“Did you kill her too?”
“That’s enough, Rose,” Gabby snapped. She took another deep breath and ploughed on before she lost her nerve. “Another gentleman—and I use the term loosely—did the same to another young woman. He’d… he’d taken the girl by force. She’s only sixteen, and I, um, well… I blackmailed him, if you must know, for two hundred pounds to help her and her unborn child.”
“You!” Rose sputtered. “Blackmailed?”
“Gabriella, perhaps you should keep some things quiet.” Rebecca spoke mildly.
Gabby glared at her.
“We really ought to discuss setting boundaries,” she muttered under her breath.
Boundaries? Gabby’s breath left her in a rush. Perhaps she should consider conceding. Her friend referring to Gabby by her full name was a sure indication she’d finally overstepped.
A scratch sounded from somewhere and Gabby glanced around, startled. Lady Bentick stood in the arch with a tea laden tray. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had guests, Rose. The servants are somewhat overwhelmed,” she said by way of explanation. “Good evening, Your Grace. Lady Huntley. I see we shall need more cups.”
Thirty-Seven
“This isn’t exactly an under-the-darkness-cover I was alluding to,” James told Ryleigh as they handed off their hat and coats.
Whites was, in fact, packed to the gills. Conversation buzzed like a swarm of angry bees on the verge of attack. Stanford’s name was tossed about in shock, outrage, and blatant curiosity. One thing was proving clear, the man was not popular among his peers.
Ryleigh shrugged. “Is there someone in particular you are avoiding?”
“Liverpool is a huge thorn in my side at the moment.”
“Interesting,” Ryleigh murmured.
James swept his gaze over the open areas of the exclusive club and narrowed his eyes on one person clearly deep in his cups.
“What is it?” Ryleigh demanded quietly, sharply.
James snorted in disgust. “Bentick. He is a drunken, blustering fool.” He turned thoughtful. “I can’t help recalling how upset the Baron was the night of Faulk’s musicale.”
Ryleigh stood and said, “Then perhaps it’s time we speak with him.” He snapped his fingers.
Bentick jerked and looked around as if Ryleigh’s singular attention on him wasn’t possible. And, certainly wasn’t welcome.
“How is your hand, Bentick?” Ryleigh asked with mild interest.
James hid a smile by pouring out a small glass for the Baron.
Bentick held out his hand, showcasing a white bandage dotted with rust-colored spots. “Hurts like the devil, if you must know.”
“Couldn't help noticing how upset you were the other night,” James said, handing him the drink. “What happened?”
Bentick looked about, then leaned in, poisoning the air with his inebriated breath. “Someone was blackmailing me. Some floozy—a lowlife actress, don't you know—accused me of gettin’ her with child. Note said they'd announce their congratulations to one and all if I didn't leave my blunt near the fountain at Berkley Square Garden. The very nerve. Gel wasn't worth ten shillings, let alone two hundred pounds.”
Well, that explained where Gabriella obtained the funds for her Miss Clark, even as a seething rage colored his vision thinking of Miss Clark, Miss Darby, and the other young women Gabriella and the duchess were determined to help.
“Pretty brazen,” Ryleigh said.
James’s eyes narrowed on the duke’s overly benign manner, and the clenched fist in his lap.
“Don’ know ’bout that. But a big bruisin’ fellow lunged from the bushes,” Bentick went on. His words slurred. “Dark out, don’cha know. Got in a punch or two but the blackguard got away.” He rubbed his jaw, bringing to attention a dark bruise James hadn’t noticed before.
“I guess those actors look after their own,” James murmured. To which he received no response.
“Have you been back to the theater?” Ryleigh asked.
