The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  Unsure what to say in reply, Stacie inclined her head and was glad when the maid reappeared with the tea tray and the delicate moment was at an end.

  Over the teacups, Lady Halbertson inquired as to Stacie’s plans for future musical events. Perhaps unsurprisingly, her ladyship displayed a genuine interest, and as she inhabited a position of knowing music well enough to appreciate it yet wasn’t any sort of aficionado, she proved an excellent sounding board for Stacie’s ideas of how to develop her evenings.

  They were soon on first-name terms, and when she heard the distant squeak of a violin, Stacie caught the hopeful glint in Frances’s eyes and asked whether Connor might be persuaded to play for her.

  Connor was duly summoned, and the question put to him; like many a confident nine-year-old possessed of a loving and encouraging mama, he was very ready to demonstrate his skills.

  When he finished and bowed, Stacie clapped as loudly as his mama.

  After Connor left the room, she answered the question in Frances’s eyes. “He definitely has the vital spark. I can see why Frederick supports him.”

  They continued to chat, mostly about music, but also touching on other ton matters. By the time Stacie rose and touched fingers with Frances—and both agreed that while it might be inappropriate for Frances to call at Albury House, there was no reason Stacie couldn’t confound any busybodies and call in Farm Street—Stacie was convinced that Frances wasn’t in any way connected to the attacks in Surrey. Aside from entirely lacking in duplicity, let alone malevolence, Frances had revealed via various comments that she thought Brampton Hall lay north of Farnham rather than south of Guildford, and Stacie was quite sure Frances hadn’t been lying.

  Once back in the Albury carriage, Stacie directed the coachman to drive on to Raventhorne House. Leaning back against the well-padded seat, she smiled. She’d enjoyed a much more pleasant afternoon than she’d anticipated and had made a new friend in the process.

  Because of her mother, she’d never had true friends—no close girlhood companions. Other parents hadn’t wanted to chance their daughters’ reputations by allowing them to associate with the household of a lady, no matter how high-born, who lived her life poised on the brink of major scandal.

  Yet Stacie’s years under her mother’s wing had left her with well-honed skills that allowed her to feel utterly confident that she’d read Frances and her feelings accurately.

  “But Mama is long gone, and now, I’m in charge of my life, and the attacks aside, I’m really very pleased with the way that life is evolving.”

  That realization had come to her in Frances Halbertson’s drawing room. Her life now was one she actively wanted, and she would do whatever was necessary to cling to what she now had.

  The next morning, Frederick and Stacie renewed their habit of riding out early and enjoying a good gallop down Rotten Row.

  Reveling in the exhilaration, they reached the Kensington end of the tan and, smiling, side by side, wheeled right, toward the trees.

  A shot rang out. Grass erupted between their horses as a ball plowed into the turf.

  Both horses reared; his heart in his mouth, Frederick ruthlessly brought his gray’s hooves thudding down and, to his immense relief, saw Stacie wrestle her mare back under control, too.

  Her eyes, huge, met his.

  “Go!” Forcefully, he waved her past him. “Ride!”

  She dug in her heels and did. He wheeled behind her, putting his horse and body between her and where he thought the gunman had been, and rode hard after her.

  They both stayed low, quickly putting distance between the gunman and themselves.

  A group of three riders who had followed them down the tan stared as they thundered past on the grass. Frederick didn’t bother warning the trio; they weren’t in any danger, but Stacie was.

  She slowed as she reached the more populated area toward the beginning of Rotten Row. He caught up with her and glanced back at the now-distant trees and decided it was safe enough to slow to a canter.

  When, her face pale, she looked questioningly at him, he nodded grimly ahead. “Home.”

  There was nothing he could do—or could have done—to identify much less catch the shooter, who would, doubtless, be long gone by now. And regardless of the reason behind the attacks, he was perfectly certain he and Stacie didn’t need the ton’s attention rabidly refocused on them.

  They cantered to the Grosvenor Gate, then walked their horses across Park Lane and into Upper Grosvenor Street. After drawing rein before the steps of Albury House, Frederick dismounted, handed his reins to his waiting groom, and went to lift Stacie down. She’d largely recovered her outward composure, but as he closed his hands about her waist, he felt how tense she was—felt the faint tremors that continued to course through her.

  He set her on her feet and firmly clasped his hand about one of hers. He glanced at the grooms holding both horses’ reins. “We won’t need the horses again today.” Then he urged Stacie up the steps and into the safety of the house.

  Even with the door closed and all threats held at bay, the clamor of his emotions didn’t noticeably ease. Struggling to rein in his rising temper, he followed Stacie into his study. She’d apparently chosen the room without thought, but in this house, it was an excellent place to seek refuge; his mother and Emily rarely came there.

  Stacie walked to the wide windows overlooking the side courtyard and halted before them. She crossed her arms, hugged her elbows, and looked out, he assumed unseeingly.

  He closed the door and, more slowly, walked across to halt by her side. He’d organized to have men trail her in a protective capacity if she left the house alone, but it hadn’t occurred to him to have guards following while she was with him and they were riding. “I’m sorry—that must have been frightening.”

  She glanced at him—frowned at him. “It was hardly your fault.”

  He didn’t reply. Something inside him insisted that it was his fault, that it was his duty to keep her safe regardless of how random or unpredictable the attack.

  She made a disbelieving sound. “You may be a nobleman and used to getting your own way in everything, but you can’t control”—she gestured toward the park—“men hiding in bushes with pistols!”

  He studied her and realized there was a flush in her cheeks and her eyes glittered. “You’re angry.”

  “Of course, I’m angry! I was enjoying a ride with my husband, and they ruined it! I’m furious! How dare they shoot at us?”

  That was precisely how he felt; she’d managed to put his rage into words while he was still grappling with the fury itself. He stood ramrod straight beside her, his hands tightly clasped behind his back, and battled the urge to pace like a madman—he who never paced. He didn’t feel like himself—like the self he knew—yet this was him as he now was, now that he’d fallen in love with her and she’d come under attack yet again.

  Each time, the effect grew worse—stronger, more powerful, harder to contain and restrain.

  He wanted to pace and rage about the room, but the target he wanted to vent his temper on wasn’t there.

  She gave vent to an angry, frustrated sound, released her elbows, swung around, and paced down the room. She flung up her hands. “There has to be something we can do.” She turned, kicked the heavy skirts of her riding habit around, and came storming back toward him. “Someone is doing this.” She met his eyes as she halted. “Who?”

  When he didn’t immediately answer, she swung violently around and paced away again, then turned—viciously kicking her skirts again—and with her lips and chin set and fire in her eyes, came striding back to him.

  Having her pace—watching her temper play out—was oddly soothing, almost as if, through watching her, his temper found release, too.

  Release enough for the ability to think to return.

  He frowned and finally offered, “I can’t think why anyone would be doing this—attacking you like this.”

  “Not me—you.” She hal
ted beside him and jabbed a finger into his upper arm. “It’s much more likely that it’s you who’s the target, and I just happened to be there. And before you argue”—she jabbed his arm again—“I’m not the one who owns things other people want.”

  He wrapped a hand about hers before she could jab him again.

  “And”—she determinedly wagged the index finger of her other hand in his face—“before you say I hold the position of your marchioness, which, admittedly, other ladies want, I really can’t see any lady hiring a thug to do away with me in order to step into my shoes. The only lady who might even be said to have cause is Frances, and she wouldn’t—she’s not like that.”

  “Frances Halbertson?” He nearly goggled. “Good God, no.”

  “Exactly. So I think we should accept that all these attacks are directed at you, and I was merely an innocent bystander.” She’d released most of her frenetic, fright-induced energy; she drew in a breath and, her gaze steadying on his, asked, “So who might be behind attacks on you?”

  He stared into her eyes and mentally reviewed the few who, at a very long stretch, might fall into that category. Eventually, he slowly shook his head. “I’m finding it difficult to imagine anyone I know as being the villain behind these attacks. However…”

  When he frowned and didn’t continue, she prompted, “Yes?”

  Jaw setting, he refocused on her face. “There’s someone—someone I can’t imagine is behind this—but who I believe I need to eliminate as a possibility.”

  While she remained at risk—and no matter what she said or who the intended target truly was, she’d consistently been threatened by the attacks—then he couldn’t sit on his hands and leave any potential avenue unexplored.

  She searched his eyes, then nodded. “We need to follow every possible lead, even if it’s only to eliminate someone as a suspect.”

  He didn’t point out that, currently, they had no real suspects at all.

  When, in clear demand, she arched her brows at him, he replied, “It’s Brougham. I can’t believe he would ever stoop to this—I’ve always thought him a sound man. Priggish and stiff, maybe, but at base, a staunchly honorable gentleman. Against that, he must be spitting chips over that recent auction and losing the book to me—and he was at the meeting yesterday, so he knows I’m back in town.”

  Her eyes widened, and he saw realization dawn.

  “Other than this household,” she said, “we didn’t tell anyone we were coming back. We didn’t announce it, and other than your meeting and my visits yesterday, which were private and to people who wouldn’t bruit the news abroad, until this morning, we haven’t been seen in public.”

  He nodded. “Whoever sent someone with a pistol to hide in the woodland near the end of Rotten Row knew we were back in town.”

  “And that, when in town, riding early in the morning is a long-standing habit of yours.”

  “Indeed. Which is why”—he turned toward the door—“I’m going to Hampstead to have a word with Brougham.”

  She looped her arm with his and turned to walk with him. “After breakfast.”

  He slowed as he realized they hadn’t yet broken their fast. “Ah—yes.”

  “And of course, I’ll accompany you.”

  He weighed the pros and cons of that as they walked to the breakfast parlor. By the time they’d helped themselves from the sideboard, and he’d seated her and sunk into his chair, he’d decided that, all in all, taking her with him was a sound idea.

  Given Lady Brougham would likely be at home, Stacie’s presence might be helpful, but more importantly, having her with him—within arm’s reach—would allow him to focus on the matter at hand without being distracted by his otherwise apparently inescapable concern over whether she was safe. Whether she was well and happy and, most important of all, still his.

  No one had ever told him that love could be so discombobulating.

  Stacie sat beside Frederick on the box seat of his curricle during the unexpectedly pleasant drive to Hampstead. Just beyond the village, they came to a neat redbrick house set back from the road behind a high stone wall. The gates flanking the gravel drive stood propped wide; Frederick turned his curricle through, and they rolled around the curved drive to the steps that led up to a narrow, pillared porch.

  Stacie drew in a long breath. Her principal purpose in accompanying Frederick was, first, to bear witness as to what transpired and whatever might be revealed and, secondly, to ensure his safety, whatever that might entail. She was starting to feel distinctly protective of him in what she mentally termed a lioness-like way; she’d originally used the term to describe Mary’s fierce protectiveness of Ryder, but apparently, the reaction wasn’t peculiar to her sister-in-law.

  Frederick drew his horses to a halt before Brougham’s front steps. He hadn’t previously visited Brougham at home. The house was substantial, in excellent repair, and painstakingly neat, the flower beds regimented even to the colors of the plants growing in them and the drive edged with bricks to prevent the thick, manicured lawn from creating a raggedy edge.

  Every element his gaze lit upon spoke of quiet prosperity; Brougham had inherited a tidy estate from his father, more from a doting aunt, and had, as common parlance put it, married well to boot. While with his house, Brougham’s outward show of wealth was restrained, when it came to his purchases of rare books, he was significantly less reserved.

  Frederick stepped down to the gravel as a groom came running from around the house. Frederick hadn’t brought Timson, knowing that during the drive, he and Stacie were likely to mention sensitive subjects and would want privacy.

  Brougham’s groom slowed, his eyes widening as they took in the magnificence of Frederick’s matched bays, then the lad hurried forward to take the reins.

  Frederick handed them over. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be—perhaps you’d better take them to the stable.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  Frederick rounded the carriage and handed Stacie down. She’d changed her peacock-blue riding habit for a walking dress in a rich shade of garnet, combined with a bonnet with satin ribbons of the same hue.

  Together, arm in arm, they climbed the steps, and Frederick pulled the bell chain.

  Seconds later, a little maid opened the door. Her eyes widened, and she instinctively bobbed. “Yes, sir?”

  Frederick handed her one of his calling cards. “Lord Albury and Lady Albury to see Lord Brougham.”

  The maid stared at the embossed card with its coat of arms, blinked up at them, then stood back and waved them inside. “If you’ll wait in the drawing room, my lord, my lady, I’ll see if the master is receiving.”

  The maid showed them into a scrupulously neat drawing room. Stacie drew her arm from his and crossed to sit on the chaise. Frederick followed, but rather than sit, remained standing beside her.

  Brougham didn’t keep them waiting. He walked in, Frederick’s card in his hand, with a faintly intrigued expression on his face and a question in his eyes. “Albury?” Then he saw Stacie and, if it were possible, pokered up even more. He bowed. “Lady Albury—a pleasure.”

  Stacie rose and held out her hand. “Likewise, my lord.” As Brougham advanced and very properly shook her hand, she continued, “When my husband said he intended to visit you, I couldn’t not come.” As if on cue, Lady Brougham followed her husband into the room, and Stacie switched her smile to her ladyship. “I do hope you’ll forgive us for calling like this, out of the blue.”

  Lady Brougham’s pleasure appeared genuine as she declared, “On the contrary, we’re delighted to receive you.” Her ladyship and Frederick exchanged greetings, and she touched fingers with Stacie, then waved at the chaise and armchairs. “Please, sit.”

  Stacie sank back onto the chaise, and Lady Brougham joined her. Frederick moved to take one of the armchairs facing the ladies as Brougham moved to claim its mate.

  Deciding to take the bull by the horns, Frederick fixed his gaze on Brougham. “I’m h
ere about the volume on ancient Egyptian music I recently acquired.”

  Brougham pulled a face. “Indeed. I had hoped to acquire it for Kings’ library—quite obviously the subject matter intersects with my area of expertise—but I admit”—he tipped his head to Frederick—“that I can see how the book also has relevance to your area of study.”

  Frederick hadn’t expected such an amenable reception or such an immediate opening, but he decided to seize it and risk his hand; Brougham had never been good at pulling off even the most minor deception. “Your interest in and knowledge of the volume is, in part, why we are here. Since the day I took possession of the tome, her ladyship and I have been the subject of a spate of attacks. First, we had a burglar who broke into Brampton Hall in the dead of night, and whom her ladyship inadvertently disturbed—he left those bruises you can see about her neck.” Stacie drew aside the gauzy scarf she’d looped about her throat; the marks were fading, but still stood out against her pale skin.

  The horror on Brougham’s face and his wife’s as well told Frederick all he needed to know regarding any association with the attacks. “Subsequently,” he went on, “when driving the gig on a track on the estate, we came upon rocks strewn across the way—the gig was wrecked, but luckily, we escaped unscathed.”

  Both Broughams turned to stare at him, astonished and transparently aghast.

  “Then this morning, on our early-morning ride in the park, some blighter shot at us.”

  “Good Lord!” After an instant more of staring at him, Brougham shifted forward and earnestly asked, “Have you notified the authorities? What did they say?”

  Frederick grimaced. “I haven’t brought any of this to their attention as yet. We have nothing to offer by way of evidence as to who it might be—or even a certain motive for the attacks.”