“Sometimes,” she said tentatively, “talking about what happened can help to ease the pain. Would you like to tell me?”
She knew she was prodding, that there was a chance Lucien’s aunt would recoil and demand she leave at once. Still, she hoped the opposite would be true.
After another lengthy silence, punctuated by nothing more than the crackling fire and the rain pattering on the windows, Lady Beaufort took a deep, shuddering breath. “It was a carriage accident. And he suffered. I know he did. They did not find him for hours, and even then, he was still alive. When they brought him back to me, I was convinced he would live. I just knew it in my heart.”
Hazel said nothing, understanding there was more to the story, and that she needed to allow Lady Beaufort to tell it at her own pace. That she needed to unburden herself.
“He fought. For an entire night, he fought.” Lady Beaufort’s voice broke. “But he could not survive the injuries.”
Her heart ached on the older woman’s behalf.
“I am so sorry, my lady,” Hazel said.
“As am I, Miss Montgomery,” Lucien’s aunt said, sounding weary. Almost defeated.
“Call me Hazel, if you please,” she urged.
Lady Beaufort extracted a handkerchief from a pocket in her robe and dabbed at her eyes. Even that motion was elegant and refined. “I prefer Miss Montgomery.”
Hazel almost smiled. It was a relief to have proof Lucien’s aunt was still her redoubtable self, even in her grief. “As you wish, Lady Beaufort.”
“You will not tell Arden about this undignified display, madam,” Lucien’s aunt warned her next. “He has suffered enough sadness in his lifetime.”
“You refer to Arden’s mother,” Hazel guessed.
Lady Beaufort’s brows rose. “He has spoken of the duchess with you?”
“Some,” she admitted. “I can see it pains him.”
“As well it ought,” Lady Beaufort said sharply. “When I think of what that woman did to those poor children, leaving them as she did… And poor Arden, the manner in which he searched for her. He had no rest until he found his mother’s body washed ashore. He carried her back to Albemarle himself.”
Her heart ached anew at the thought of what Lucien had suffered. At the knowledge he had set out to find his mother, and had not stopped, until he carried her home himself.
“You have my promise I will not carry tales,” she forced herself to say past the lump in her throat. “The last thing I would wish is to cause upset for either you or Arden, my lady. While I may be incapable of meeting your standards of comportment, I hope you will at least believe I hold your family in the highest of esteem.”
Her ladyship treated her to a long, searching glance, before she finally gave a sniff—though whether of approval or disapproval, Hazel could not say. “Perhaps you might ring for a tray of tea for me after all, Miss Montgomery.”
This time, Hazel did smile. “Of course, my lady.”
Time did not dull the pain of a loss, but sometimes, the caring of others could replace the cold with a flood of life-affirming warmth. It was yet another lesson Hazel had learned since her arrival in England, and it was a good one, she decided, as she rose and headed for the bell pull. It was a lesson she would carry with her in her heart, even when Lark House, Lady Beaufort, and Lucien were nothing but memories.
Later that evening, Lucien and Hazel arrived at their Portman Square destination, the carriage stopping on Baker Street.
“Will you tell me where you are taking me now?” Hazel asked.
Her lilting drawl made heat slide through him. He rather suspected she could recite poetry in Latin and still make his prick go hard, with nothing more than the rasp of her voice and the sweet trill of her accent.
“You will find out soon enough,” he told her, hoping she would like her surprise.
He had never before had an interest in playing the tourist in London, but for Hazel, he was willing to make an exception to his rule. It was a disturbing pattern he had come to recognize. How one woman could suddenly have so much power over him, was a vexing question he would interrogate later. For now, all he wanted to do was please her and make the smile return to her lips.
And kiss her.
And lift her skirts.
And sink home inside her.
But all of those, like the matter of her supremacy over him, would be examined another time. She had been adamant in her refusal of his proposal. She had been fiery at breakfast, prickly through their day of navigating the bombing scene, and then their meeting in Scotland Yard with Winchelsea and others. This evening, she was a different, softer side of Hazel. She had finally relented, at least as much as Hazel Montgomery ever deigned to relent.
He descended from the carriage and offered her his hand, which she promptly ignored, being Hazel. If his driver was laughing at him, Cobb certainly gave no indication. Just as well. Lucien would hate to have to sack the fellow, for then they would be obliged to obtain Hazel’s favorite mode of London transportation, the hired hack.
He had put a great deal of effort into conjuring up the ideal manner in which a gentleman would court an unconventional woman such as Miss H.E. Montgomery. The Waxworks were gauche, it was true. Common also. A haven, no doubt, for garish spectators to spend their hard-earned shillings on a quick distraction. He had it on good authority that the optimal time to attend was under the cover of darkness, when the gas lamps were lit. Perhaps it added to the realism of the whole affair. Perhaps it was merely an ambience.
Either way, he was here. He had brought Hazel here. And he hoped like Hades it wasn’t a misstep on his part. He wanted her to enjoy herself tonight. He offered her his arm to escort her into the building, and thankfully, she at least accepted that much from him. Her head tipped back to observe the structure they were about to enter.
“Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Exhibition,” she read aloud. “How did you know I have been longing to visit?”
“A guess.” He smiled back at her enthusiasm. “You are pleased?”
In truth, Hazel-when-happy was as easy to read as Hazel-when-hungry.
“I am very pleased, Lucien,” she told him warmly.
Christ help him. He was lost for this woman.
He cleared his throat, attempting to gather his composure. “Good. Shall we be on our way?”
“Oh yes!” She clapped her hands together, much like a child who had been given a gift.
Her excitement was infectious, and he found himself grinning like a fool as he paid a shilling for each of them to enter. Hazel argued she wished to pay her own fee. He ignored her. She muttered “damned arrogant lout” beneath her breath. He ignored that as well, as they stepped through a turnstile and approached an attendant, who collected their outerwear and offered them a ticket in return. Another attendant, watching the procession of visitors with a stony glare, turned out to be a wax figure himself, though credibly lifelike in appearance.
“Oh! I thought he was real,” Hazel murmured to him.
She was brimming with happiness, and he reveled in it. Basked in the glow of her as they made their way through the exhibit, wandering past the royal family, where fellow visitors had gathered to coo over the lifelike qualities of the wax assemblage. He had to admit the Duke of Connaught was represented especially well.
“Here,” Hazel said then, sotto voce. “Look at your world.”
“I am not a member of the royal family,” he countered firmly, steering her away from the exhibit.
Devil take it, he had brought her here so she would enjoy herself. So she would focus less upon the disparities between them, and more upon the similitude. He guided them into the Hall of Kings, where most of the wax exhibits looked to be from centuries long gone.
“You are nobility,” she countered at his side, when they stopped before a new exhibit. “Even your chamber pots are fancy.”
Her observation wrung a startled bark of laughter from him.
“I do not think I have ever t
aken note of the chamber pots,” he noted, reflecting on what she had said. “After adding the bathrooms and renovating, one hardly needs to even use them.”
“Not unless one has been encouraged to consume an unthinkable quantity of port by the Duke of Arden,” she said archly. “And one cannot make it to the bathroom in sufficient time to retch.”
Guilt skewered him anew at his behavior. He had been an arse, and he knew it. “I deeply regret the manner in which I treated you upon your arrival, Hazel,” he told her, his tone grave, for he meant every word of his apology. “I was wrong, and I am sorry.”
“I do believe it had Athena depicted on the outside, and it was rimmed with gold.”
It was not what he had expected her to say, and he turned to her askance. “I beg your pardon?”
“The commode,” she elaborated. “It is white porcelain, rimmed with gold, and bears Athena on the outside. Who would bother with such extravagance for an item that is tucked beneath a bed, mostly gathering dust?”
She sounded bewildered, and he wanted to kiss her, but he did not, for they were in public, and there was a startlingly lifelike effigy of William of Normandy staring at them through his highness’s rather lifelike glass eyes.
“I suppose it is old by now. Perhaps even a familial relic,” he teased. “But entirely appropriate, if the goddess depicted on it is indeed Athena.”
She frowned at him. “Appropriate how?”
“You are rather like a warrior goddess yourself,” he admitted, before he could think better of the words.
A charming flush crept into her cheeks, but she smiled shyly and looked away, eyeing poor, stoic William. “Hardly a goddess, though I will admit the warrior has been apt, at times.”
Her shyness charmed him. The more time he spent in her presence, the more he fell beneath her spell. He did not think he could ever find a more intriguing woman. It was not just her beauty and liveliness that drew him to her, it was…everything. Every part of her, each facet, all the nuances. All the wit and wonder, bravery and determination, the intelligence and wiliness, the brashness and the vigor, that comprised Hazel Elizabeth Montgomery.
“A warrior goddess,” he repeated. “You must take me at my word.”
“Must I?” She turned back to him, her brow raised, and the smile on her full, inviting lips would have been coquettish on any other woman. On Hazel, it was natural and artless. Breathtaking.
He was staring at her, mooning over her like a lovesick puppy, and he did not give a good goddamn. There was no one about who knew him, and neither his fellow visitors milling about the wax exhibition nor the eerily still figures themselves held him in thrall. Only she did.
“You must,” he said. “On account of all the instances in which you have astounded me, you must defer to my superior knowledge of the matter.”
Her smile turned wry. “Astounded you, or confounded you?”
“Astounded me.” His voice was gentle. Admiring. Just as he intended it to be. With his eyes, he told her what he did not dare say aloud with so many people about to overhear.
Her expression turned serious, her eyes darkening to a blue so deep, it was almost violet. Or perhaps it was a trick of the gas lamps. He could not be certain. Whatever the effect, he found himself lost in the still pools of those vibrant depths.
“Lucien,” she murmured, half protest, half plea.
“I admire you greatly, Hazel,” he told her unapologetically. “Surely you can see that by now. Surely I have made my esteem known. If I have not, I am a greater lout than I had supposed.”
Her lips twitched. “You can be a lout at times.”
Her observation smarted, even if it was true. Because it was true. But he would not shy away from it. Rather, he would face and acknowledge it, head on. He owed her so many apologies, he realized, he little knew where to begin. “I am sorry for the way we began. I was an utter ass, and I know it. You are incredibly talented, intelligent, and capable, and it has been my honor to work alongside you.”
“Thank you.” She bestowed one of her rare, truly blinding smiles upon him then, as if he had pleased her immeasurably. “It has been my honor to work alongside you as well.”
They were silent for a beat, simply staring at each other, an unspoken agreement passing between them. Gradually, awareness of their surroundings returned to Lucien as he felt the uncompromising stare of William of Normandy upon him. Not far from his side, the equally lifelike wax figure of William II stood, also gazing.
Perhaps in disapproval? How strange to think that a life could be remembered so many centuries after a death, so many vicissitudes of fortune later. What a uniquely human trait that was, the collection of thousands of years of memories. History. At once, a blessing and a curse.
“Have you seen enough of the Hall of Kings?” he asked her.
“I would dearly like to see The Chamber of Horrors,” she said. “After all, you paid an extra six pence for the privilege, did you not?”
He was surprised, she had noticed, but he ought not to have been. Hazel was an observer. She studied the world and people around her, constantly absorbing and learning. What she saw, she used to her advantage, whether in private, or in the midst of an investigation.
“I did,” he acknowledged. “Though I was not certain you would wish to enter a chamber bearing such a grim designation.”
“That is the only reason I wish to enter.” She paused, appearing to think better of her response, before continuing, “Well, that and the prospect of seeing Napoleon’s traveling carriage. Of course, there is also the guillotine. Is it true that it is an actual, working guillotine, used during the French revolution?”
Yes, he decided, he had certainly made the right decision in bringing Hazel here. She was not the sort of woman who could be contained in a drawing room, or content to dance the quadrille. She was the sort of woman who thrilled at the prospect of walking into a chamber hung in black, notorious for its macabre collection.
“There is only one way to truly tell,” he said. “After you, Miss Montgomery.”
Weary after a day of investigations, followed by their impromptu trip to Madame Tussaud’s, Hazel crossed the threshold of her guest chamber at Lark House on a contented yawn. Her evening with Lucien had been surprising. His desire to please her with the visit even more so.
His words returned to her now, making her smile anew. I admire you greatly, Hazel.
She knew the feeling all too well. Because not only did she admire Lucien, but she was beginning to fear she was losing her heart to him. It had happened gradually at first, spurred by his nearness, his kisses and caresses. But this evening, there had been something indefinable in the air. A current of knowledge that what was between them had changed.
Still, she was not prepared for that change. It frightened her, for she knew, regardless of how she felt for him, there could never be a permanent place in his life for someone like her. He had not broached the topic of his proposal again, and she was grateful for it. But he had certainly played the role of suitor well, charming her, making her laugh, escorting her about as if she were a queen on his arm.
She would remember this night and cherish it forever. She would—
Someone had been inside her chamber.
The realization interrupted the wayward bent of her musings. She knew it to her marrow. Years as a seasoned Pinkerton had taught her to have a heightened cognizance of her surroundings. But it was not just the instincts honed as an agent. Her mind liked order. She preferred organization. A clear scheme at all times.
Her writing surface, for instance. Wherever she was, regardless of the case she was investigating, she kept her journal on the left side of her desk, the ink at the right. Newspapers and other resources were stacked tidily at the top, leaving her writing space open and clean.
The disorganization on the writing desk in her guest chamber stood out first. She strode toward it, the hackles on her neck rising. To an impartial observer, nothing would appear out of order
on the immaculately polished surface of the burled walnut desk. But her journal—the gift from Lucien with the handsome, creamy pages upon which she had yet to write a single word—was in the center of her desk. The newspapers depicting descriptions of the railway explosions were on the left. Her pen and ink were two inches out of place.
Someone had been shuffling through her personal effects.
The detective in her spun with questions. All the earlier merriment of the evening fled her. Icy fingers of dread gripped her gut. Who? Why? How?
And, most importantly, what else had that someone been doing?
Carefully, Hazel began a search of the chamber. Her garments were still hung with neat precision in the massive wardrobe. A peek into the adjoining bathroom revealed nothing untoward. Her soaps were laid out, a stack of clean towels awaiting her use.
Whoever had been within her chamber, their purpose had been clear. None of her personal items—not her sparse jewelry collection, not her brush and hairpins, not her stockings and shoes—had been moved or touched. The travel-battered carpetbag she had been carrying with her for years rose to her mind then. Although she had given the bulk of her notes to Lucien, there remained some important information contained within it still. Journals, notes on Emerald Club members, snippets of conversations she had overheard, newspaper clippings, a handful of telegrams she had managed to pilfer, amongst other pertinent documents.
She always kept the satchel beneath her bed, wherever she traveled. Out of the way, not immediately visible to others. Safe. Dread swirling in her gut, she dropped to her knees. In the low light of the gas lamp, she could not readily see through the murk beneath the bed hangings. Blindly, she groped, reaching forward, until her hand connected with an object.
But it was decidedly not the object she had been seeking. Nor was it an object that felt familiar. Her fingertips struck something hard. Wooden, she thought, and not finely fashioned either. Not polished, but rough. A box.
No, she realized as she slid the item from beneath her bed in dawning horror. Good, sweet Lord in heaven. Not a box at all. Her carpetbag had been stolen, and in its place, someone had left a bomb. She had to warn the household. Had to get to Lucien.
Shameless Duke Page 23
