The Aristocrat's Charade: Regency Romance (Brides of London)

by Joyce Alec

  Lord Blackridge shrugged as Peter walked into the room, the dry, musty smell of the room making him wrinkle his nose. “I think, Marchmont, that if you were hit on the head and knocked unconscious, it would not have been done in public. It would have drawn attention, would it not? Therefore, if you can only recall the ball that you attended and nothing more thereafter, then I would suggest that laudanum, or some such thing, was put in your ratafia without you being aware of it.”

  Peter, seeing the sense in this remark, nodded slowly as Lord Blackridge walked into the room behind him. “I do not recall anyone of significance, however,” he replied, his frustration growing steadily. “I cannot even think of who might have put something such as that into my glass of ratafia.” He shook his head and sighed, running one hand through his hair as he wandered to the window, recalling just how painful his head had become when he had pulled the curtain back to reveal the daylight. “Perhaps this entire situation is nothing more than foolish. The proprietor is certain to have cleaned this room since I was in it.”

  Lord Blackridge chortled. “I hardly think so, given the state of this place!” he replied with a chuckle. “The dust lies thickly in certain corners and the mattress does not look particularly clean.”

  Wincing, Peter turned around. “No wonder my mouth felt as though it were filled with dirt when I first awoke,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Although I found myself lying on the floor instead of the mattress, which may, in fact, have been something of a blessing.”

  Another chuckle came from Lord Blackridge, lightening the tension Peter felt somewhat. “Indeed. Although there is a small wooden box here—” he paused. “It does not seem to hold anything of significance.”

  Peter turned sharply, cursing himself under his breath for never once thinking about returning to the boarding house to pick up the wooden box and bring it back with him. Lord Blackridge’s eyes widened as he saw Peter’s immediate response, realizing quickly that this box was the one that had contained the note.

  “It does not appear to have any markings or the like,” Lord Blackridge said hastily, handing the box to Peter. “I fear there is nothing that will catch your eye.”

  Peter swallowed hard and accepted the box from Lord Blackridge’s hand, turning it over and over as though he might be able to find something—anything—if he just looked hard enough. It was fairly small, but appeared to be beautifully made. The hinges did not squeak when the box was opened and the box itself shone with a brilliance that told Peter it had been buffed and smoothed to perfection. It was as though the box itself was unfinished, as though it had been intended for some ornate decoration but had been removed from that purpose by someone unknown. Disappointment seeped into his bones as he saw that what Lord Blackridge had said was correct, for the box seemed to be entirely without embellishment. It had no markings, no carvings, and nothing of note that might give him a clue as to where it had come from. Frustrated, Peter closed his eyes and let the box drop from his hands, hearing it clatter on the floor.

  “Marchmont, look!”

  Lord Blackridge’s voice was filled with a sudden excitement, making Peter turn at once to look down at the broken box. The box was in two separate pieces on the floor, and as Peter dropped to his haunches to look at what Lord Blackridge was pointing at, he saw a distinct mark on one of the pieces.

  “It is an initial, I think,” Lord Blackridge said quickly, gesturing to the black ink mark which had been hidden from Peter’s eyes. “No, two. Look, there. R.H.”

  Peter narrowed his eyes and picked up one half of the box, realizing that the initials had been written on the underside of the top half of the box, where it would join with the lower. The initials were written right next to the hinges, so that they would not be seen unless someone searched for them carefully. Was this the maker’s initials? Was this someone he could find, in the hope that they might be able to tell him who had owned this box?

  “It is something at least,” he breathed, feeling a sudden surge of hope rise in his chest. “R.H.” He frowned. “I do not know any merchant with those initials.”

  “But we can search,” Lord Blackridge said, sounding much more enthusiastic now that they had found something of note. “Take the box with you, Marchmont. It is necessary for what we are to do next.”

  Peter nodded and rose to his feet, picking up both pieces of the box. He cast an eye over the rest of the room, not seeing anything else of significance.

  “I will go over everything,” he said, feeling a good deal more decisive. “Just in case there is something else that has been hidden and is just waiting for me to seek it out. And then, we shall return to Miss Grey and Miss Smallwood and see what it is they have discovered.”

  Lord Blackridge nodded his agreement, although his broad grin told Peter that he was utterly delighted that they had found something. It would have been quite disheartening, Peter knew, to have discovered nothing of consequence. At least, with this box, they would have another trail to follow.

  Some minutes later, Peter and Lord Blackridge walked from the room with a feeling of satisfaction in both their hearts. They had not found anything more, aside from the mark of blood on the floor which Peter knew had been from his head, but the fact that they had found the box and the initials therein brought them both a good deal of happiness.

  “Miss Grey,” Peter smiled, walking towards the lady and seeing that, as he had thought, both she and Miss Smallwood were drinking tea from delicate china cups, whilst Marks, the proprietor, stood a little to one side eyeing them warily. “We have returned.”

  Miss Grey smiled at him, although there was something in her eyes that told him she had something important to tell him. His heart quickened.

  “Might we depart, then, Lord Marchmont?” she enquired, as her friend, Miss Smallwood, rose from her chair. “I am growing quite weary, I confess, and should be glad to return home.”

  “But of course.” He bowed quickly, then offered her his hand which she took without hesitation, rising to her feet as she held his hand for just a moment too long. His mouth went dry.

  “Thank you, Marks.”

  Miss Grey looked away quickly, dropping his hand as though she had realized what she had unintentionally done.

  “I am certain we shall have no need to return,” Peter commented, looking at the proprietor, who was gazing at Miss Grey with a slightly wary eye. “Thank you for your willingness to be of aid. If you will send my bill here, then I shall ensure you are paid fully.” He dropped his card on the table and saw Marks nod, although he did not insist that the money be paid immediately, as Peter had feared. With nothing more to be said, Peter offered Ophelia his arm and within a few moments, the four of them were seated once again in the hackney.

  “I can tell by your expression that you have discovered something of note, Miss Grey,” Peter said at once, seeing the way Miss Grey smiled at him. “Pray, what is it?”

  Miss Grey’s smile was gentle. “It may not give you the answers you seek, Lord Marchmont, but we did discover that the man who brought you here was a gentleman.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Miss Grey threw a quick glance towards Miss Smallwood, who nodded in an encouraging fashion as though Miss Grey needed to be cajoled into speaking the truth.

  “Marks was not completely willing to speak to us initially, but I soon encouraged him to do so,” Miss Grey began, a little slowly. “He stated that he has no knowledge of who it was that brought you here, Lord Marchmont.”

  “Oh.” Peter felt himself sag with disappointment, but Miss Grey, it seemed, was not finished.

  “However,” she continued, holding up one hand to stem any words of disappointment from his lips, “he did state that it was a gentleman who organized everything, for whilst he did not come inside himself, he had multiple footmen who came into the boarding house to do his bidding. One talked to Marks and told him what was required and produced a coin or two in order to secure the attic room without any fur
ther questions—although he did state that the footman said, very clearly, that you yourself would be paying any outstanding debts, Peter.”

  Now a little more interested and feeling a tad more hopeful, Peter leaned forward in his seat so that he would not miss a word. “I do not care about such a trifle.”

  Miss Grey nodded. “Of course.”

  “So, I was brought into the boarding house by the footmen?”

  “You were,” Miss Smallwood said quietly. “You were carried in, Marks said, as though you were completely in your cups and could not stand any longer.”

  “Except he noticed that your head was in something of a state, with what appeared to be a cloth pressed to it,” Miss Grey added with a slight wince. “You must have sustained the injury to your head prior to being taken into the boarding house.”

  Lord Blackridge cleared his throat, looking thoughtful. “Mayhap to ensure that you were completely unconscious and unable to pay any attention to where you were and what was occurring around you.”

  “Mayhap,” Peter agreed, looking back at Miss Grey. “Is there anything else of importance? Whilst I am truly grateful for what you have discovered, it does not give us any further clues as to who has done this.”

  Miss Grey held his gaze for a moment and then let a small smile creep across her face. “Indeed, it would be rather disappointing if there was nothing more,” she stated, whilst Miss Smallwood also began to smile. “But, thankfully, there is one thing more.”

  Peter held his breath, seeing the glint in Miss Grey’s eyes. “Yes?”

  She tugged something from her pocket and handed it to him, making him jerk back in surprise and shock when he saw the blood-stained handkerchief.

  “It is quite dry,” Miss Grey stated, as though this was all that should concern him. “Marks found it in the room once you had departed. It was pressed to your head when you first arrived.”

  A slow, creeping nausea climbed up Peter’s throat. “I see.”

  “Look,” Miss Grey insisted, sounding amused that he was so repulsed by the handkerchief. “It has a name sewn into it, here. ‘Wilson’.”

  “Wilson?” Peter repeated, leaning forward to see where Miss Grey was pointing. “I know no one by that name.”

  Lord Blackridge nodded, looking at the handkerchief also. “It is not a name I am familiar with either.”

  “But it must belong to someone connected to all of this, “Miss Grey insisted, frowning slightly that they had not been as excited as she was over this. “The name must mean something.”

  Frowning, Peter nodded slowly, whilst not taking his eyes off of the handkerchief and the carefully embroidered name. The cloth itself was not particularly fine, which meant that it was probably not one that belonged to a titled gentleman. Most likely, it would belong to one of the staff—the valet or butler, mayhap. Looking up at Miss Grey, he saw her sagging back against the squabs, her disappointment evident.

  “Thank you, Miss Grey,” he said earnestly, not wanting her to think that she had failed in any way, nor that he was not grateful for what she had discovered. “This has been most helpful. I am glad that you were able to discover the truth from Marks, for I fear that should I have continued to question him, he would have remained entirely silent.”

  Miss Smallwood put one hand on Miss Grey’s arm and smiled encouragingly at her, making Peter wish that he, himself, was free to do exactly the same.

  “You did very well, Ophelia,” Miss Smallwood said gently. “The way you convinced Marks to speak was quite wonderful to watch. I do wish that I had your ability to converse in such a firm and decisive manner.”

  Miss Grey looked a little embarrassed and shrugged, although her lips were beginning to curve into a smile. “That is kind of you both to say. I am just sorry we could not find anything more.”

  “This is enough,” he said firmly. “And with the box that Lord Blackridge discovered, we have more clues than before.” Seeing curiosity jump into her features, he spread his hands. “I will speak to you both of it once we have returned to the house. You will see, Miss Grey, that we are not without hope. We will discover the truth in the end, I have no doubt of it.”

  Miss Grey looked back at him, doubt flickering in her green eyes, and Peter found himself almost desperate to have her believe that he was speaking the truth, that she had no need to fear that they would not succeed. His heart jumped quietly in his chest when she nodded, and he reached forward to touch his hand with hers for just a moment.

  “Thank you, Lord Marchmont,” she replied, squeezing his fingers gently. “More than anything, I wish to see this burden removed from you, to see it taken from you entirely. That is all I wish for. To see you free.”

  Her hand let go of his as she sat back. Peter swallowed hard, trying to find something to say in response but finding that his whole being had suddenly flared with heat and that his heart was thumping furiously within him. Choosing not to stumble or stammer over his words, he looked out of the hackney window, feeling truly grateful for Miss Grey. To have his ‘freedom’, as she had put it, would be to leave Miss Grey behind, to free her from their courtship again and to set himself apart from her. Initially, he had been filled with determination over that particular matter, but now, as the hackney drove through London and Peter sat across from Miss Grey, he found that desire to be parted from her slowly beginning to fade, leaving him greatly confused.

  How foolish it would be to find himself holding some sort of affection for the one lady he had been trying to separate himself from. Surely it could not be that his heart was beginning to soften towards her. No, he could not allow that to occur.

  And yet, as he glanced across the carriage and took in her countenance for a moment, Peter knew that he was not as unaffected by her as he wanted to believe. There was more than admiration in his heart for Miss Grey. It had come upon him rather swiftly and now that he was aware of it, Peter did not know what he was to do.

  It was most disconcerting indeed.

  10

  Ophelia looked at her reflection in the mirror, tilting her head slightly so that she might see the way her curls ran down to her shoulders from where they had been pinned in place. Her maid had spent a good deal of time on such an arrangement and Ophelia was more than pleased with the result. Seed pearls had been pressed into her hair, catching the light whenever she moved. All in all, it was both an elegant and a beautiful presentation.

  “You have done very well,” Ophelia murmured, getting to her feet and turning around to smile at her maid. “I thank you. Now for my gown and then I believe I shall be quite prepared.”

  The maid blushed a little and hurried to get Ophelia the gown she had chosen for this evening. It was a delicate shade of turquoise, not overly dark, with a cream satin ribbon tied at her waist. Her feet were already encased in soft slippers and she would take her shawl with her so that the cool night air would not nip at her arms. Stepping into the gown, she waited until the maid had finished tying it before she allowed herself a look in the full-length mirror. One or two final touches—perhaps a necklace and earbobs—and she would be quite prepared.

  She hoped Lord Marchmont would appreciate it.

  The thought brought her up short, her eyes flaring with sudden shock. Had she truly just been considering Lord Marchmont? Had her thoughts just turned towards him as though he were the sole object of her intentions? Her cheeks flushed with color as she closed her eyes tightly, as though in doing so, all thoughts of him would rush from her. Instead, they only intensified.

  Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Ophelia opened her eyes and let out her breath slowly, trying to calm herself somewhat. Her acquaintance with Lord Marchmont was growing, yes, but that did not mean that she ought to feel anything other than friendship towards him. To have any more than that was certain to bring about a good deal of difficulty.

  “Are you quite all right, my lady?”

  Ophelia turned swiftly and nodded to her maid, knowing that her color remained heigh
tened. “I am perfectly well, I thank you,” she lied. “You may retire for the night. I do not intend to return home early and can quite easily retire without your help.”

  The maid beamed at this, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried from the room just as Lady Sharrow approached. Her eyes ran over Ophelia’s new gown and she smiled her approval as she lingered in the doorway.

  “I was just about to come in search of you,” Lady Sharrow said with a warm expression. “You look quite lovely, Ophelia. Are you prepared? Lord Marchmont has not yet arrived but I would not wish to be tardy.”

  Just as she said this, there came the sound of hurrying feet and Lady Sharrow looked over her shoulder. Murmuring something to the servant that had approached, she then looked back at Ophelia.

  “Lord Marchmont has just arrived,” she said, her tone now a little urgent. “Do come quickly, Ophelia. You are prepared, are you not?”

  Ophelia nodded, hating the streak of nerves that ran up her spine as she hurried from the room after her aunt. She had no need to feel like this, no need to be anxious about Lord Marchmont’s arrival, and yet she felt as though her stomach were filled with butterflies, all beating their wings at a frantic pace.

  “Oh!”

  Lady Sharrow stopped dead, making Ophelia come to a stumbling stop.

  “I quite forgot that I wished to wear my pearls this evening,” Lady Sharrow said, one hand pressed against her throat as though they might be there. “I shall only be a few minutes, Ophelia. Do go and greet Lord Marchmont.”

  A frown dug into Ophelia’s brow, seeing the gleam in her aunt’s eye and wondering if this had been done deliberately. “I do not think that would be proper, Aunt.”

  “Nonsense!” Lady Sharrow protested, gesturing for Ophelia to continue towards the drawing room alone. “As I said, I shall be but a few minutes.”