Anne Barbour (20 page)

Tally was not at all sure of what was going on, but at these words, she leaped to her feet, casting her sketch pad to the ground. She must get away! Like a deer pursued by hounds, she bolted into the crowd, but rough hands caught at her. Her arms were gripped by two burly passersby, and she was marched ungently to where Clea waited in triumph with a group of her friends.

“Search her,” she commanded Tally’s captors.

This, however, the two men, apparently a pair of navvies on an evening spree, were unwilling to do. Viewing the pathetic figure cringing before them, they opined that it might be better to wait for the appearance of someone from Bow Street, just down the street.

The wisdom of this course of action soon became apparent as a gentleman of official mien hove into view. He disdained a show of credentials, relying on his authoritative bark to proclaim his office.

Dear God, thought Tally, a Bow Street Runner. She tried to force her mind to some coherent plan to extricate herself from this nightmare, but her brain seemed frozen in a fog of sheer terror.

“Orright, now, orright,” brayed the Runner, a portly gentleman arrayed in a voluminous frieze coat. “Wot’s the matter ‘ere?”

Clea waved her hand. “This filthy harridan has stolen a bracelet from me—a very valuable bracelet, and I want her arrested!”

The Runner paused portentously and withdrew from one capacious pocket a worn pencil stub. From the other, he took a small notebook and thumbed through its grimy pages until he came to the desired place. Wetting the pencil with a large pink tongue, he rolled an eye toward the countess.

“A bracelet, chersay? What kinder bracelet, and how d’yer know this wretched old besom took it?”

Clea drew a breath of pure outrage. She was not accustomed to having her orders questioned, particularly by officious minions of the law.

“My good man, I am the Countess of Bellewood, and I am telling you that this—this person stole my bracelet. It was of sapphires and was the companion-piece to my necklace.” Here she removed her zephyr gauze scarf, allowing the Runner an opportunity to make what some might have considered an overly conscientious examination of the precious bauble and its splendidly exposed resting place.

“Just as I was leaving the theater,” continued Clea in a shrill voice, “I felt a jerk on my wrist, and when I looked down, the bracelet was gone. And there was this old witch, hobbling away as fast as her scrawny legs would carry her.”

The Runner peered closely at Tally, who shrank in the grasp of the two stalwart passersby. She could only be thankful that the dim light prevented the law officer from observing that the wrinkles so liberally etched into the aged face before him were completely false.

“And what have you to say fer yerself, old lady?” the Runner bellowed.

Here was a fresh horror. Tally had never had occasion to speak in her role as flower woman. She had no idea whether or not she could convincingly manage the accent of such a person,

“I di’nt do nuffink,” she whispered hoarsely in a barely audible voice.

The Runner swelled importantly. His day-to-day duties often involved confrontations with persons of the old lady’s station in life, but he rarely had an opportunity to display his prowess before a member of that class commonly referred to as “toffs.”

“Orright, then, let’s ‘ave a look.”

To Tally’s utter consternation, he bent to grasp her wrist. Ignoring her humiliation and fear, he subjected her to a swift but thorough search, in which her pockets were turned out, her shoes removed, and the rest of her briskly patted down.

Clea watched the proceedings with a small smile on her lips. When the Runner’s activities produced nothing more than a well-gnawed pencil, she seemed oddly unsurprised.

“Well, of course, the first thing she must have done was to pass the bracelet to a confederate. I demand that she be taken to jail until she confesses with whom she’s working.”

“I hardly think that will be necessary, my dear.” The deep, quiet voice spoke out of the crowd, and hearing it, Tally went limp with relief.

“Jonathan!” Clea cried, seeing him. Her rouge appeared garish in the ghastly paleness of her face.

“Yes, it is I, my love.” Jonathan stepped up to stand before her. “We seem to have missed each other all evening long, haven’t we? I must offer my humblest apologies for not having arrived at the theater in time to watch the performance with you. As for the bracelet that seems to be the center of some controversy—is this the one you’re seeking?”

So saying, he pulled a shimmering handful of blue fire from his pocket and swung it before the astonished Runner.

Clea uttered a single cry of shock and fear. Tally swayed and gritted her teeth with the effort it took not to give way to the trembling dizziness that threatened to overcome her. She- had never swooned in her life, and, she told herself fiercely, she was not about to start now.

Chapter Seventeen

The roaring in Tally’s ears faded, and she lifted her eyes to find a pair of smoky gray ones peering intently into hers. Jonathan had moved to her side to steady her, and as he did so, he whispered in her ear, “The carriage is behind St Paul’s Church.”

After he had made sure she was able to stand unaided, Jonathan turned to Clea with a rueful smile.

“I am sorry, my darling. I was several steps behind you as you left the theater, and saw your bracelet lying on the ground where it must have fallen from your wrist. I was still well behind you when I scooped it up and was detained in conversation with friends. I had no idea such an altercation was taking place outside the building, or I would have made my appearance sooner.”

He turned to the Runner, who was opening and closing his mouth like an offended haddock.

“Now then, sir,” Jonathan continued quietly. “Since this unfortunate misunderstanding has been cleared up, I’m sure you’ll want to release this poor woman. She has obviously done no wrong.”

The Runner harrumphed at some length, but apparently having decided that discretion was the better part of getting on the wrong side of an obvious swell, he waved a hand at Tally.

“Orright, then, be off wi” ye, Granny.”

Tally needed no encouragement. Remembering just in time to accommodate her step to her supposedly advanced years, she faded into the night at a frantic hobble.

In a few moments, the Runner took himself off with much bowing and scraping, and within another short space of time, the crowd had dispersed, leaving Clea and Jonathan alone on the stairs in front of the Opera House.

Jonathan turned to his fiancée. For a moment, he simply stared at her, watching bemusedly as she assumed an expression of pretty gratitude.

“Jonathan,” she began, “I am so—so pleased that you recovered my bracelet. What a silly mistake. I could have sworn that old besom had taken it. Where ever did you find it?”

She reached for the jewelry, and Jonathan slipped it casually into her uplifted palm.

“I retrieved it from your cousin’s pocket,” he replied calmly, “though it took some persuasion before he finally disgorged it. I fancy he may not be so eager in the future to act as your tool.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jonathan. How could Miles possibly have come into possession of my bracelet?” Clea said tightly.  “Please, let’s just go home. This has been a perfectly wretched evening for me.”

Jonathan laughed shortly. He felt as though he were watching a bad play, one in which he had invested heavily and was about to close with the finality of a snap.

“But not,” he replied softly, “as wretched as it must have been for the harmless old woman you chose as a pawn in your little charade.”

“Charade!” exclaimed Clea, suddenly going on the offensive. “Surely, you’re not implying that I would contrive an episode like this. Jonathan, how could you think such a thing?”

Jonathan watched detachedly as her lovely blue eyes shimmered with tears, and one slim hand fluttered to rest against the classic perfection of her throat. His only reaction was one of dismal appreciation of the art which had kept him on the end of her tether for so long. He laughed shortly.

“Very well done, my dear. Once, such a gesture would have sent me to my knees in a quaking mass of guilt. How, I wonder, could I have been such an ass?”

“Jonathan!”

“No, please do stop now.” He sighed wearily. “Clea, it’s over. All over.”

How very transparent she was, he thought, when one’s eyes were opened to her true nature. As clearly as though she were speaking her thoughts aloud to him, Jonathan was made aware of Clea’s panic at losing the rich prize standing before her. In the next instant, he watched her indomitable ego slide into place. God knew that he had given her every assurance that no man, particularly not the Viscount Chelmsford, who all London knew worshipped the very ground whereon her dainty slippers trod, could withstand her seductive charm. Now, her lips opened slightly, and she moistened them with the tip of her pink little tongue. When she laid her gloved hand on his sleeve, he knew an urge to shake it off, as one would an importunate child. Her eyes widened in an expression of touching vulnerability.

“My love, I don’t understand. Is this some kind of joke? What do you mean—over? I know you cannot....”

Jonathan removed her hand gently, but with finality, and studied her for a moment as though she were an exotic but totally incomprehensible life form.

“A few days ago,” he began conversationally, “I received a visit from one of the senior members of the staff at Rundell and Bridges, where I purchased the bracelet. I have done business with the man for a number of years, and we are on excellent terms. He wondered if I were cognizant of the fact that a lady had brought the item into the store not long afterward to have a paste copy made of it.”

Jonathan observed Clea grow very still, but she said nothing.

“By the merest coincidence,” he continued, “this excellent fellow heard of a bracelet being offered for sale which sounded identical to the one I had purchased, and when he looked into the matter, he discovered that it was, in fact, the sapphire bauble which I had given you a few weeks earlier. He purchased it in the hope that I might be interested in rebuying it, which as it happens, I was.”

Clea glanced down at the jewels still sparkling in her hand.

“No,” Jonathan said with a faint smile. “The bracelet I returned to you is the one you slipped into Crawshay’s pocket as you left the Opera House. I find that, while I am perfectly willing to allow you to retain this skillful reproduction, I am loathe to provide any more expensive trinkets for the adornment of your admittedly exquisite body, or to finance your disastrous gambling career.”

Clea drew a ragged breath.

“So,” she rasped, “when you told me you wanted to see the bracelet in order to make sure that it was properly insured, you were lying. You merely wanted to humiliate me!”

“I hoped that if you were given an opportunity, you would tell me the truth. Although, to be perfectly honest, it would have made little difference to me by then.”

Clea quickly rearranged her features into a façade of artless remorse, and Jonathan could only marvel at the variety in her seemingly bottomless bag of tricks.

“Ah, love, you are right. I have been so foolish. I allowed myself to be drawn in at Madame de Robitaille’s, and when I discovered the extent of my debts, I—I didn’t know where to turn.”

Now the tears were allowed to slip into a silky forest of eyelashes, where they trembled in glittering profusion before sliding down her cheeks.

“I know I should have come to you, my dearest, but I could not face your anger—even though I deserved every harsh word I feared you would fling at me. I—just—didn’t know what else to do.” This last uttered in a forlorn whisper.

“But Clea,” Jonathan responded in a bored voice, “how is it that you were reduced to such dire straits? Surely, the three thousand pounds you lost to Madame—yes, I did do some investigating--was as a drop in the pond to one of your wealth. Can it be that this is not the first time you have lost heavily at the tables? That you are, in fact, at point non plus?”

“You know I—enjoy gambling,” replied Clea evasively.

“Yes, but you were ever so careful, were you not, to conceal from me the extent of your, er, enjoyment? I cannot count the evenings when you were unable to join me for an evening’s entertainment, pleading a headache or some such. Did you really think I would not eventually discover that you spent those evenings in some discreet hell?”

Clea stood silently, staring down at the bracelet in her hand as though it would offer some counsel.

“The thing I find most indicative of your true character, however,” continued Jonathan, “is the heartless manner in which you drew in a harmless old woman, exposing her to humiliation and the threat of prison, merely to further your own wretched scheme.

“I had business elsewhere this evening and did not arrive at the theater until the audience was filing out. I saw you as soon as you stepped into the portico from the interior of the building, your faithful henchman at your side. I started up the stairs, and had nearly reached you, when I saw you deftly remove the bracelet from your wrist and slip it into Miles’s pocket. I saw the nod you gave him as he slid away into the crowd, and I was very near at hand when you began your interminable screeching at—at the flower woman.”

“But she was only an old hag! Although” — Clea paused, a faintly puzzled expression on her face — “there was something about her…”

“Yes,” said Jonathan hastily, “but she was a human being, not just a cog for your machinations.”

Clea sighed and returned to her role of pretty penitence.

“I am sorry to have disappointed you, my love, and I promise I shall try to do better. After we are married, I shall make you a dutiful wife, you’ll see.”

“Wife!” Jonathan’s patience snapped, and the word exploded from Jonathan’s lips. “Marriage? Don’t you understand, Clea? There will be no wedding. You may consider our betrothal at an end.”

Clea fairly rocked back on her heels in shock. Her mouth dropped open and an expression of outraged stupefaction crossed her face. “You — you can’t do that! You can’t cry off! What would people think? The humiliation! I would be ruined — as would you!”