Regency: Rakes & Reputations. Gail RanstromЧитать онлайн книгу.
about dancing with a nun. You must have pity on me, Miss Thayer, and fulfill my dreams at last.”
Harriett laughed in a way no nun would ever laugh, both seductive and pleased. “Granted, Mr. Booth. But mind your manners, sir. I have friends in high places.”
Hortense chuckled as Mr. Booth led her sister away. “And Harri has always had fantasies about Mr. Booth. Two wishes satisfied with one dance.”
“Let us hope that everyone’s wish comes true tonight.”
“Whatever do you mean, Gina? What do you wish for?”
Answers. The truth. “Happy endings,” she murmured.
“Amen,” Hortense agreed. “And sooner would be better. But I think you need not worry over that. James Hunter has very obviously set his intentions on you. Any girl would be mad to refuse him. Charm, looks, wealth. What more could you ask? “
What more indeed? “He has not proposed yet, Hortense, and may not. And should he, I have not decided what my answer will be.” There. That should cut short the wagging tongues of the ton and not raise any unrealistic expectations.
“Mark me, he will be back to claim a waltz. You will see him often before it is time to go and he calls for his carriage.”
“I hope he will not hover,” she said. She did not want Mr. Metcalfe to be hesitant to approach her.
She caught sight of Christina, in an elaborate peacock mask, just entering the ballroom. She was on the arm of a man Gina hadn’t met and she wondered if this was the elusive Mr. Metcalfe. But where was his leper disguise? She waved and caught Christina’s eye.
Hortense followed her glance and grinned widely. “Oh! ‘Tis Christina and her cousin, Mr. Marley. He knows every dance ever and has the most devilish wit. Almost as devilish as Charles Hunter’s. How lovely, they are coming our way.”
The man in question bowed deeply to them as Christina made the introductions and then he promptly swept Hortense into the rollicking reel, leaving Gina to hold her staff. When they were alone, she asked, “Where is Mr. Metcalfe?”
“He said he would meet us here,” Christina told her.
Mr. Metcalfe was clearly afraid of something. Even his costume had likely been chosen to veil his identity. She took a sip of punch, wondering what could cause him to be so cautious.
When the dance ended, Mr. Marley returned Hortense and claimed Christina with a promise that Gina would be next. A quick glance toward the punch bowl told her that Harriett was still occupied with Mr. Booth. When a figure dressed in a long black robe with a cowl pulled low over his face and a small bell around his neck approached her, her heartbeat sped. Mr. Metcalfe, at last!
He held his hand out to her without speaking and she returned Hortense’s staff. Once on the dance floor, the leper turned and lifted his cowl just enough that she could see his face. Yes, this was the man who had been at the tableau with Christina. The dance was a waltz, which would allow them to talk without the interruptions of a reel. Very wise of Mr. Metcalfe.
“Miss O’Rourke, I implore you to drop this matter at once.”
Whatever she’d expected to hear, it was not this earnest plea. “I cannot, sir. I am committed.”
“You are ill prepared for what lies ahead. You cannot succeed.”
“You do not even know what I plan, sir. How can you presume—”
“Because I know Henley. Far too well.”
Gina almost panicked when she noted James on the sidelines, watching her. Had he come to dance with her? Or had someone alerted him?
“I cannot let him get away with what he’s done to my family.”
“And to you, Miss O’Rourke?”
Her cheeks burned. “You were there…that night?”
“To my shame.”
She tried to pull away and caused him to stumble, but he held tight and resumed the step. “You must believe me, Miss O’Rourke. That was the first night I attended one of Daschel and Henley’s ‘passion plays.’ I was appalled when I realized what was going to happen. But…there were so many there that I could not expose myself by going against them.”
“Yet you were willing to allow them to defile and murder me?”
“Murder? I did not know about the murders until the following day, when the news spread like wildfire through the clubs and hells of town.”
Oh, how she dreaded the answer, but she could not stop herself from asking. “How many? How many ‘postulants’ knew who I was? “
“Perhaps a handful. Perhaps less. I was not certain until I saw you here tonight. Most of them were so far gone in their cups and with the hashish Daschel had burning in the incense bowls that they wouldn’t have known their own mothers. Henley laced the wine with opium, you know.”
Opium—enough of it—would explain her drugged state and her inability to remember what had happened to her in the hours before the ritual began. That, at least, could be the answer to one of her questions.
“Still, I cannot let him get away with it,” she murmured more to herself than to Mr. Metcalfe.
“Believe me, I understand. But you must leave this for others. Others more ruthless.”
“I can be as ruthless as I must, Mr. Metcalfe.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You are not a match for a man of Henley’s ilk. You have no idea—”
“Then, pray, enlighten me so that I will not go into battle unprepared.”
There was a long hesitation while Mr. Metcalfe evidently struggled with his conscience, then continued in a lowered voice. “Henley is a patient man. He has been waiting. Waiting for an opportunity to finish off his enemies. I am one of his loose ends. I know too much. I know who—” He stopped as if afraid he’d said too much. But when he continued, his words surprised her.
“And you, Miss O’Rourke, are top of his list. London is not safe for either of us unless, or until, Henley has been dealt with.”
“By whom? Who is left to deal with him, Mr. Metcalfe?
The Home Office has failed twice. If not me, if not you, then who?”
He shook his head as if to deny her words. “I am merely trying to stay alive until he has been caught. I’d advise you to do the same.”
She squeezed his arm to make her point. “I need your help, Mr. Metcalfe. Tell me what you know that makes you fear for your life. Tell me anything you know that could bring him down. Tell me what lock your little key fits and what I will find there.”
“I’ve already said too much.”
The dance ended and Mr. Metcalfe released her, glancing over his shoulder with a harried look. Before she could form a protest, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd almost instantly.
At least she finally had an answer to one of her questions. Now she knew why she couldn’t remember the events of that night. But there was still so much more she needed to know. If she could not remember herself, surely there was someone, somewhere, who could fill in those lost hours.
Her head whirled with the implications of Mr. Metcalfe’s warnings. She needed a moment to think, to gather her composure and plan what she should do next. As the next dance began, she crossed the dance floor to the wide terrace doors and slipped through, ignoring the couples gathered there and others strolling along the paths. She needed to find just a single moment in a quiet place.
She stopped at an ivy-covered arbor and gripped the latticework until her knuckles were white. Gradually she became aware that she’d punctured her thumb on a hidden thorn. She shook her hand. “Ouch!”
Mr.