Swear by Moonlight Read online

  After pressing a kiss to Alice's powdered cheek, Patrick seated himself across from her. Long legs in front of him, he watched as she poured tea and passed a cup to him.

  "You are," she said a moment later as she stirred sugar and lemon into her own tea, "no doubt wondering why I wanted to see you."

  Patrick inclined his head. His mother looked as regal as always, her hair arranged in an elegant mass of curls on top of her head; the wide silver wings at her temples one of the few signs of her advancing age. For a woman who had just passed her fifty-ninth birthday in June, Lady Caldecott was well preserved. The pale, flawless skin was only faintly lined, the proud chin was perhaps a bit fuller than it had been in her youth, and there was a delicate network of wrinkles that radiated out from the corners of her eyes. Still, she was a striking woman, her body slim and well formed, and Patrick wasn't surprised that Lord Caldecott had asked her to marry him. What did surprise him was that, after being a widow for so many years and considering her first foray into the married state, she had accepted him. What astonished him even more was that the marriage seemed to have been a love match, if the open affection he noticed between Lord and Lady Caldecott was anything to go by. Truth be told, Patrick was puzzled by his mother's second marriage. Why would anyone, having escaped from the noose once, deliberately stick their head into it again?

  Watching his mother as she stirred her tea, it occurred to him that she looked more worn and tired than he had ever seen her, and, for the first time, it crossed his mind that her demand to see him might have a serious overtone. He gave her a few minutes, but when she said nothing, seeming fascinated by the swirling liquid in her cup, he asked, "Mother, what is it? Your note said it was urgent that you see me."

  She forced a smile and, setting down her tea untouched, admitted, "It is urgent, but now that I have you here, I do not know how to begin."

  "At the beginning, perhaps?"

  She made a face, her reluctance to proceed obvious. If he had not known better, Patrick would have sworn that his mother was embarrassed—she was certainly not acting in her usual forthright manner.

  When several minutes had passed and his mother still remained silent, Patrick said, "Perhaps you have changed your mind about seeing me?"

  She shook her head and sighed. "No—you are the only one I can turn to. It is just that I am... humiliated to have to explain to anyone, and particularly my son, the predicament in which I find myself."

  There was such an expression of misery on her face that Patrick felt the first real stirrings of unease.

  "I am your son," he said slowly. "Surely you know that you have no need to be embarrassed by anything that you tell me?"

  Her gray eyes met his and she flashed him an unhappy look. "You're wrong there. I know that we have not always seen eye to eye... and I hesitate to tell you something that may lower your opinion of me."

  Seriously alarmed, Patrick bent forward. "Mother, tell me! Surely it cannot be that bad."

  "You're probably right," she admitted reluctantly. "It is just that I—" She stopped, bit her lip, and then, apparently steeling herself, she said, "I have to tell you something that happened over twenty years ago when I first left your father and returned to England." She hesitated, and color bloomed in both her cheeks. She cleared her throat and went on, "I was still a young woman, and I made the mistake of falling madly in love with another man. A married man of high degree." Her eyes would not meet his. "We embarked willy-nilly into an affair. The fact that we were both married and that he was a member of the Court made it imperative that the affair remain secret. I would have been utterly ruined if it had become public, and he, well, he would have been banished from the king's presence." She made a face. "George III is not known for his tolerance of adultery." She glanced across at Patrick. "Are you shocked?"

  Patrick shrugged not certain what he felt. He was startled that his mother had had an affair, but not shocked. He was, after all, a gentleman of the world, and was privy to the various follies that people commit in the name of love—another reason why he avoided that state. Aware of his mother's silence, he admitted, "Surprised is more like it. But why are you telling me?"

  Alice took a deep breath. "Because someone is blackmailing me about it."

  "With what?" Patrick asked with a frown. "From what you have just told me, the affair was two decades ago—who would care now? Your former lover?"

  She shook her head. "No, he is dead—has been for at least ten years." Her gaze dropped. "I wrote some letters. Some very explicit letters." Tiredly, she added, "The affair wasn't of long duration—less than a year, but it was intense while it lasted. And when it ended, when I came to my senses and realized that I was acting little better than some Covent Garden soiled dove, I simply wanted to put it all behind me. I told the gentleman that it was over between us and that I no longer wished to see him. He took it well—he had been a faithful and honest husband until I came into his life, and I am sure that our liaison caused him much soul-searching and anguish." There was a faraway look in her eyes. "He was an honorable man, and I think, as I look back on those days, that he was as horrified by our passion for each other as he was entranced. I suspect that he was secretly grateful when I ended it. At any rate, once we had parted, I never gave the letters a second thought." Her mouth drooped. "I certainly never thought that someone would try to extort money from me for their return twenty years later."

  Despite his impassive expression, a dozen thoughts were jostling around in Patrick's mind. His mother's confession made him look at her differently, to see her not just as the unhappy figure of his childhood, the stately matron she had become, but also as a woman with needs and desires of her own. It was difficult to imagine her in the throes of an illicit, passionate affair, but he had her word for it that it had happened—and that someone was blackmailing her because of it. His mouth tightened. Now that was something that he would not allow.

  "How were you contacted?" he asked, his heart twisting at the look of vulnerability on her face. He had never seen his mother look vulnerable before, had never thought she could be vulnerable, and he was conscious of a growing anger against the person who put that look on her face.

  "A note was waiting for me," Alice said, "when I returned home from our drive on Monday in the park. I did not recognize the handwriting, but the contents alluded to the affair and the letters... along with a demand for money for their return." She sighed. "It was very cleverly done—nothing was stated outright, but whoever wrote it knew of the affair and the letters and wanted to be paid to keep quiet about it."

  "When and how much?" asked Patrick grimly.

  "I have already paid the first installment," Alice admitted. "The sender knew that Henry and I were attending Mrs. Pennington's 'at home' that very evening. I was told to put a thousand pounds in my reticule and to leave it with my wrap when we arrived. When I got home, I looked inside my reticule and the money was gone. As promised, there was also one of my letters... just in case I had any doubts about whether the blackmailer actually had the letters." Her mouth thinned. "I burned it as soon as I was alone."

  "Your blackmailer was clever—those 'at homes' are crowded affairs, with people coming and going all the time. Anyone could have slipped into the cloak room and taken the money." He shot her a keen glance. "Since only one letter was returned to you, it is obvious that this is to continue indefinitely."

  She nodded. "I had hoped the one demand for money would satisfy them—foolish, I know. This arrived this morning."

  "This" was another note that had been lying on the table beside the tea tray. Reaching over, she handed the folded paper to him. Swiftly Patrick scanned the missive.

  "Two thousand pounds this time." He glanced at her, concern in his gray eyes. "Can you stand the nonsense? I can, if you cannot."

  "Money isn't the issue—although it may become one, if these 'requests' continue and the price keeps doubling."

  "Have you talked to Caldecott about it?"

 
Her gaze dropped. "N-n-no," she admitted after a long moment. When Patrick continued to stare at her, she stood up and took several agitated steps around the room. Stopping in front of him, she declared fiercely, "I love Henry—very much. And he loves me. He thinks that I am perfect." She smiled ruefully. "I know that it is hard for you to believe, but he does." Her smile faded, that look of vulnerability that had so disturbed him returning. "No one has ever loved me as Henry does. No one, not even that long-ago lover, has ever cared for me as deeply and sincerely as he does." One hand formed a fist at her side. "I would do anything to keep him from learning about this distasteful incident from my past. It is silly of me, I know, but I do not want Henry's image of me tarnished."

  "Well, then," Patrick said quietly, "I shall just have to find your blackmailer and pull his fangs, won't I?"

  Returning to her seat on the sofa, her gray eyes anxious, she leaned forward and asked, "Can you do that? Can you really find out who is behind this? And keep Henry out of it?"

  "Don't worry about my esteemed steppapa," Patrick said dryly. "We don't move in the same circles—my activities on your behalf are not likely to come to his attention."

  "I could wish," Alice said with a return of her usual tartness, "that you didn't move in those circles."

  "Well, yes, I'm sure of that, but in this case, my raffish friends and cronies may actually be of help."

  "You wouldn't tell anyone else about this, would you?" she asked, a hand to her throat.

  Patrick looked at her and she visibly relaxed. Smiling apologetically, she said, "Of course you wouldn't. I was foolish even to consider such a thing. Forgive me?"

  He nodded. Rereading the note, he frowned. "It would seem that he, and for the time being we shall assume it is a he, has decided that you are easy prey. I suspect that the demand for payment on Monday was simply to see if you would bite. Since you did, he now knows that he has you hooked. You can certainly count on receiving more of these."

  "My feeling exactly and why I asked you to call on me." She closed her eyes for a second. "I cannot believe at my age that I am being blackmailed for something that happened so long ago. It is ridiculous!"

  "Do you have any idea who the blackmailer could be?"

  "None. The recipient of the letters is dead—has been for a decade. There were no direct heirs. When he died the title, and everything else, went to his brother. His brother, incidentally, has also been dead, for a-half-dozen years or so. It is his brother's eldest son who now holds the title."

  "Having told me what you have, don't you think you can trust me with your lover's name?" Patrick asked gently.

  Alice grimaced. "It was the Lord Embry, the Earl of Childress—the sixth earl. I believe you know his nephew, the current Lord Embry."

  Patrick nodded. "Indeed, I do. And while he is up to every rig and row in town, I cannot imagine that he would be your blackmailer."

  "And I cannot believe that his uncle did not destroy my letters when our affair ended."

  "Mayhap he did not take your parting as easily as you thought?"

  "You may be right," she agreed unhappily. "But since we must assume he kept my letters, why am I just now being blackmailed for their return?"

  "The most obvious answer is that they have just now come into someone else's hands. But whose and how?" He frowned. "Embry may sail close to the wind, but I would never have thought he would stoop so low as to blackmail a friend's mother—and he is a friend of mine. Besides, unless the family fortune has suffered a dramatic decline, he has no need of more money—and I can't imagine Nigel pawing through the attics of Childress Hall, which is one of the few places the letters could have been and not be discovered before now."

  Alice sighed. "I suppose you are right. It is just so difficult to believe that after twenty years they have just resurfaced."

  An arrested expression crossed Patrick's face. "What about his wife? Could she have had the letters?"

  Alice shook her head. "No, she died about six months after the affair ended." Something occurred to her and she leaned forward intently. "Wait! He remarried a couple years after that. What was her name? Ah, I have it—Levina Ellsworth."

  "You think that she might have kept the letters?"

  "I can't imagine her doing so—there isn't a spiteful or mean bone in Levina's body. If she knew what was in the letters, she would be far more likely to give them to me."

  "But suppose, she didn't know about the letters? Suppose they were in some old trunk that she had brought with her from Childress Hall after her husband died? I assume that after he died, she moved into the Dower House there?"

  "I have no idea," Alice admitted. "Once the affair ended, I did not keep track of what was happening in his life—I wanted to forget about it, to pretend that I had never been so wild and foolish. I knew Levina and felt sorry for her. She had little fortune, no looks to speak of, and her family treated her like a drudge. She comes from a large family, but her sisters and brothers always struck me as a bunch of rapacious ravens—their needs came first. What I remember most about Levina is that she is singularly sweet-natured. When I read the announcement of her marriage to Embry, I was pleased that she had made such a good match at her age." She looked reflective. "They would have been good for each other."

  "Do you think she is still alive?"

  "She could be—she was about ten years my elder, so it is not out of the realm of possibility."

  "I think I should start with Levina's whereabouts," Patrick said, rising to his feet. "We shall assume that Levina unknowingly had the letters and that she took them wherever she went. And they stayed there until someone, for whatever reason, discovered them. With luck, she took them to the Dower House at Childress—I can easily cadge a visit out of Nigel."

  "And this recent demand? What shall I do?"

  Patrick's face hardened. "We shall have to pay it, but I think I shall be the one to deliver the payment."

  "Is that wise? Might it not annoy the blackmailer?"

  Patrick smiled like a tiger. "Oh, believe me I very much want to annoy our blackmailer!"

  He glanced at the address where his mother was to have left the money tonight. "So you're to be there at ten o'clock this evening, eh? Curzon Street—rather a nice neighborhood for a blackmailer, don't you think?"

  His mother shrugged. "I suppose so—if anyone lives at the address."

  Patrick nodded. "Unless your blackmailer is a fool or very bold, I agree. It would be folly for him to have you come to his home—might as well send an announcement telling you who he is."

  Crossing the room, he bent over and kissed his mother's cheek. "I suppose it would do me little good to tell you not to worry? That I shall take care of this for you?"

  "Which only gives me another reason to worry," Alice said ruefully. Glancing up at her tall son, anxiety in her eyes, she added, "You will be careful? We have no way of knowing just how dangerous this creature may be. I could never live with myself if something happened to you because of my folly."

  Patrick laughed. "Considering some of the risks I have taken for a mere wager, this will be a lark." He kissed her again. "Do not worry, Mama."

  Taking leave of his mother, Patrick left the house and drove directly to Curzon Street. He was not surprised to find that the house named by the blackmailer was empty. It was a handsome Georgian mansion, very similar to several others in the same block, but his knock on the door aroused no reply or sign of any inhabitants. A brief conversation with a prosperous-looking gentleman descending the steps of the house next door brought forth the information that it was in the hands of a solicitor, who had been trying to lease it out for the past six months. The previous owner had died a year ago and the heir, a spinster of intermediate age, had no desire to live in London.

  After obtaining the name of the solicitor, a Mr. Beaton, and his direction, Patrick thanked the gentleman and promptly went to pay a visit to the solicitor. Pretending to be in the market for a house to lease, in the company of Mr. Beaton's
assistant, he was able to obtain entrance to the house. The interior, while spacious and well appointed, had the unpleasant, dank smell of a house long closed up and the dust-covered furniture loomed ghostlike in the dim light filtering in from the shuttered windows. A brief inspection of the three floors turned up nothing that gave Patrick any clue to the blackmailer's whereabouts or his identity. After promising to let Mr. Beaton's assistant know what he decided about the house, he went home to think.

  Sitting in his study, his booted feet resting on the mahogany desk, he considered the situation for some time. No solution occurred to him, and he was bitterly aware that he could do nothing productive until tonight. In the meantime, however, he could see his friend, Nigel Embry. Since she was his aunt by marriage, Lord Embry would, no doubt, be his most likely source of information about Levina.

  Telling his butler not to expect him until he saw him, he put on his hat and departed Hamilton Place once more. Luck was with him, and he found Lord Embry at the first place he looked; Embry House on Albemarle Street. In fact, Lord Embry was just stepping into his curricle when Patrick arrived. A congenial, amiable soul, Nigel would accept nothing less than for Patrick to park his own vehicle and to come for a ride in Hyde Park.

  The news he obtained from Lord Embry confirmed his own suspicions: Levina had died in January. Her estate had gone to her nieces and nephews—as grasping a pack of money-grubbing Cits as Nigel had ever seen.

  Having learned what he could for the present, Patrick settled back and enjoyed the ride, listening with half an ear to Lord Embry's pleasantries. At this hour, the park was crowded with various members of the ton, garbed in their finest and driving their most elegant vehicles. Since Embry knew everyone, and Patrick was acquainted with many members of society, their progress was slow as they stopped to talk to this person or that and nodded politely to others.