The Secrets of the Heart

“And the sixth—no, the seventh—this year,” another gentleman added, before both subsided, probably realizing that such intimate knowledge of the Peacock’s activities might urge the others present to look at them and wonder if they, like Lord Undercliff, might owe some part of their fortunes to secretly dabbling in trade.

“Now that you mention it, there is the air of burnt wood about you, Simons,” St. Clair said, lifting his scented handkerchief to his nostrils. “How lamentable.”

“Why did he burn down your house, Mr. Symington? Are you like the mill owners the Peacock has written about in the newspapers?” Miss Laurence asked, proving to Lady Ariana once again that the girl didn’t have a smidgen of sense in her head. A wise young lady, a prudent debutante, would never speak directly to someone as obviously common as the mill owner.

Mr. Symington opened his mouth, ready to answer, when St. Clair cut him off by waving his hand, the one holding the lace handkerchief—an object the mill owner stared at almost greedily. “Please, please, don’t subject us to a recitation of your virtues and the disaster of your poor, burned house, Mr. Simons, as I am convinced you were about to do. Likewise, we all are already quite familiar with sundry uplifting tales of the Peacock’s mission to punish the wicked for the wretched despair of the poor. Why, I have been so very affected by the man’s anonymous treatises to the newspapers concerning underfed children and injured workers that I have had to raise my servants’ quarterly wages, out of pure guilt. Haven’t we all reacted similarly?”

A murmuring chorus of “Of course!” and “Raised ’em all just last week! Can you even ask?” and “Those letters! So affecting!” trilled through the throng, all of them sounding very self-satisfied at having done their part to boost the Peacock’s mission.

“Did you see him—see the Peacock?” one plumparmed matron dared ask, poking Symington with her fan. “We hear he is magnificent!”

“And so daring,” another, younger woman put in. “I heard that just last week he and his brave band rode directly into Spitalfields to rescue a poor wretch about to be taken to Newgate for nothing more than picking up an apple that fell from a grocer’s cart.”

“He’s very tall, isn’t he?” a dark-haired debutante asked, her kid-encased hands pressed to her breast. “Tall, so very, very handsome, and gallant and prodigiously well-spoken, or so I’ve heard. He’s no common highwayman, everyone says. He must be one of us—but who?”

“Ladies, please,” St. Clair interrupted at last, just as a few of the gentlemen began to grumble that this Peacock fellow was becoming much too much the sensation with the females to be anything but an out-and-out rotter. “We are all enthralled with the Peacock’s romantic exploits, but the man is just that—a man, and one who chooses to keep his identity a secret, which cannot be considered commendable. We shouldn’t be raising him onto a pedestal.”

“Heavens no,” Miss Laurence slid in quietly, so that Lady Ariana and the baron were most probably the only ones who heard her amid the general murmurings of the crowd. “That would mean we first would have to topple you off, wouldn’t it? Unless you are already tottering? How does it feel to know you have competition?”

“I don’t believe this!” Symington exclaimed, spreading his arms wide, which he could do with ease, for no one in the small crowd appeared willing to be within ten feet of him. “You blockheads care for nothing but adventure! The bounder’s burning up houses to make honest mill owners like me bow down to his demands. And they’re doing it, curse their timid hides. Well he’s not going to best me! I’m going to fight him, and I’m not going to rest for a moment until I see his pretty hide turned off from the gallows outside Newgate prison.”

“Mon Dieu! Such enthusiasm, Simons,” St. Clair remarked, shaking his head. “I commend you for your determination to bring the crusading scoundrel to justice. However, what is much more to the point than your swaggering braggadocio—did you say his ‘pretty’ hide? That would mean you have seen him, wouldn’t it? Dear man, if for just a moment—indulge the ladies. How does he appear, this Peacock person? Is he all they say?”

“How should I know?” Symington asked, breathing heavily now as the two footmen returned and, at Lord Undercliff’s easily interpreted gesture, placed themselves on either side of the mill owner. “He was waiting for me inside my coach just as I came from m’dinner, sitting in the corner smoking a cheroot and hiding his face in the dark. Couldn’t see him worth a damn except to know he’s most likely tall, like you, and he speaks like a gentleman. Then he took off with my brand-new coach and left me to walk three miles back to Little Pillington,” he ended, seemingly close to tears.

“He did? Why, I do believe I must begin to admire this Peacock fellow. Obviously he saw your crying need for exercise, Simons.” St. Clair’s high-pitched, musical laugh was the signal for everyone to indulge their own amusement even as the footmen firmly took hold of Symington’s arms at each elbow and all but dragged him into a small anteroom at the head of the stairs, Lord Undercliff hastening after with nary a backward glance for his guests.

“And that, good friends, concludes this evening’s farce, I believe. Come, my dear ladies,” St. Clair said after a moment, holding out his crooked arms so that both Miss Laurence and Lady Ariana might avail themselves of his escort as he led them back to the alcove where their chaperones waited.

“What now, Christian?” Lady Ariana inquired, honestly intrigued as to what he would do next.

“What now? Why, first, I believe Lord Undercliff is to be commended for his originality,” he commented loudly, “don’t you? This has been quite the most stimulating entertainment any host has offered this Season. Yes, yes, I must remember in the morning to join his lordship’s other guests in sending round my compliments.”

“You may have been amused, but I think the entire episode was distasteful in the extreme,” Lady Ariana said feelingly, knowing now for certain that Lord Undercliff would be safe from social disaster, thanks to St. Clair. “In fact, Christian, much as it pains me to agree with that crude man, the best thing that could happen is for that absurd Peacock and his band of marauding brigands to be captured and dealt with as rapidly as possible. Did you hear those silly women? They seem to believe the man is to be admired, when everyone knows he is little more than a thief, a ruffian. You’d think they didn’t know the price of goods will rise twice for every penny the mill owners are forced to raise wages. Why, Papa says—”

“Ah, dearest child, you aren’t about to tell me what your papa says again, are you?” St. Clair interrupted wearily. “The man,” he explained, looking at Gabrielle, “like our suspicious home secretary, Lord Sidmouth, sees insurrection lurking around every corner.”

“But it’s true, Christian,” Lady Ariana persisted, sure she could show up the country miss with her knowledge of government. “The Peacock is inciting the populace to illegal acts. Why, he’s even worse than that odious Orator Hunt, telling the common people that they deserve better. Why? We are all suffering now that the war is over. It isn’t only the ungrateful peasantry that has had to live with deprivation, but to have to maintain iron gates on our townhouses in order to keep the rioting rabble away is preposterous. Or do you wish to see a copy of the late French Revolution brought to our own doors?”

“Tiens! Why would I care a snap about such farfetched nonsense? What I do wish, dear girl, is for you to desist in being such a staunch little Tory and remember that bluestockings tend to frighten off suitors, most especially dukes. Or do you believe I shall be amused to champion you when you are in your fifth Season, long in the tooth and still prosing on and on about insurrection?”

“If you’re still powerful enough five years hence to wield any influence at all over Society,” Miss Laurence piped up, causing Lady Ariana to draw in her breath in surprise at the girl’s daring in defending her. “I would say the Peacock has already begun to make inroads on your consequence. After all, breathlessly awaiting your entrance in order to admire the cut of your latest new coat barely compares with hearing of the daring exploits of the Peacock. Are you jealous, St. Clair?”

“Hardly, Miss Laurence,” St. Clair replied with a smile, so that Lady Ariana longed to box his ears. Didn’t the man know when he was being insulted? Then he went on, renewing Lady Ariana’s faith in him: “But you must tell me, my dear: Are you to be numbered in the growing multitude of eager ladies wishful of having the Peacock kidnap you as he did Mr. Symington, not to punish you, but to whisk you away for a night of unbridled passion?”

His words were a slap in Gabrielle Laurence’s face, reducing her to a witless child who not only couldn’t see the danger in the Peacock’s provoking exploits but also one who was so infantile as to indulge in romantic musings about the man. Lady Ariana found herself almost feeling sorry for the senseless chit who had thought she might get the better of St. Clair.

Except that Gabrielle did not seem to take offense at St. Clair’s words. “You’re nearly correct, my lord,” she answered as she moved away from him and toward Lord Buxley, who had reappeared in the ballroom and was even now heading in her direction. “I am quite taken with the Peacock. It would, after all, be such a social coup to be the one who unmasks him. Oh, and by the bye, St. Clair, I believe I should point out that you slipped just now and referred to Lord Undercliff’s uninvited guest by his correct name, proving that even you have not been unaffected by the Peacock. Either that, or you are not as witless as you would have us all suppose. Interesting thought, isn’t it?”

St. Clair stuck his quizzing glass to his eye as he watched her go. “Odds fish, Ariana, I begin to believe I have petted our little country kitten just so she could hiss and scratch at me. I vow there is no gratitude left in this world. No gratitude at all, although I imagine Undercliff will be trailing after me soon, wearying me with his thanks. Ah, the tribulations of social consequence. Sometimes, dear lady, I question whether the prize is truly worth the trouble.”

“Anything is worth it to people like us, Christian, as social consequence remains the be-all and end-all of our existence,” Lady Ariana said quietly, watching Miss Laurence and Lord Buxley move off toward the supper rooms, mentally restructuring her earlier opinion of the young lady and wondering if it would not be possible to become friends with her, if just to bedevil St. Clair, who seemed to derive great pleasure from setting the two beauties at each other’s throats.

CHAPTER THREE

Men are but children of a larger growth.

John Dryden

THE SMALL PRIVATE STUDY situated on the second floor and to the rear of the St. Clair mansion in Hanover Square was crowded with long-legged men slouched at their ease in burgundy leather chairs ringing the blazing fireplace, their discarded jackets draped behind their heads, cravats hanging loose, snowy white shirts undone at the neck, their hands gripping glasses of warmed brandy, for the April day had gone damp and chilly.

Lord Osmond Osgood, who had stayed so long at the Undercliff Ball card tables the previous evening that his usually indifferent luck at gaming had finally turned in his favor sometime just before dawn, stretched and yawned widely as he languidly waved away Sir Gladwin Penley’s offer of a cheroot.

“Haven’t the energy, Winnie, thanks just the same,” he said. “Suckin’ in, blowin’ out, tappin’ the ashes. And there’s the singein’ of m’cravats, and fishin’ pieces of tobacco off m’tongue—and for what? Like the smell, can’t abide the taste. I’ll just breathe in whenever you blow a cloud if it’s all right with you. I say, did I tell you how much I won?” he ended, winking.

“That you did, Ozzie—twice,” Sir Gladwin answered dully, the rarely animated features of his long face assembled in their usual passionless expression. “And if you were to give me half the winnings to apply toward your outstanding bills, I would appreciate it. Having duns at our door is beginning to lose its novelty.”

“Warned you not to move in with Winnie, Ozzie. It’s like being married, but with no bedding privileges.” George Trumble, who had been eyeing the dish of comfits on the table beside him, rose, picked up the dish, and placed it out of harm’s way. He was beginning to see his stomach before he could catch sight of his toes and did not wish to end like his late father, who’d entirely let himself go until he had to be winched up onto his favorite horse.

“Kit,” George continued after seating himself once more, Lord Osgood’s description of the ennui to be found in smoking having interrupted his conversation with St. Clair, “are you convinced he didn’t recognize you? I can’t believe you dared to look him straight in the face, allowed him to hear your voice. That’s taking daring too far.”

“Now, Grumble, don’t fret like an old hen over her single pullet,” St. Clair answered, crossing one long, booted leg over the other. “Symington was much too dazzled by my glorious rig-out last night to connect me with his newfound nemesis. I told you that handkerchief was just the correct touch. Besides, I enjoyed myself thoroughly, which made the unexpected interlude worth any risk.”

“You know, Kit, at times I wonder if you can tell anymore where the play-acting ends and the truth begins, for I truly don’t understand you sometimes.”

“Ah, then I am become an enigma to you, Grumble?” St. Clair teased. “Would it help if we were to work out some sort of private signal which would alert you whether you were addressing Kit or London’s darling?”

George looked at his friend of more than twenty years, a man’s man who at least for this moment barely resembled the simpering, lace-edged-handkerchief-waving, overdressed fop who reigned supreme amongst the ton.

Christian’s buckskins were comfortably old and slightly shabby, his black, knee-high boots thoroughly polished but bare of tassels, his open-throated, full-sleeved white muslin shirt a far cry from the starched splendor of his evening clothes.

Even his chin-length blond hair, swept back severely and anchored with a satin ribbon whenever he was in Society, hung freely around his youthful, handsome face from a haphazard center part, giving the man the air of a swashbuckling pirate.

How George loved his friend, and how he worried for him.

“Look, Kit,” George began earnestly, hating the tone of pleading in his voice, “we’ve had a jolly good time these past months, and done a world of good, to my way of thinking, but perhaps we should draw back for a while. I mean, having Symington smack in front of us at Undercliff’s ball? That’s cutting it a slice too fine for my mind.”

“Spittin’ mad, wasn’t he?” Lord Osgood piped up, winking at George, who could only roll his eyes and look away. “Aw, come on, Grumble, don’t be such a sober prig. Consider it. Symington has issued us a challenge. We can’t back off now. It wouldn’t be sportin’.”

“True enough, Ozzie,” St. Clair agreed, pushing his spread fingers through his hair, allowing the heavy blond mane to fall toward his face once more. “Neither sporting nor honorable, in a skewed sort of way. As a matter of fact, I have already decided the Peacock should make Mr. Herbert Symington a return visit tomorrow evening, just to see if he has introduced the new rules to his mills.”

“And what about Undercliff?” Sir Gladwin asked, shifting slightly in his chair. “Symington isn’t in this alone. I still can’t picture it—Undercliff dabbling in trade.”

“Neither can I,” St. Clair agreed. “I’d have given a hefty sum to have been present when dear Gertie recovered sufficiently from her indelicate swoon to begin ripping strips off his lordship’s hide.”

“Yes, it must have been a jolly good ruckus,” Lord Osgood chimed in.

“But, be that as it may, my friends,” Sir Gladwin persisted mournfully, “we’re now left in the uncomfortable position of knowing we are attacking a fellow peer when we attack the Symington mills. The Peacock’s reputation as a rascal to be admired might suffer an irreparable dent if Society were to understand that, besides tweaking the mill owners and our dear nemesis, Sidmouth, he is also dipping a hand into the pockets of one of their own.”