Damn the woman!
And something else. Oh, yes, there was something else. He had bared his soul to her last evening as he had never done to any other human being. He had trusted her that much.
But she did not return his trust. Ever since he had first set eyes upon her, she must have been suffering unbearable torment. Yet she had kept it all from him. Even last night.
Skeletons are dreadful things to have in our past, Jane, he had said to her.I do not suppose you have any, do you?
No, she had replied.None.
Damn her!
Jocelyn’s fist banged onto the desk once more, causing the inkpot to jump in its silver holder.
JOCELYN SPENT THE DAYat his clubs, at Jackson’s boxing saloon, at a shooting range, at the races. He dined at White’s and spent a couple of hours at an insipid soiree, at which his sister informed him that he had become quite the stranger and that she had talked Heyward into taking her to Brighton for a few weeks in the summer to mix with Prinny’s set and sample the pleasures of the Pavilion. His brother, who also commented that he had become a stranger, was seething with indignation.
“The point is, Tresham,” he said, “that the Forbeses are still hiding yet are still spreading the word thatyouare the one afraid to meetthem. Not to mention what they must be saying about me hiding behind my big brother’s coattails. What are you planning to do about them? That is what I want to know. I have never known you to drag your feet like this. If they do not show up within the week, I am going in search of them myself. And bedamned to that toplofty elder brother pronouncement that they are your concern. It was me they tried to kill.”
Jocelyn sighed. Yes, hehadprocrastinated. All because of an infatuation for a woman.
“And me they hoped to humiliate,” he said. “I will deal with them, Ferdinand. Soon.” He refused to discuss the matter further.
But while he had been dallying with hismistressfor the past week, talking and reading and dabbling with music and art, he had been allowing his reputation to tarnish. It would not do.
It was not until late evening that he finally contrived to get Brougham and Kimble alone. They were strolling together to White’s from the soiree.
“You have not, either of you, mentioned the name of my mistress to anyone, have you?” he asked.
“The devil, Tresham.” Brougham sounded irritated. “Do you need to ask when you requested us specifically not to?”
“If you do, Tresh,” Kimble said with ominous calm, “perhaps I should plant you a facer. You have simply not been yourself lately. But maybe the question was rhetorical?”
“There is a person,” Jocelyn explained, “a Runner with oiled hair and shudderingly awful taste in clothes but with shrewd eyes, who will very possibly be asking questions soon about Miss Jane Ingleby.”
“ABow StreetRunner?” Brougham stopped walking.
“Asking aboutMiss Ingleby?” Even in the darkness of the street Kimble’s frown was visible.
“Alias Lady Sara Illingsworth,” Jocelyn explained.
His friends stared at him in silence.
“He will be questioning you among others,” Jocelyn assured them.
“Miss Jane Ingleby?” Kimble’s expression had become a blank mask. “Never even heard of her. Have you, Cone?”
“Who?” Brougham frowned.
“No, no,” Jocelyn said gently, and began to walk again. His friends fell into step on either side of him. “It is known that she nursed me during my recuperation from my injury. I admitted as much this morning when the person was standing in my library doing his damnedest not to look servile. For three weeks. After which she left my employ. But who am I to have followed the progress beyond my doors of a mere servant?”
“Was there such a servant?” Brougham asked carelessly. “I confess I did not notice, Tresham. But I tend not to notice other people’s servants.”
“Was she the one whosangat your soiree, Tresh?” Kimble asked. “Pretty voice for those who like that sort of music. A pretty enough girl too for those who like simple country misses in muslin when all the ladies present are clad enticingly in satins and plumes and jewels. Whateverdidhappen to her?”
“Thank you,” Jocelyn said briskly. “I knew I could trust you.”
“I say, though, Tresham,” Brougham asked, his voice returned to normal, “whatdidhappen with Jardine? You are not about to ask us to believe, I hope, that Lady Sara murdered him in cold blood because he apprehended her stealing.”
Kimble snorted derisively.
