But at night—he fought his demons the same way he’d fought Phillippa. It was fruitless to pretend that he was cold, that he could practice the same sort of gull upon himself that he was attempting to lay upon the world at large. He had no mystical abilities, and he was growing more desperate for Folie each night. But he could not fail at either deception. He dared not. If society learned that he was a fraud; if Folie realized the power she could wield over him, how he could lose himself to her...
His mind always stopped at that precipice. Don’t think about it, he commanded, and then stared into the black night as if it were a hole into Hades.
Still, things were going uncannily well. Every evening appearance he had made had been successful. Their notes now concentrated on who showed the greatest interest in him—who appeared regularly and watched him closely. Robert had begun to drop hints that his “powers” had been gained through a terrible transforming experience—something mysterious and formidable, nearly fatal. He had survived the ordeal, but it had changed him to the core.
He intended that whoever had drugged him should begin to fear that their potion had altered him in a way far beyond what they had intended.
How they would catch their quarry was yet a riddle. Just to identify him beyond doubt was the first step. They took each performance as it came, trying to winnow and interpret the subtlest of clues. Usually Robert was on his own, at social events that Lander and the conjurer must necessarily be excluded from, but after each affair they met together and went over every detail, with Folie writing it all down.
“The Duke of Kent is quite my favorite suspect,” she said, perusing her notes in the breakfast room after Robert’s appearance at the regent’s levee. “He appears to be perfectly sinister. Murdered his valet!”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Lander said. He passed her the butter dish for her toast. “But you mean the Duke of Cumberland. He’s the one whose valet was found with his throat cut.”
Folie shook her head, crossing something out. “I vow I cannot keep them apart. But Kent is the radical?”
“Indeed, yes. He has been corresponding with certain persons who advocate revolution as the only method of reform.”
“Lander,” Folie said severely, “however do you know what is in the poor man’s correspondence?”
Lander pursed his lips and shrugged.
“I suppose it’s no use to try to carry on any clandestine love affairs while you are about,” she said with a sigh. “Now, is it the last brother, Cambridge, who has been spreading talk of the regent’s inheriting his father’s madness?”
“Aye, that’s Cambridge,” Robert confirmed. He took a sip of coffee, looking over the top page of his newspaper. “You were considering a clandestine love affair, my dear?”
“Yes,” she said, scribbling, “I intend to elope with the collier, the next time he delivers the coal. It is the only way I can see to get out of this house for some fresh air.”
“My favorite suspect would be Brougham,” Lander said thoughtfully. “If we could corner him.”
“Brougham!” Robert said, startled. “Lord Brougham? The lawyer?”
“He’s a far-fringe Whig—though they don’t sleep easy with him, I hear. He’s brilliant. Ambitious. Leads the radical opposition. And he hates the regent.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
“Still, I should like to see his reaction to you.”
“I don’t know him,” Robert said. “He’s not been in attendance anywhere I’ve yet gone.”
“I know. I heartily wish we could discover some way to arrange for a meeting.”
“How do you spell ‘Brougham’?” Folie asked, writing.
Lander spelled it for her.
“Would a party at Lady Melbourne’s house be useful?” she asked idly.
“Useful for what purpose?” Robert asked.
“It would be excellent, ma’am!” Lander said. “A grand Whig hostess—her soiree would be just the place we could hope to find Brougham.”
“Ah.” Robert nodded. “But how are we to persuade her to toss this soiree and invite me?”
Folie looked up. Humming a dramatic air, she held out one closed fist, running her other hand all about it, as if she were a stage magician proving there was no invisible trick. Then she turned her fist over and opened it.
It was empty. Hastily, she reached under her paper, pulled out a card and slapped it into her open palm.
“There!” She held out the card, fluttering her eyelashes. “Voila tout!”
Robert took the card. “ ‘Lady Melbourne proposes to hold a select evening party in honor of the nuptials of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Cambourne,’ “ he read. “Craves our indulgence, suggests time and date, wishes to know if we have any particular guests we should like to have invited.”
“Now tell me that I am not a magician,” Folie said smugly.
“Conjuring and French, too!” Robert said. “You make progress.”
“Lady Melbourne sent it this morning. I was just about to write back with our excuses and refusal, being such an obedient wife.” She made a face at him. He had not allowed her to accept any of the invitations that had begun to arrive with her name included on them. “However, in this case, I am afraid that if you are to have your party, you must have me, too.”
“Why?” Robert asked casually, hiding a smile.
“Because!” she said, sitting up with a militant air. “It is in honor of both of us!”
“Just because you are Mrs. Cambourne! I doubt anyone wants to see you. It’s the bridegroom they come to ogle at these affairs.”
“Ha. Wait until the coal is delivered.”
Robert stood up, folding the newspaper. He put his thumb under her chin and tilted it up. “I would hunt you to Japan if you escaped,” he said.
“Your hopeless sense of direction! We’ll be running away to Newcastle, of course.”
“Oh, yes. Somewhere off that way.” He made a vague gesture.
Lander chuckled and shook his head. “That’s west, sir. Newcastle is to the north.”
Folie smiled sweetly. “I’d better leave you a map.”
There had been no attempt yet to interfere with their comings and goings, but still Robert insisted on extreme care on the rainy night that they attended Lady Melbourne’s evening party. In fact, he had Folie leave the house early in the day, with all of her paraphernalia, and go to a hotel. Since she could dress there with the help of a maid, she had no objection to it. She was ready precisely at half past seven, dressed in Melinda’s made-over gown, when Lander arrived to escort her across the windswept pavement to a plain black carriage.
Robert waited inside it, looking quite handsome, Folie thought, in a snowy cravat and the dark blue coat he had worn at their wedding. He handed her a posy of yellow rosebuds.
“Thank you!” Folie said, pushing back her bedewed camlet hood. “How pretty they are.” Then she did something daring, because things had been going so well between them in the past ten days since Lady Melbourne’s card had arrived. She put her gloved hand on Robert’s and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. The carriage took a turn just then, balancing her the other way, and she straightened and put her hands in her lap with the bouquet. Just that brief touch; he did not say anything, or return the contact—but she thought, in the dimness of the closed carriage, that his mouth curved a little in a half-smile.
Once they arrived at Melbourne House, the precautions did not have to be so severe. It seemed unlikely that even the most audacious of villains would attempt an abduction of the guests of honor in the midst of a party. Sheltered by the umbrella of a footman, Folie walked openly inside, received warmly by Lady Melbourne in her throne-like chair. They had arrived early, invited to a dinner before the assembly.
“I have a surprise for you!” Lady Melbourne said with her throaty, pleasant laugh. “Come out, Belle!”
From behind the Chinese screen, Lady Dingley stepped out, blushing and protesting like a shy girl. She held o
ut her hands to Folie. “Mrs. Hamilton!”
Folie gasped in pleasure, completely surprised. They clasped hands—Folie was amazed to find Lady Dingley, normally so reserved, pulling her into an impulsive hug.
“Oh, dear! I meant to say Mrs. Cambourne!” she said, giving Folie a hard squeeze. “I am so glad to see you! You cannot know—we were so worried! But—” She pressed her lips. “I shall say no more of that. When we received Godmama’s letter, we could not possibly refuse to come!” She gave Folie a significant look.
“Sir Howard is here, too?” Folie asked.
Lady Dingley nodded, her eyes wide, as if it were a miracle. “He’s here! Waiting in the other room.”
“Then this is an honor indeed!” Folie said. She turned to Lady Melbourne with a curtsy, forcing any unease about Sir Howard out of her mind, at least while she spoke to her hostess. “I must thank you from my heart, ma’am! How good it is to see my friend!”
“Oh, that is not all,” Lady Melbourne said, as mischievous as a gypsy. “Perhaps Mr. Cambourne will meet some old friends too, in due time!”
Robert bowed and smiled politely. He did not appear to be overly gratified by this prospect, but Folie thought it would be quite interesting to meet old friends of his. But she wished that she might know what he was thinking of the Dingleys’ appearance. It was entirely unexpected, and yet—what more natural than for Lady Melbourne to invite them?
It was not a large group—no more than ten sat down in the dining room, but Lady Melbourne’s table could never be dull—she was too clever and experienced a hostess to allow apathy to enter the conversation. The other dinner guests were soon deep in a discourse upon Napoleon Bonaparte. It seemed odd to hear a gentleman like Lord Byron arguing that the tyrant was in fact an admirable character. Folie could not quite comprehend how a liberal-minded man could appreciate a despot, but she supposed that she must not be deeply shocked at anything bandied about in a dedicated Whig household.
Poor Sir Howard, she thought, took the disaffection and displeasure with the Tory government much harder. Though he said nothing, he was so red in the face with emotion that Folie almost felt sorry for him. His wife cast him frequent, dubious glances—Folie knew she must be terrified that he would lose command of himself, but he did not.
When Folie asked after all the girls, Lady Dingley went on at nervous length about her daughters. “And Sir Howard insisted that we bring Fanny and Virginia to town with us,” she exclaimed, as if it were a great mystification to her that her husband would consent to travel with his two youngest daughters. “He says that they ought to learn to drive a gig in Hyde Park! Can you imagine? And Ginny is only just turned five!”
Robert and Sir Howard studiously ignored one another during this family gossip. Try as she might, Folie could not be afraid of him. In truth, Robert himself seemed far more sinister, with his black panther countenance and the way he kept a watchful silence, his gray eyes observant but impenetrable.
It had a strange effect on the table, his stillness. Gradually, Folie became aware that the other guests kept casting glances in his direction—as if they could not help themselves, the way one might cross a field with a bull on the far side—boldly enough, but keeping an eye out for any sign of movement.
“And what is your opinion of the matter, Mr. Cambourne?” Lord Byron demanded at last. “I understand that you are a diviner of the future. What will become of old Boney?”
“I am nothing of the sort,” Robert said calmly. He looked straight at the poet, lifting his eyebrow.
“How unfortunate!” Lord Byron smiled. “Has Lady Melbourne brought us here under false pretenses?’’
“I cannot say, as I do not know what those pretenses may be.” Robert rested his fingers against his wineglass. “I thought the assembly was in honor of my bride.” He lifted his glass toward Folie, smiling affectionately. “To my lovely Mrs. Cambourne...she walks in beauty, like the dusk.”
As everyone hastily lifted glasses, joining in the toast to her, Lord Byron choked on his wine. He began to cough so hard that he had to push away from the table and rise. “Excuse me,” he wheezed. “M’ ‘cuses!”
He walked quickly out. Folie thought that Lord Byron, supposed to be quite dark and dashing, looked rather foolish limping from the room. She thought Robert would make a far better Gothic hero in any case. He had certainly done a masterful job of putting to use the lines of unfinished poetry that Lander’s emissaries had scavenged from a search of Lord Byron’s rooms while he had been dining out the previous night.
Folie carefully did not look toward Robert, for fear that she would burst into exultant snickers. Instead, she turned to Lady Melbourne and assured her that Toot the ferret sent his regards and regrets that he could not attend.
Robert was aware of Byron’s attention returning again and again to him as the rooms began to fill with guests. Folie stood beside him at the head of the stairs, accepting compliments and congratulations. He was trying to watch both Byron and Dingley; at the same time nod and smile to the line of arrivals filing past to shake his hand. He didn’t know a third of the names bawled by the servant at the foot of the stairs—all he was listening for was the announcement of Brougham’s arrival. So when a vigorous voice hailed him, at first Robert only looked at the man who had just climbed the stairs and seized his hand—saw a handsome brutal face and the uniform of the 10th Bengal Infantry.
“Sly fox! Ran away back home, did you?”
Balfour. Robert’s whole body reacted. Automatic shame fountained up through him. A numbness enveloped his brain. He stared insensate at the man who had cuckolded him with Phillippa.
“John Balfour!” the man said heartily. “Has it been so long you don’t know me?”
Folie turned toward them. “Ah!” she said warmly. “Is this an old friend?’’
As she dropped into a deep curtsy, Robert tried to fight his way from the nightmare deadness that held his tongue. “Mrs. Cambourne,” he said—meaning Folie, of course, meaning only to introduce Folie, but in the instant that he spoke that name, Balfour looked into his eyes. Phillippa’s image was like a burning ghost between them.
Robert could not speak. He shook his head.
“Major John Balfour, ma’am. We was garrisoned together for ten years and more! Marched all over India with this gentleman.” Balfour seemed to be having no problem with his voice. But then, he never had.
Before Robert could marshal any hope of composure, he recognized the next guest laboring up the staircase, a white-haired old lion in a resplendent dress uniform. St. Clair. Robert was suddenly an ensign again, called up the hill for a thundering upbraid.
“Sir,” he said. He lifted his hand, aborted the salute midway, and said stupidly, “General St. Clair.”
“Shabby as ever,” the general said with a great barking laugh. “This fellow was never meant for a military character, ma’am, I am sorry to tell you. Cambourne, you are a civilian to the bone.”
He said it as if it were a joke. Folie smiled in appreciative innocence, not knowing that the general had just delivered a scathing insult to an army man. He gave Robert a fatherly slap on the shoulder, made an apologetic grunt, and bowed to Folie.
“Have you come recently from India, sir?” she asked.
“Ten days off the boat!” he said. “Retired! Can you believe it? I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“You must come and visit us at Solinger Abbey,” she said, to Robert’s horror. She nodded toward Balfour. “And you, Major Balfour. I long to hear more of India.”
“Thank you, my girl!” St. Clair gave a crooked smile. “Good of you.”
Robert was relieved that his old nemesis said nothing more positive in reply. Neither did St. Clair offer Folie any congratulations before he and Balfour passed on into the house. Robert fervently hoped he would never have to lay eyes on either of them again in his lifetime.
He had lost track of Dingley. Byron still lingered within view, the obvious target, ready to be
plucked further. But even after Balfour and St. Clair had moved away, Robert felt shaken. He resolved to pass on any displays of his “power” tonight, then changed his mind and determined that he would not let unpleasant apparitions from his past deter him. The powdered servant at the foot of the stairs bawled, “Lord Brougham!”
Robert drew a breath. He had to go on; there was no missing this opportunity, not for any mere failure of nerve.
Lord Brougham was tall and energetic, the sort of man who moved in jerky pauses like a live marionette. As he stared at Folie with an eye that was bright and wild, he reminded her of Toot, restive and eager to sink his teeth into something interesting.
She and Robert seemed to be the plaything he had targeted tonight. After they had greeted the guests and returned to Lady Melbourne’s throne in the drawing room, he wasted no time in cornering them.
“The famous Mr. Cambourne!” he exclaimed, booming in an orator’s voice that seemed to catch the attention of the entire room. Folie could easily believe that he riveted a courtroom with his style. “I’ve been intending to see to you for some time now.”
Folie took Robert’s arm. She did not like this man.
“See to me?” Robert said calmly.
“Look into this stuff and nonsense about divining thoughts and moving articles about the room. Come, prove it to me if you can.”
Folie saw guests gathering closer. She noticed Lord Byron and Mrs. Witham-Stanley—and Lady Dingley, looking as white-faced and nervous as a rabbit.
“Sir,” Robert said, hardening his jaw. “I have nothing to prove to you.”
That was not what Folie had expected him to say. She had thought he would be anxious for a chance to perform before Lord Brougham.