Chapter 32

Thirty-Two

GRAYSON HOUSE, LONDON - JUNE 17, 1816

WILLIAM

The carriage shuddered to a halt in St. James's Square, an unwelcome reminder that Celine was right. I would, in point of fact, rather eat a shoe than attend a social gathering with the ton . Much as I had complained about the mask at the last ball, I longed for it now, for the anonymity it provided.

Celine was stunning—not that such a thing was an unusual occurrence. But she was certain to attract the eye of every person in attendance, all of whom would then turn to me with a disapproving glare.

When the footman opened the carriage door, I rose, but Celine caught the hand that had been in hers since we set off and tugged me back.

"Any time you wish to leave, just let me know."

"I… Thank you."

"I mean it. Promise you will tell me?" She straightened one of my out of place curls, brushing her thumb along my cheek. Tender.

"I promise."

"All right. What do you say we start a scandal?"

"May as well. I have no other pressing engagements this evening." I stepped out before handing her out myself.

I had never been inside Grayson House before, but the furnishings were new and quite fashionable. The young viscountess's doing most likely. We followed along the corridor as directed, Celine's hand tucked into the crook of my arm. She smelled of warmth and spice.

"The library is down that hall if you wish to escape. Knock first though."

"Kit warned me to knock as well… What, precisely, would I walk in on if I forget?"

"Michael and Lady Juliet met in that library."

"I don't understand."

"Will, if you managed to get me on the terrace at Wayland's once again, what would you do with me?"

Nothing appropriate for a public— "Ah…"

The receiving line had been short, and we only received a glance or two from the couple in front of us. It was too much to hope that would be the lot of it.

We reached Lord and Lady Grayson at the entry to the ballroom. Even if I had never met her, I would certainly know Lady Grayson by the similarities to her brother. Small stature, pale skin, full lips, dark hair, and wide eyes, though hers were blue whereas his were dark. Her husband, in contrast, was one of the broadest men I knew, and while not the tallest, he was near as much.

Celine greeted her friend with enthusiasm, proclaiming delight at all the decorative things. The ones neither Celine nor I had yet had the opportunity to examine.

Lord Grayson and I knew each other only professionally. Beyond a polite nod, he was content to stare adoringly at his wife. I had only taken over the Grayson books in the last year, and my interaction with the lord had been minimal.

Finally, the ladies finished their greeting, after a pointed cough from another couple waiting behind us.

Celine pressed close to my side as we stepped inside the ballroom. "Well, Lady Charlotte James is not here tonight. That is one unpleasant interaction avoided."

"Lady James?"

"Baron James's widow. She's a shrew under the best of situations. Although her machinations brought Kate and Lord Grayson together, so Kate continues to tolerate her."

"Right." Celine's arm was tucked in mine, and she led a slow saunter around the ballroom, occasionally nodding or waving at someone but never leaving my side.

"The dowager viscountess, Agatha Grayson, is here. We will wish to avoid her."

"Which one is she?"

"You'll know her when you smell her. Xander will be here with Davina and their mother, but they usually arrive later. Over there are Mr. Ellsworth and… Viscount Lucas? Baron Lucas? I can never recall. Lucas is a booby, but Ellsworth is usually acceptable company. He has recently come into an inheritance and is looking to invest in textiles. He could be a prospective client. I could introduce you, if you like?"

"Perhaps later." How did she remember all of these people?

Whispers followed in our wake, but Celine either did not notice or did not care.

"Oh, the Duke of Sutton. He was on our list. Winston is his Christian name. I forgot he was a cousin of Kate's." She nodded subtly toward an indistinct blond dandy who looked exactly like every other dandy here. Beside him was an equally indistinct, mousy blonde woman, his wife presumably. I recognized the name.

"I don't believe he made an appearance in either of Gabriel's ledgers. He's likely not our culprit."

"True. He's too dull for anything as exciting as murder. Oh, there are Lady Juliet and Mrs. Ainsley, we should say hello." Celine dragged me toward the flaming hair that could only belong to Mrs. Ainsley.

She greeted the women warmly. Neither so much as blinked at the sight of me, which was something of a surprise. As a regular patron of Hudson's Bakery, I was relieved at Mrs. Ainsley's easy acceptance of Celine's form pressed along my own.

"Ladies, you know Mr. Hart, I believe?"

"Yes, of course. He and Kit are trying to keep the bakery in business all on their own," Mrs. Ainsley said.

"Evidence of his excellent taste. Mr. Hart and I have met once or twice," Lady Juliet added. Once or twice was her polite way of saying that I helped with paperwork related to her father's arrest and the purchase of his debts. The lady was unfailingly proper.

"Where are the gentlemen?" Celine asked.

"Hiding in the study drinking Hugh's scotch, of course. I'm sure you would be a more than welcome addition, Mr. Hart," explained Lady Juliet.

The suggestion to join them was a temptation—the indistinct whispers had gotten louder. But I was reluctant to abandon Celine. And Kit had yet to arrive.

However, it might afford me the opportunity to gather some information from Wayland—confirm he was not a suspect in Gabriel's murder.

"Go, enjoy yourself. As soon as Lord Leighton arrives, I'll send him that way," Celine prodded. Anticipating all my worries.

"It's entirely possible he is already hidden away in there," Lady Juliet added.

"I thought you had me down for at least three dances," I protested.

"I decided to spare you all but the supper set," Celine responded, prim with a teasing smile.

"There's a hidden door, just behind this curtain. Straight down that hall and the study is the last on the left," Mrs. Ainsley said. At my baffled look, she added, "Maid, remember?"

She pulled the edge of the curtain back, revealing the hidden door. I slipped through and followed her instructions to the end of the hall where firelight poured out of an open door.

It was strangely comforting, the reminder that my marchioness was conversing easily in a ballroom with a former maid. And served as yet more evidence that she was truly sincere in her insistence that my profession did not bother her.

After knocking on the open door frame, I was greeted by the expected parties. Wayland, Ainsley, and Kit. The youngest Grayson, too, was settled on the desk, his feet swinging back and forth.

"Will, come on in!" Kit ordered jovially. He was ruddy-cheeked and, for the first time in recent memory, neither sarcastic nor sullen. Drunk then.

He clambered up from his chair, pressing his half-empty glass of scotch in my hand before wandering over to the shelf filled with different bottles and glasses. He selected something clear and lifted the stopper for a sniff before pouring—sloshing—it into a glass.

Wayland was behind the desk, seated properly and seemingly less drunk than the rest by far. And he was glaring at his brother. Mr. Grayson cradled his drink in both hands before taking a sip, his feet still swishing.

Wayland rolled his eyes before turning to me. "Hart! Cee drag you here?"

"How did you…"

"Oh, she mentioned it when she called. I did dig through a few of my ledgers, and I've got a couple of possibilities."

I didn't know which was worse, the instinctive panicked nausea at the thought of her calling on a potential murderer alone, or the jealousy prickling along my skin at the thought of her calling on a former lover.

"She called?" My lips felt numb, but it had been my voice, hollow and cracking. She could have been killed. That maddening woman with no sense of self-preservation—chasing after potential murderers all the livelong day. First me, now Wayland.

"She didn't say? I've made a right muck of this haven't I?" Wayland had the decency to look chagrined.

"When did she call?"

"Yesterday," he said, sheepish.

Yesterday. She visited Michael and then came home and dragged me to her bed. Was it just because he was unavailable? I wasn't thrilled with the idea of being a substitute for Gabriel. But I could live with it—had done it before. But a surrogate for a dead man was very different from serving as stand-in for someone down the street.

"Right." It was the only word I could muster, and I downed Kit's half-finished scotch in one swallow. It burned and I only just held back an instinctive cough, unwilling to humiliate myself further in this man's presence.

"I'm sure it just slipped her mind. We talked about her… project. And you."

"Of course." Silently, Mr. Grayson handed me his drink too, three quarters gone. I tossed that one back as well.

"Truly, she did me a favor. I was just returning it."

"All right, wonderful."

Ainsley leaned over and feigned whispering to Wayland. "This, what you're doing, is the exact opposite of what Celine did for you when you met Jules."

"Thank you, as always, Augie. I was unaware."

"No, because you must remember, she ended your arrangement and encouraged you to pursue Juliet. But you're ruining whatever those two have started."

"Really? I couldn't tell."

"That's why you pay me. Full of insights." Ainsley stood and turned to me. "Do you want another drink, Will?" The temptation was strong, but the first two were doing nothing to settle my stomach. I shook my head and took the abandoned seat he offered.

"Where are you going?" Wayland called as the man stepped into the hall.

Ainsley turned, curving around the door to answer. "Find my wife. Dance with her. Tell her that her hair burns like the last vestiges of the sunlight in autumn. Profess my undying love. Literally anything to convince her I had nothing to do with whatever is happening here."

"So, making it up as you go?"

"Of course. I'll tell Jules and Lady Rycliffe that it's all your fault."

"Augie, no!" Wayland whined.

"Augie, yes. Good luck."

Wayland turned back to me after one last longing look at Ainsley. Whatever he saw on my face had him evicting Kit and the youngest Grayson from the room with a chorus of grumbles.

"Will, I'm sorry. It was truly not what you're imagining. But Cee did put a bee in my bonnet, so to speak. I dug through Juliet's father's ledgers. It's possible it was him, Westfield was certainly losing enough in every available venue. And I wouldn't say he was above murder. But I am confident that he's not managing anything now. He's in the highlands with a distant cousin and no financial resources. I suppose there may be some with goodwill toward him in town, but I doubt it."

I sighed, wishing I had accepted a third drink. "It's probably not. Rycliffe called him Jaundiced Sagging Gooseberries, JSG as an abbreviation, because Gabriel was charming to a fault. There were multiple notes not to wager more than ￡10 with him."

"That is a surprisingly apt description of my father-in-law. Still, the bet was likely through someone else. The horse's owner may not be the killer, but someone who placed a wager based on the stud," Wayland added.

"I assumed as much, but if we track down the horse, we can search the stud book and follow the trail from there."

"It's a good notion. I went through my documentation on that race. It's limited because the club wasn't open yet. Rycliffe placed an unusually large wager on Peppercorn Junction and a smaller wager on Storm's Kiss. The odds favored Flashdance, but Peppercorn won. Rycliffe was smart. He certainly spread out his wagers. Unlike Westfield. That's actually how I first caught on to the match he was making to fix."

I ignored the insight into the man's relation with his father-in-law. "Did anyone lose substantially on that race?"

Wayland dug through coat pockets, patting them before finding a piece of parchment. "A few, but I was certainly not the only option at that time. Lord Embery Wyatt lost ￡250, which was a substantial but not insurmountable sum for him. Wesley Parker lost ￡1,500 which was likely more than I should have allowed him to wager. Sir Wilhelm Jacobs lost ￡300, but he bet on Storm's Kiss."

"That the lot of them?"

He handed me the parchment. The intelligence was neatly organized in a tidy script.

"There were more, but those are the only W 's. I would start with the horses and see where they lead, personally."

"Thank you."

"I'm happy to help in whatever way I can. Or if you need to find Westfield—I'll have to check with Jules, of course—but I can get you the direction."

"I'm nearly certain it has nothing to do with him."

"All the same."

I nodded, starting for the door before thinking better of it. "How do you do it?" I asked without turning toward him.

"Do what?"

At last, I turned. "Watch these people behave like this?"

"Ah, the excesses of the ton . I manage with the love of an incredible woman. Also scotch." He lifted the referenced glass and emptied the dregs. "And I do enjoy relieving them of a great deal of their money."

"Right. So I merely have to be blind drunk to tolerate them."

"Tell me she's not worth it." He took my silence as confirmation. "I could abide far worse if it meant I retained the privilege of going home with Jules at the end of the evening. If you cannot say the same about Celine, then you do not deserve her, and I was wrong to encourage her your way."

"You—"

"Yes, I did. Now, you are more than welcome to stay here if you wish. I have a rendezvous next door." He pressed himself out of the chair before wandering over to the second door I hadn't noticed. It opened into what seemed to be a library. That was all I could glimpse before he shut and locked the door.