Gail Ranstrom – A Daring Liaison (страница 8)
“You look flushed, Mrs. Huffington. Are you feeling well?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Hunter. Just a bit warm.”
“I believe there is time for a breath of fresh air, if you’d like.”
“Thank you. That should be just the tonic I need.” She retrieved a cream cashmere shawl from the back of her chair and took his arm.
Charles was pleased to find that none of the others followed them. A few moments alone with Mrs. Huffington would seal their friendship and relax her suspicions. He couldn’t help noticing the heads that turned to watch them descend the double staircase to the rotunda and exit the building. Tongues would wag, he was certain, but gossip would work to his advantage, discouraging other potential suitors by signaling his own interest.
Once they were on the street, he draped the shawl over her shoulders against the cool night air and turned her toward the square. Covent Garden, alive with excitement until the wee hours, always had something interesting to offer.
“I never grow bored in London,” Mrs. Huffington said as if reading his mind.
“And yet you’ve spent most your life shut away in the countryside.”
She laughed and looked up at him, stopping his breath with her beauty. “Aunt Caroline was not comfortable in London after her accident. I might have made another decision.”
Ah, yes. Her disfigurement. “When did that occur?”
She shrugged and her shawl slipped down one creamy white shoulder. “Aunt Caroline said it happened the year before I was born. She did not like to speak of it, so I did not ask more. And as much as she dreaded London, the dear woman made certain I had my come-out. She so badly wanted to see me happily married that she brought me to town to husband-hunt.”
A task she had excelled at, evidently. “How gratifying you had no problem finding one. Or two. Still, ‘tis a pity she did not live to see you happily married.”
“She did. Twice, remember? It was only after my last fiancé’s tragic death that she lost heart for my future.”
He looked down at her to see if she was serious. They had touched on this subject before, but she had never admitted to having a fiancé. Perhaps he was making progress in gaining her trust. He decided not to pursue that particular subject just now since Booth’s death only angered him. “Did she believe you were happily married?”
“Though I scarcely knew the men, I was quick to assure her that I was more than content with the matches.”
“And were you in actuality?”
“I had no particular objection to them, and Aunt Caroline was so eager for my happiness that I could not disappoint her.”
“Is that why you married so quickly each time?”
“I married because she urged me to. I’d have been perfectly happy to wait for …”
“Wait for what, Mrs. Huffington?”
She sighed and shook her head. “For her death, sir. I would rather have stayed with her and eased her old age, just as she eased my childhood.”
“Is that why you returned to Kent after each of your husbands’ deaths?”
“Yes, and there was nowhere else to go. I could have stayed at Mr. Huffington’s estate, but I was quite alone and did not know anyone in Yorkshire. Aunt Caroline sent for me, and I was happy to go.”
“I must say that I find your equanimity refreshing,” he said. “Most women go on about marrying for love, and yet you managed to find contentment, brief though it was, with two men. And a fiancé?”
She laughed at his assessment. “I was not married long enough to be disappointed, Mr. Hunter. As for love …” She shrugged. “Perhaps that requires a certain fierceness of character that I do not possess. In regard to my … equanimity, I have a practical nature. And practicality tells me that marriages are seldom made for love. They are made for gain, position, consolidation, convenience or simply to produce an heir.”
“So you’ve never loved deeply?”
“Certainly I have. Lady Caroline. My darling spaniel. The memory of my mother and father.”
“But not a man?”
“Once I thought …” There was a long pause before she stopped and looked up at him. “No. Not a man.”
The moment stretched out as Charles wondered what it would be like to be loved by such a woman. If she loved, would she love fiercely?
“Flowers fer the missus?”
He turned to find a young girl staring up at him. She had a small wooden box filled with posies slung around her neck and was holding one made of violets and lily of the valley. Innocent, yet provocative, like Mrs. Huffington. He took a sixpence from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it to the child. She snatched it out of midair and gave him the posy before dashing off down a side street, not even offering change.
Basking in her brilliant smile and with a small bow, he presented the flowers to Mrs. Huffington.
She accepted them and lifted them to sample their fragrance. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. You are the first to ever give me flowers.”
A muzzle flashed. Instinctively, he pulled Mrs. Huffington into his arms before he dove for the ground. The deafening report of a pistol shattered the night as the bullet whistled past his left ear, and fury filled him.
Bloody hell! The flower girl had been sent to distract him.
A shrill scream split the air in the echo of the gunshot even as the sound of running feet increased. Help arriving? Or pedestrians escaping the chaos?
Georgiana felt the reassuring weight of Charles Hunter across her, and the rise and fall of his chest against hers, and sighed with relief. He was breathing. He was alive. Thank God.
He lifted himself slightly, as if he was unwilling to expose her if the danger was still present. His glance bored into her, as if searching for signs of injury or hysteria. “Are you …”
“I am well, Mr. Hunter,” she answered, trying to give the impression of aplomb even as she cleared her throat to steady her voice. “And you?”
He grinned and she realized he had anticipated hysteria. He eased himself to the side. “Well enough, Mrs. Huffington.”
“What—”
“Hunter! Good God, man! What happened?”
Mr. Hunter sat up and helped her into a sitting position as Lord Wycliffe and Sir Harry arrived at their side. “’Twould seem buying a lady flowers has become a capital offense.”
Lord Wycliffe’s narrowed gaze swept the surrounding square and paused at each deepened shadow. At a subtle gesture, Sir Harry spun about and headed in the direction from which the shot had come. “No warning?”
Mr. Hunter uttered a curse under his breath as he stood and lifted her to her feet. “A flower girl stopped us as we strolled. The moment she had her coin, she dashed for the alley. A second later—the shot. I’d wager she’d been hired to stop us long enough for the shooter to take aim, and then run away.”
“You think the flower girl was involved?” Lord Wycliffe asked.
Mr. Hunter glanced quickly in Georgiana’s direction and she made a pretense of brushing the dust from her gown and examining herself for damage, though her trembling hands were apt to betray her. Apparently assured of her well-being, he turned back to Lord Wycliffe.
“Aye,” he said in a hushed voice. “Paid to distract us. As for knowing why, that’s anyone’s guess.”
But Georgiana had a guess. Whoever had killed her husbands, and perhaps Mr. Booth, had now turned his attention to her. Or Charles Hunter. Her heart pounded against her ribs at the thought of Charles lying in the street with a bullet in his chest. She turned slightly to pretend attention to her costume, trying to cover her fear and wondering what else they might say if they thought she wasn’t listening.
“Gibbons?” Lord Wycliffe asked.
There was a pause and then Mr. Hunter’s voice answered in a hushed tone. “Unlikely that Gibbons would have missed once we were still for longer than a moment, and I doubt he’d part with a ha’penny to hire a flower girl.”
Who was this Gibbons person, and why would he want to kill her?
From the corner of her eye, Georgiana noted that Lord Wycliffe slid a glance in her direction. “Do you think …”
“Possible,” Mr. Hunter answered.
She shivered with that implication. She knew what they suspected. That someone had tried to kill
She met Charles’s gaze, painfully aware that attention was directed at her and they were likely wondering if she really was such a dreadful person that someone wanted her dead. She banished the terrifying notion and gave them an uncertain smile. “At least no one was injured. Thank heavens for that.”
“Are you not frightened?” Charles asked.
Terrified! But she had no intention of discussing it. “S-surely the whole thing was some sort of accident, was it not?”
Lord Wycliffe seized on her excuse. “Pistols misfire all the time, Mrs. Huffington. Very sensible of you to understand that.”
The thought flashed through her mind that his lordship was a dreadful liar for a man in his position. “Nevertheless, I should like to return to the theater, if you do not mind. I would think the intermission is well over and my friends will be looking for me.”