Society's Beauties: Mistress at Midnight / Scars of Betrayal

‘Not a peep, mind, to anyone. If you talk, me wife and I, we’re as good as gone.’

‘I understand.’ Hawk brought the coins from his pocket, the profile of the Queen etched in bronze. ‘There’s more where this came from if you have anything else.’ A flash of greed told him that the red-haired man probably did. Settling back, he crossed his legs in front of him. Experience had taught him patience in any negotiation and the art of biding his time. Information gathering had its own set of intricate rules, after all, and the first of them was to feign indifference.

‘The one they call Delsarte and his cronies have been hanging around the warehouse. I ain’t seen the woman do nothing with them, though. She just goes late back to that fancy home of hers up in Mayfair when she has finished and returns in the morning. As early as sin, I should say.’

‘Have you ever seen her talking with them?’

‘No.’

Stephen’s glance went to the girl sitting to one side, but her eyes were cast downwards.

‘There is something that I heard Delsarte say…’ Stopping, he waited for a timely reminder and Hawk handed him another handful of coins. ‘He said that he was going to Paris and that there was more money in it than this business could provide him with. Then the rain came down heavy so’s that I couldn’t listen no more. The woman he was talking to was from Mother Spence’s place down Katherine Lane. A big dark-haired girl with patches, rouge and a long scar down her forearm. She might know more if ye asked her, though ye’d have to be careful as she was hanging on to him like he was a gift or something.’

‘Did you get into the warehouse to look over the files?’

‘No, not a chance to. The dog stops you when there’s no one in. A big monster of a hound that lets everyone know he’s there. I heard them mention a boat, though, last week, when I was following them home from the Black Boar. The Meridian. I checked and she’s in at St Katherine’s Dock.’

‘You’ve done well.’ Standing, Stephen placed a silver shilling on the table before him. ‘For the babe,’ he said as he collected his hat and left.

Nathaniel Lindsay was waiting for him in his library when he returned after eleven o’clock, and he had already finished a large amount of his best bottle of whisky.

‘You are still at the game, then?’ His eyes passed over the homespun as Stephen took off the woollen overcoat and hat.

‘If you come uninvited, you have to take what is here without comment, Nat.’ Finding a glass, Hawk poured himself a generous drink, pausing to enjoy the smooth taste of the golden liquid.

‘Cassie sent me.’

‘Why?’

‘She thinks you need a talking to over your choice of women.’

‘I thought your wife approved of Elizabeth Berkeley?’

Laughter echoed around the room. ‘You would devour everything about that poor chit within a year, Stephen, and curse yourself for doing so.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Women are like this whisky, my friend. Find a full-bodied and complicated brew and it will suit you for ever. It worked for both Luc and me.’

The words fell into the silent warmth of the library, soft harbingers of persuasion. ‘You are saying that the basis for a good marriage is a complicated woman?’

Nathaniel’s hands flailed in the air. ‘I am saying that I am worried about you, Stephen. All this…disguise and deception. It is making you sadder than you need to be.’ He paused for a second before carrying on. ‘Remember when your parents died and we were at school? How old were we then? You and Luc and I?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Thirteen. And we said that we would always be family from then on. We made a promise cut into the skin at our wrists.’ Pulling up the sleeve on his arm, he traced one finger over a thin white line. ‘I pressed too hard and ended up in the clinic and you slept on the floor beside me for a week. I think if you had not been there holding my hand in the cold of the night I wouldn’t have survived. Now it is my turn to make certain that you survive.’

With a frown Stephen looked down at his own hands, the nails filled with dirt from where he had scraped them along the earth on the driveway before his foray into the dark alleys off St Katherine’s Row. Placing his drink down, he stood, walking to the window to look out into the darkness.

‘I have already told Shavvon I am leaving.’

‘When?’

‘After this…case.’

‘Your brother would be pleased were he still here.’

‘Considering he died for the same cause that I am quitting, I highly doubt it.’ The ferocity of the words surprised Hawk.

‘Which is the sole reason that you have stayed in for so long. Daniel was killed because he didn’t listen to reason just as you are not doing now.’

‘No. He died because I didn’t protect him.’

‘You took a bullet in the thigh and spent a good portion of that summer in a coma and have limped ever since, for God’s sake. Your brother died because neither he nor you could outrun bullets fired by a crazy Frenchman with little in the way of integrity. You did your best to save him, Hawk, and you have paid the price in pain ever since. It’s time to let it go, let it all go and find the life Daniel was never able to live. It would not be a betrayal.’

Betrayal?

Life in the British Service had in effect once saved him, giving purpose and family to two young boys left without either. With their parents gone, Daniel and he had been rudderless until the steady sure hand of responsibility and duty had guided them on to a path which was significant and worthy. Such initial fealty now caused Hawk’s conscience to burn, yet beneath, another need blazed brighter.

Aye, betrayal came in many forms.

That thought made Stephen look up. If he didn’t change, he would die. Soon. Like his brother, disappearing into the hazy and shadowed world of espionage.

Today in the company of Aurelia St Harlow he had been honest, a chance taken without thought of recompense or reprisals. He had told her exactly what he thought lay between them and he had seen the answering flicker in her eyes—an unconstrained candour budding like green leaves from a bare and frozen branch in the first days of spring. New life. New hope in the peace of truth.

Outside, a shooting star fell from the heavens and for the first time since Stephen was a child he took a moment to wish upon it.

When he called upon Nat and Cassie two days later Aurelia St Harlow and her sister Leonora Beauchamp were ensconced in the small blue downstairs salon with Cassandra and her oldest sister, Maureen. Lady Delamont, the St Auburns’ London neighbour, was also in attendance, a surprising fact given that Aurelia’s reputation was hardly salubrious.

‘Stephen.’ Cassie crossed the room and drew him in before he could escape. ‘Nathaniel said you might drop by and he instructed me to keep you here until he returned. Something about “a full and bodied brew”, he said, though goodness only knows what that might mean. You know Lady Delamont, of course, and you remember Mrs St Harlow and her sister Leonora Beauchamp from your ball the other evening. Maureen is up for a week to stay with me, too.’

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’

Leonora smiled at him and moved over, giving Stephen no choice but to find a seat in the middle of the sisters. Aurelia did not look at him.

‘I’m glad you have returned early from your journey north, Hawk,’ Cassie said, with the vestige of a question.

Lady Delamont laughed and joined in the conversation. ‘Lady Berkeley will be pleased, Hawk. The youngest Berkeley daughter is hoping to snare a husband before too long, I hear, and your name is amongst the mooted candidates for a dinner she has planned. A nice gal, Elizabeth, with good manners and a pleasing conversation. She will make someone a loyal and malleable wife.’

Somehow the words did not sound like praise and, chancing a quick look at Aurelia, Stephen saw how her hands had tightened on the velvet reticule in her lap.

‘Oh, Hawk’s name is on all the lists, Deborah.’ Cassandra swatted away the gossip easily and began to speak instead of the gowns she had particularly noticed at his ball. In the ensuing chatter Stephen was able to turn and speak privately to Aurelia for the first time. Today her hair had been tightly plaited so that the redness looked darker. A small pin embellished with a ceramic flower sat above her ear.

‘For a woman on society’s blacklist, you seem to be garnering a good number of invitations.’

Deliberation laced a small anger. ‘As soon as my sisters are paired off I am certain I shan’t get another one, my lord.’

‘If you throw off the black shroud you might be surprised, Mrs St Harlow. The swatch of scarlet I saw you holding the other day, for example, would suit you admirably.’

The look on her face was dubious. ‘Red against red, my lord?’

‘Too tempting?’ Stephen enjoyed the glint of confusion in her unusual eyes and, stretching out, he allowed his thigh to touch hers. She moved back as though she had been burned, leaving as much space between them as was possible, her left side plastered tightly against the armrest.

Her reaction was ridiculous. She knew that it was, but it was as though her body almost sizzled when he touched her. Please God that he might not have perceived her response, that he might not have noticed.

‘Your father is looking well, Mrs St Harlow.’ Lady Delamont leant across and spoke loudly. ‘I always thought it a great pity when your mother left him. Sylvienne was very like you to look at, my dear, with her red hair and that quiet air of caution. I hear she lives in Paris now?’

‘She does.’

‘Surrounded by luxury and various beaus, no doubt? She had every eligible suitor in London after her in the Season, an original with a brain to match. Do give her my regards next time you see her.’

‘I shall indeed, my lady.’

Aurelia’s smile felt as artificial as her words. the last time she had visited Mama, Sylvienne had clung to her like a child needing comfort, the high price of her numerous lovers scrawled in heavy payment across her face. Abandoned by society. When she had asked after Papa the undercurrents of regret could be clearly heard in her question.

Perhaps she and her mother were more alike than she thought. Her mama had chosen to leave the right man and she had chosen to stay with the wrong one.

Unlucky in love.

The tiny phrase clung in her mind and Aurelia took in breath. She could not afford to let her guard down and Stephen Hawkhurst wasn’t a man to be played with. He was dangerous and powerful and menacing. Even here, sitting still amongst a group of women she was aware of a thrumming authority, a man who had fought in wars and lived.

Aye, survival had a certain note of guilt that isolated one and made mockery of small concerns. It also brought a sadness that was palpable and haunting, the vestige of dark things that were never spoken of again.

Leonora’s laughter dragged her from her thoughts.

‘I should love to come, Lady Delamont, and I am certain my sister would, too.’ Aurelia’s heart sank. ‘A masked ball, Lia. What could be more exciting?’

‘The more, the merrier, Mrs St Harlow,’ the old lady continued, ‘and I have a roomful of masks collected over the years. If you should like to choose one with your sister I would be very pleased, for my late husband was a man who had a bent towards the absurd.’

‘I have already chosen Nat’s mask, Hawk.’

Aurelia heard the humour in Cassandra Lindsay’s voice even as Hawk shifted in his seat. He did not look like a man who would enjoy a masked ball at all.

‘Your husband used to favour these sorts of occasions, Mrs St Harlow.’ Cassandra’s sister spoke for the first time, her smile so sweet Aurelia knew she could not have meant insult.

‘Indeed, it seems that Charles enjoyed anything that was underpinned with joviality.’ At least Hawkhurst did not make the words sound like a compliment, which gave Aurelia a certain satisfaction.

Joviality. Her world spun for a moment as she was thrust back into her past, clinging to the hope that the man she had married might disappear into the air like a wisp of smoke.

Foolish, foolish choice.

The wedding band on her finger seemed to tighten of its own accord, like a noose, an uncompromising punishment that would always be with her.

She wished she was home, in her bedroom and away from the prying eyes of others, the talk of masked balls and happy times so very far away from all that she had known.

And endured.

‘I hope none of your other sisters have caught your father’s illness?’ Cassandra Lindsay commented and Aurelia shook her head. To say more under the circumstances would be more than deceitful given Hawk’s knowledge of the whole conundrum. Even Leonora looked a little abashed and there was an awkward silence that was filled as Lady Delamont sought advice about a certain plant for her garden which she had been unable to find.

The conversation gave Aurelia a little time to regather her wits and squash down a rising panic. The tension emanating from Lord Hawkhurst next to her was almost palpable and she was pleased when Cassandra’s husband appeared at the door.

Hawkhurst stood immediately, giving Aurelia the impression that his desire to be gone was almost as great as her own, and when he gave his farewells he did not look in her direction once.

With Stephen Hawkhurst departed, however, that particular sense of excitement disappeared with him and, looking at the clock in the corner of the room, Aurelia wondered just how many minutes would need to pass before she could leave, as well.

Chapter Nine

Aurelia took a letter to the hospital the next morning, the missive concealed in her reticule under other papers and a wide silk scarf. ‘The last time,’ she said to herself. This would be the last time she took such chances.

As she walked along the hospital corridor she was aware of a man observing her closely. When she smiled at him he fidgeted with something in his pocket and stood, disappearing around the corner at speed.

The sight of Freddy Delsarte as she came outside made her stiffen and she wondered what discovery might engender. Treason carried the death penalty and she knew that a defence of blackmail would not save her. She needed to get Sylvienne away from Paris and pay off Delsarte for his silence. Now Leonora’s reputation was at stake, as well, and with the chance of happiness with Rodney Northrup almost coming to fruition…She stopped. Hawkhurst was circling in the Limestone Hole and in the places that society gathered; his connections with the secret service threaded into the verbal warnings he gave her, but for now it was Delsarte who wanted a word.

‘You are the talk of the town, Mrs St Harlow, for Hawkhurst’s ball has elevated you to the status of acceptable.’

‘I have paid my dues, sir, as far as any legal requirements are concerned. Now I just wish to be left in peace.’

‘Sylvienne might say the same.’

‘Sylvienne?’ Her voice was harsh even to her own ears. ‘If you hurt even one hair on her head, Delsarte, I shall see to it that the truth about your questionable morality and allegiance is made known and you will be crucified for it.’

‘A case of the pot calling the kettle black, Mrs St Harlow.’

She shook her head. ‘Mama was a fool to have allowed you into her bed and I am even more of one to have been persuaded to deliver your letters. Lord Stephen Hawkhurst has been asking after your movements and it would be very easy to tell him all that I know.’

‘Do that and you will be up there in the hanging noose alongside me, my dear. The British Government would have little sympathy for the daughter of a French whore.’

His anger made Aurelia take a step backwards. She was caught in the game as certainly as Delsarte was, her mother’s welfare taking precedence over any allegiance to King or to country. Unsavoury, she knew, but Sylvienne was walking a knife edge and Aurelia could not let her fall.

The same man she had seen at the hospital suddenly crossed the street in front of them and Delsarte hurried away. Another player in the game of espionage and secrets? A further threat to the safety of her mother?

A note came in the late afternoon to Park Street as she was trying to fit in a few hours’ work. The man who brought it had been instructed to wait for an answer and when she read the contents she was very glad Henry Kerslake was out and about.

Lord Hawkhurst wanted to see her and had asked her to come in the provided carriage to his town house within the hour. Worrying about the implications of such a summons, Aurelia wiped the sweat from her palms on the skirt of her gown and looked up at the waiting servant.

Should she take a risk and go? She had heard rumours that Stephen Hawkhurst worked for the British Service though nothing had ever been confirmed. Perhaps he had come snooping because of the money she sent to France. Or perhaps he had something to tell her about the entailment of Braeburn House? The cold fear of discovery was choking and she knew it would be better to face him in private and alone than in some crowded soirée.

‘I will need ten minutes before I could accompany you.’ Aurelia was glad her voice sounded steady.

‘Very well, ma’am.’

When he left she stood, the ridge of fur on Caesar’s back raised in warning, his growls subsiding at his departure. ‘I wish you could come…’ she whispered and threw him a bone from a box beneath her desk. As the hound set down to the task of gnawing on it Aurelia crossed to the mirror in the small back room.

In the silvered reflection she looked both tired and shocked, her eyes uncannily like those of her mother’s. Pinching her cheeks to try to produce some colour, she reached in habit for the pendant at her throat and stopped. No, it had gone, too, in the pretence and the deceit. There was nothing left to protect her family with but her wiles and her willpower.

Her coat hung on a hook by the door and as she pulled each button through she counted. Eight buttons. One for every year since she had met Charles St Harlow at the Redmonds’ ball in Clarence Street. Eight years since she had been truly happy. Eight years since she had slept all through a night and woken in the morning with dreams that had made her smile.

The peal of the bells from the nearby church were loud as she came into the wind and with her head held high she allowed Hawkhurst’s man to help her into the conveyance.

He should not see Aurelia St Harlow alone and so late in the day, but he wanted to look into her eyes as he asked her his questions, and know the truth. She had been seen today in the company of both the French doctor and Freddy Delsarte. He knew that if Shavvon were cognisant of such associations she would have already been brought in for questioning, such was the power of the Government’s uneasiness over foreign collaborators.

His own desires and needs were another factor entirely, though he had never been a man to put himself first. But he was disconcerted by the blood in him that raced with possibility when everything about such a reaction was wrong.

He heard the carriage and stood, cursing a rising need.

‘Mrs St Harlow, my lord,’ Wilson introduced her and left, shutting the door behind himself firmly. Hawkhurst had already given orders that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances and their relationship was such that he knew his instructions would be obeyed to the letter.

The heat from a well-stoked fire fell across the room and he watched as she unbuttoned her coat, her fingers shaking with the effort. After the heavy outer shell was discarded she carefully laid it upon the sofa beside her. In the silken lining he caught the same rows of stitched repair that seemed evident in all of her apparel.

‘Thank you for coming.’

Her countenance was pale and drawn. When he indicated a chair to one side of the room she moved towards it, but did not sit. Her hands were gloveless and she wore no hat. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘I seldom partake of any alcohol, my lord,’ she returned, the formal edge on her words unnerving and her voice low.

‘Wise,’ he echoed as he emptied his own glass for the third time in as many minutes. ‘You will excuse me for displaying no such abstinence.’

The slight nod of her head made him turn, her nose tip-tilted against the fire’s flame and her dimples deep even when she did not smile. No wonder her cousin had offered her marriage in so short a time. Alfred had made it known that there had been many others vying for Aurelia Beauchamp’s hand in her first Season and society had been as shocked as her father when she had chosen the self-indulgent Charles.

His cousin had whisked her from London the day of the wedding and she had not returned until her court appearance three years later, a devoted wife wrapped in widow’s weeds and a hefty dose of sorrow.

For just a moment Stephen hardly knew where to begin. ‘I could order tea if you would rather?’ The quick shake of her head stopped him, so instead he tried another tack. ‘How long have you worked in the Park Street warehouse?’

The spark in her eyes told him she had been expecting just such a question. ‘Nearly four years. The mills at Macclesfield had lain vacant for a long time and I made use of them again. The warehouse here is the London base for the business.’

‘And some of your silks come in from France?’

‘Yes. With the lifting of import duties it is often cheaper to bring the hand-loomed silks in as an adjunct to what we can weave.’

‘So you have contact with the traders in Paris?’

She hesitated before nodding. ‘I do. Is there some problem with that, my lord?’

‘No problem at all. Curiosity is just one of my many faults.’

‘Somehow I doubt that. Palmerston has the thought that all citizens with some link to France must be traitors.’

‘You make it a point to understand politics?’

‘I try to. The tariffs for the silk trade here are hefty, yet France enjoys little government intervention. Without a good knowledge of the changing pattern of the new bills and laws, my margins would suffer.’

Despite himself he laughed. ‘My cousin could barely string a thought together about anything other than himself or fashion. How did he ever end up with a woman like you?’

A flash of panic crossed her face. ‘I realise it is a difficult thing to understand, but I am trying to build a life again, my lord, trying to fashion a better existence for my family.’

‘Why did you meet with Delsarte today, Aurelia?’

Anger whipped up fire in her eyes. ‘You have had me followed?’

‘England’s safety comes with good intelligence.’

‘Your man has poor skills, then. I spotted him both at the hospital and in the street.’

‘Perhaps he wished to be seen.’

‘Because you would warn me…?’ Her question wavered into silence. The material in her ugly gown caught the lamplight and one of the ties at her throat was loosened so that the bodice hung away from her skin.

Dipping into his pocket, he brought forth the pendant he had located in a pawnshop two days ago. The look of surprise on her face had him reaching for her gloveless hand. Her skin felt hot and smooth as he placed the bauble within her palm and closed her fingers around it.

‘It looked like a family heirloom. I thought perhaps you had lost it?’

A shake of her head brought him the truth. ‘I sold it to pay the Davies stables for the rent of their carriage on a Monday. It was my grandmother’s.’

Her teeth worried her bottom lip and for just a moment Hawk thought she might begin to cry. But Aurelia St Harlow was thankfully made of sterner stuff.

‘You think me a traitor and yet you paid for the restoration of my pendant?’

‘I am old enough to realise the world does not deal in only black and white and that grey is a colour subject to much interpretation. I would like to hear how it is you know Delsarte?’