then shadow as he seemed to choose his next words carefully. “I’ve accepted that I bear a large part of the responsibility for the fact that any attraction developed between you two. Had you not believed I was dead, you never would have even contemplated it.” He pulled my fur-trimmed coat tighter around me against the chill of the night and gazed into my eyes. “But I trust Ryde. And more importantly, I trust you. Whatever was, is no more.”

  I wouldn’t have gone so far as to say that. Attraction didn’t simply flicker on and off because you wished it to. But his point was still valid. Neither Max nor I would act upon it. Nor did I wish to. Not with Sidney back in my arms.

  “Besides, I like Ryde. I always have.” His features twitched in amusement. “Even when I was cursing his orders to shore up a trench wall or lead a raiding party over the top in the pouring rain.” His gaze dipped to the diamond tear drop earring dangling from my left ear. “He’s an honorable fellow. I’m glad we have him on our side.”

  “Me too,” I replied softly. In more ways than one. For I’d already recognized that I couldn’t help Sidney heal from the horrors of the war, or release the guilt he carried like a yoke. Not alone. Max and Sidney understood each other better than I ever could, and I’d hoped their friendship would be beneficial to them both in that regard.

  “What did he have to say when Crispin pulled me out on the dance floor?” I asked. Crispin Ballantyne was one of Sidney’s oldest friends, and also one of the most gregarious men I knew. Some weeks ago, I’d asked him to keep his ears to the ground and let me know if he heard anything of interest about our current two favorite subjects—Lord Ardmore and the Zebrina. Unfortunately, he had nothing to tell me about either.

  But he had heard whispers that Lady Rockham had been moved to a more private and secure location since her incarceration for the murder of her husband. I still felt certain that Lord Ardmore had been the catalyst behind the decision made by my former friend, Ada, Lady Rockham, to shoot her husband. That he held something over her, something worth killing to keep. Since her arrest, I had tried multiple times to visit her, and been repeatedly turned away. I felt that if only I could convince her to confide in me, if only she would tell me what she knew, we might be able to gain some traction in our pursuit of proof against Ardmore. But thus far she’d proven unwilling.

  I met this news of her transfer with skepticism. Although it was true she’d received intense interest from the press—attention she’d eaten up—and even death threats, which she’d played up to with all the fervor of her theatrical personality, Holloway Prison seemed secure enough to me. It seemed more likely to me that Ardmore had pulled strings and seen her moved to prevent her from speaking to me or anyone else about what she knew.

  “Only that Ryde’s fairly certain someone broke into his town house three nights ago.”

  I sat upright in alarm. “What happened?”

  Sidney glanced at the driver, who was now watching us in the mirror, and pulled me back against the seat beside him. He lowered his mouth to speak in my ear. “A window in Ryde’s study was left open, one that his butler and a footman both swear was locked. Apparently, he’d cautioned them about the potential for intruders.”

  “Was anything taken?” I murmured.

  He shook his head.

  I felt a tremor of unease run down my spine. “Then this was Ardmore’s way of telling us he can get to us—any of us—at any time.”

  His eyes flashed. “He can bloody well try,” he growled, and I suddenly realized how infuriated he was by this revelation.

  I lifted my hand to touch my thumb to the cleft in his chin, drawing his attention back to me. “I’m not concerned for us,” I assured him. “I know you would protect me.” My voice hardened. “And I’m far from a helpless damsel. But what of Daphne or Etta? Or even George? He spe
nt his war breaking codes, not fighting in the trenches. I’m not sure he even knows how to throw a punch.”

  “He survived Eton. He knows,” Sidney assured me, revealing more than I wanted to know about the education elite boys received before university. “But I take your point. Anyone who Ardmore might think is assisting us, anyone connected to us, might be at risk.”

  My own anger ignited that he should attempt to intimidate us in such a way. “If the proof we’re seeking isn’t among Max’s father’s papers, then we’ll have to find it another way.” I turned to gaze out at the elegant Georgian façades of Mayfair, wondering how many of those buildings were still kept in good repair, and how many—like Littlemote House—were rotting from within. “We need to know every potential secret he might be hiding. And the only way we can do that is to discover everything we can about him.”

  Thus far we’d been approaching the problem from the present, working backward to find the proof of Ardmore’s perfidy. But perhaps if we approached it from a different angle, if we looked to the past, our answer would present itself. Or at least provide us a clue.

  “Sun Tzu does say one should ‘know thy enemy,’” Sidney ruminated.

  I turned to him in surprise. “I don’t know about that.” Or who Sun Tzu was. “But I do know the perfect person to apply to for such a dossier. Particularly as I’m certain much of it already exists.”

  The guarded look in his eyes told me he knew I was referring to my contact at the Secret Service. Though officially I’d been demobilized, along with most of the female staff, earlier that year, unofficially I’d been given a new code name and a separate handler who reported my activities directly to C—the chief. “Yes, but will they share it with you?” he asked, acknowledging the difficulty I faced as a covert agent among covert agents.

  “I suppose we’ll find out.”

  * * *

  Though we’d given them less than twenty-four hours’ notice of our plans, the Savoy ensured we had everything to our liking for our impromptu soirée that evening. A set of tables was arranged for us near the columns to the right of the entrance, so that we could come and go as we wished to the Thames Foyer, where a floor was laid out for dancing. White roses spilled over the tables, and champagne was already chilling in buckets. The chef had even been convinced to serve us flaming bombe Néro for dessert, at my special request.