Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (8 page)

The answer echoed hollowly in his skull.
Too long. Not careful enough.

“Sure fing,” Finkel shot back, confident he had now earned his twenty quid. “An’ bof disappeared for a few weeks after. Obvious, ain’t it?”

“Not quite,” Grey returned dangerously, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“’E took ’er off!” Finkel said, laughing. “No doubt breakin’ ’er in where there ain’t no distractions.”

Grey was fighting to keep a grip on his temper, a fight he was losing.

When he lifted his gaze to Finkel, his control slipped and his eyes hardened, allowing Finkel a glimpse into the icy devilishness usually kept well in check.

Finkel’s expression lost some of its cheerfulness. “S-surely you don’t fink I ’ad anyfing to do wiv it. I-I ain’t the one startin’ nofin’.”

“You? No, I don’t believe you did,” he said, one side of his mouth lifting in sick amusement. “You lack the mental capacity. It’s that cerebral ineptitude of yours, which is the reason you still breathe. However, there is a terribly great array of uncomfortable possibilities between your current condition and being dead.”

Finkel stared wide-eyed at Grey.

Grey glanced down at Finkel’s shaking hands then met Finkel’s frightened eyes again with a smile. “Ah, now. You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Finkel? Why should you be afraid?”

“I-I don’t do nofin’. I just say wot’s already bein’ said,” he spouted.

Grey’s smile faded. “These are some very serious charges you have been spreading around, Finkel. They could perturb some very close friends of mine. There may be very stiff consequences.”

“But I—”

“Shh,” Grey interrupted calmly. He grabbed Finkel’s collar, pushing him through the doorway and up against the wall.

“P-please!”

“Ah, ah, ah. Shh.” Grey applied just enough pressure to keep Finkel from saying anything past a guttural choking sound until he stopped trying to talk.

“Now.” Grey started again, releasing some of the pressure. “Who else is working for Bexley?”

“I don’t kno—eechgh!” Finkel fought for air as Grey tightened his grip around Finkel’s collar.

“I am not especially interested in what you don’t know,” Grey said. “Tell me something useful, Finkel. If you want to live to enjoy those twenty pounds, may I suggest you do it sooner rather than later? I only have so much patience for stupidity.”

“Someone at White’all!” Finkel croaked desperately. “The ’Ome Office!

Grey’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“I don’t kn—eechgh!”

“Do not make me tell you this again, Finkel,” Grey muttered irritably then loosened his grip.

“Please!” Finkel wheezed desperately. “I only know it’s someone ’igh up!”

Grey released Finkel to drop to the floor in a pathetic heap. “Don’t bother telling Bexley about me,” he said, setting his clothes back to rights. “You don’t have a name to give him, nor will you get one.”

“’Ow do you know I be tellin’ Bexley anyfing?” Finkel asked.

Grey’s half-smile oozed contempt as his icy gaze fixed on Finkel.

“Are you from White’all, too?” Finkel rasped shakily. “One a them Bow Street Runners?”

“A Runner? I am just an old hostler, Finkel.” Grey tossed the two purses at Finkel who caught them both to his chest. Then he turned to step out into the street.

Grey regained his stiff gait, working his way back to a hackney as composedly as he could manage. He didn’t look back to see if he was being followed; he had no doubt of it. Finkel was scared, but he was also humiliated and stupid.

Grey climbed into the carriage where every curse he knew in at least four languages flew from his mouth violently. After ten minutes, Grey could discern a tail. Finkel had caught up with him in another hackney. He spent the next hour hopping in and out of carriages until he could safely return home, leaving poor Finkel somewhere on the outskirts of London near Wapping.

T
he Italian Opera House
was a bustling venue this evening. Flashes of colored muslin and men’s black evening dress passed under the theater’s arches that were large enough to fit a carriage. Gilded accents against ivory walls and tall ceilings flowed throughout the halls and foyer; crimson curtains separated boxes; and a large mural looked down upon the stalls and stage. It was a glorious sight, one Kathryn would not soon forget.

She waited for Grey to alight from the carriage. Then he offered his hand first to his mother as she stepped down, and then to Kathryn. Her mother had said she noticed Kathryn’s attraction to him. Attraction seemed such a feeble word for what he did to her every tingling nerve ending.

They stepped leisurely under the impressive arches and into the theater where posters advertised the night’s performance, highlighting the celebrated baritone playing Figaro only at the Italian Opera House.

“This is the King’s Theater,” Kathryn said, a bit puzzled as she lightly tugged on Grey’s arm.

Grey leaned down to speak only to her, his breath moving the hairs about her ear. “Indeed, but no one calls it so anymore. Or so I am told. I have been in France for the past year, so what would I know? But the sign reads Italian Opera House, Haymarket. I wouldn’t be surprised to find it has something to do with Italian operas.”

Kathryn glanced up to see his mischievous grin and his eyes sparkling with the same mischief. She looked away to examine the theater, refreshing her memory and distracting her mind from Ainsley. As she did, she noticed people turning away, some toward a wall. It was an odd behavior, to say the least.

When the dowager stopped to greet a friend and her daughter, and Grey had turned to speak to someone behind them, Kathryn was made aware that, in no uncertain terms, the disdainful cuts were directed at no one but her. She smiled warmly alongside the dowager, but the two ladies barely acknowledged her. When she did get a glance from one of them, it was filled with disgust.

Still, she held her composure. She had done nothing to either of those women. Obviously, there had been some mistake, but having it out at the theater was not the way to resolve it. She would deal with this privately in the morning. Perhaps they would come to tea and speak with her. After being out nearly every night for a month, Kathryn was relatively confident she could handle a short tête à tête.

That did not address everyone else’s reaction, but at least it was a start.

When Grey turned back to urge them onward, Kathryn gladly took up his arm again, feeling a bit more confident now that her arm was back in his. She kept her chin up and shoulders squared, unwilling to show an ounce of weakness. Minutes later, they were seated in Ainsley’s private box.

* * *

G
rey couldn’t shake
the feeling that the scandal had been planned. If someone had seen them together the night of her attack, the news would have become public soon after, so why wait until now?

Someone was playing a game, and the only person who came to Grey’s mind was his shadowy friend, but what could he possibly gain by all this? Perhaps he figured a scandal would bring Grey’s tie with Kathryn to a head, which it would. In which case, he probably assumed Grey would run off to the next conquest. That would normally be the case if this weren’t an assignment, and if it didn’t signify the shadow’s victory, and if Grey didn’t feel the need to take responsibility for his own actions.

“Do you know what’s happening? I didn’t see any pamphlets when we walked in,” Kathryn whispered from beside him, pulling him from his vexing thoughts.

Grey scowled in annoyance as he turned toward her, narrowly dodging a mouthful of auburn curls. His mouth reluctantly curled in amusement.

“I can hear you quite well from your seat—the expansive distance is at six inches—but if you insist on perching on my lap, I shall not complain.” He smiled wolfishly. “You may just be a perfect fit.”

Kathryn jerked back into her seat and glared up at him. “Libertine.”

“Prude,” he returned with an affronted expression. At her continued glare, he turned suddenly serious and lowered his head to meet her eyes. “This may surprise you, but ah-la-la-la is the same in English.”

“He did
not
say ah-la-la-la,” Kathryn said evenly. “I should never have—”

“The opera is called
Il Barbiere di Siviglia.
The Barber of Seville,” Grey explained offhandedly, pronouncing his Italian perfectly as the tenor continued the cavatina.

He had perfected his accent during an extended stay in Italy, courtesy of a certain farmer near Milan. If his Italian hadn’t been perfected, the stay might have been a permanent one.

“This is a wealthy, young count,” he continued, “who is serenading his love, Rosina, at her window, but he’s disguised as a poor student to gain her love by his own merit. What he says here, ‘
Sorgi, mia dolce speme, vieni, bell’idol mio; rendi men crudo, oh Dio, lo stral che mi feri
.’ ‘Arise my sweet hope, come, my beautiful idol; render less painful, oh God, the arrow that wounds me.’”

Blue eyes fastened on him, wide with surprise. “You speak Italian?”

He mirrored her shock sarcastically. “You don’t?”

Surprise faded to mild annoyance, and Kathryn shook her head, turning her attention back to the stage. “It’s so beautiful I could cry.”

Grey glanced at her indifferently. “Is that good?”

She nodded.

“If you want to cry, just wait until you get to know the girl’s guardian, the ill-tempered Bartolo,” he assured her, equally ill-humored. “He will deal with this rogue, this mischief-maker.”

“He can’t!” Kathryn argued, looking at him as though he could change the dashed performance. It was the same comedic opera he had attended three years ago in Rome and laughed himself to tears, a feat he had thought impossible.

“The man is her guardian,” he pointed out. “I think he can.”

She sent him a mutinous look. “Can you not hear the count serenading her? He obviously loves her.”

Grey’s brows lifted high. “So, is that how a fellow proves his love?” He grimaced, shaking his head. “There’s a depressingly hefty collection of besotted, tone-deaf fools bound for a rough time of it.”

“You are a brute,” she articulated simply.

“And the only one with an understanding of custodial rights, apparently,” Grey teased, deadpan.

Kathryn seemed to ignore his taunts until another translation was wanted. Each time, Grey obliged as he had promised he would whilst attempting to keep his commentary strictly storyline. When he wasn’t explaining the opera, he was watching her. She smiled and laughed through the whole bloody thing, sitting on the edge of her seat and soaking up every bit of it. Her eyes lit up, entranced, when Figaro was introduced.

Eventually, the curtain closed on the final bars, and Grey readied himself for the next step. He had no choice.

Kathryn twisted toward him in her seat, her blue eyes bright and satisfied. She was radiant, damn her.

“Thank you. I could not have enjoyed it half so well without you.”

“You would have enjoyed it the same should you have had a translated pamphlet, perhaps more,” Grey said. “Admit it; my charm only goes as far as my usefulness, especially when I am unsociable.”

Kathryn smiled. “Well, it’s incredibly fortunate you are so good at being useful.”

“Indeed,” he replied with a lifted brow. “Or rather, that I managed to hide the pamphlet booth from you.”

“Devious fellow!” she exclaimed.

Grey rose from his seat then turned to bow over his mother’s hand. “It was a pleasure to have your company, as always. Now, I imagine you will wish to mingle, and I must escort Lady Kathryn home immediately. I shall have a carriage here for you within half an hour if you wish.”

“Alone?” The dowager frowned. “Heavens, Greydon. What about propri—”

“I am afraid we are quite beyond that.” Grey spoke coolly with his brow furrowed over stony eyes.

He didn’t bother reminding her of her promise to quell the rumors. It was obvious by her disappointed expression that she had already done all she could and had thought the issue resolved.

“I see,” the dowager muttered, her lips turned into a thin line. “I shall continue home with Lady Lindon, then.”

Grey bowed again and, turning to take Kathryn’s hand, escorted her from the box. She was on his arm, had his protection, and still, he caught glimpses of censure from nearly everyone they passed. Lewd sneers from men and open glares of contempt from women were not even attempted to be furtive until, of course, they noticed
Grey’s
icy glare. Now that his mother was not with him, he could be his normal self and scare the
ton
into civility.

The two weaved through the bodies littering the hall.

He shot a glance at Kathryn as they began down the stairs to find her white as a sheet, but her chin was lifted stubbornly. After they passed through the doors and under the tall arches into the street, her grip relaxed on his arm. They were free of the confines of the theater and soon were settling into his carriage.

* * *

K
athryn sat opposite the marquess
, who had relaxed into the shadows. He had mentioned something mutedly to the coachman before he had settled inside, and the carriage had been steadily rumbling along since then. For ten minutes, they had been like this—Kathryn shifting uncomfortably whilst he watched her.

“I am sorry tonight was not quite all it was meant to be.” His voice smoothly broke through the silence. “Muddy boots track mud, whether they tread the stables or a pristine marble hall.”

Kathryn frowned. “I am sorry, but I don’t follow.”

“I believe I may have the muddiest boots in England,” he went on grimly, “and I have tracked mud all over you.”

Kathryn stared at his shadow in the darkness, his slack body sunk deep enough to drop his height nearly half a foot. All she could see was a large shadow and where his legs stretched out carelessly with his hands settled on powerful thighs.

She forced herself to fixate where his head ought to be. “You refer to—” Kathryn paused, her brow knitting as she tried to find the connection between him and the way she had been treated. “—what happened this evening?”

“I refer to your ruin,” he said.

The implications of his confession crashed down on her.

“So.” She breathed out. “That’s what it was. And you are taking responsibility for it?”

“So it would seem,” he replied.

“Why?” She couldn’t think of a single thing he had done to compromise her, nor would his reputation leave her to expect him to own it if he had.

After a short silence, his chuckle surprised her.

“You think me so abominable? Very well. Consider it political damage control.”

Kathryn shook her head, confused. “You never compromised me.” They had been careful every moment they were together. He had always had a chaperone nearby, until now.

Kathryn glanced around the carriage, suddenly nervous. She was so fixated on surviving the trek out of the theater she hadn’t realized his mother was not with them.

“We are alone,” she said breathlessly.

“Ah, so you have noticed,” he drawled. “When you are accustomed to gallivanting off alone at night, it is a wonder such details catch your attention at all.”

“I do not
gallivant,”
she argued, flustered.

“In fact, I find it remarkable this outcome eluded you so long,” he went on. “Perhaps the more sporting thing to do would have been to hang a sign around your neck: ‘Beware! Cost of rescue: chains of wedlock.’”

“What on earth are you—” The words caught in her throat. “The garden. Someone saw us?”

The dark struggle in the garden rushed through her mind, vivid memories sucking the air from her lungs.

“Surely, whoever saw that would understand I was attacked, and you… There was nothing untoward!” Even as she said it, she knew her reputation was, indeed, destroyed if anyone had seen the slightest bit of what had gone on.

Her mother—this would break her heart.

Ainsley shifted slightly, folding his arms across his chest. Carriage wheels rumbled over the cobblestones, swaying them from side to side as the silence stretched on. The clopping of the horses hooves beat a maddening rhythm that echoed throughout the inside of the carriage.