Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  “Shush!” Miss Lovelace warned Lady Falonwick. She wrapped her arms about the girl’s shoulders. “Can you not see Lady Arcane is in pain? Mr. Strasser, have someone carry the lady to her quarters.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Hunt smiled at how his father’s servants did not question Miss Lovelace’s commands. “Send for Roddick also, Strasser.”

  The butler moved quickly away while Lady Arcane returned to the urn.

  “Tell me.” Miss Lovelace dampened her handkerchief in a bowl filled with water and flower petals and held the cloth to the lady’s cheeks. “Did you feel poorly earlier?”

  Without raising her gaze, Lady Arcane shook her head in denial. “I played charades with the others in the drawing room before changing for supper.”

  Miss Lovelace’s expression tightened. “Lady Falonwick, why do you not see that your daughter’s room is prepared? Ring for Lady Arcane’s maid.”

  “You will not leave her?” the girl’s mother asked.

  “Lord Malvern and I will remain by Lady Arcane’s side until everything is prepared for her,” Angelica promised.

  Lady Falonwick nodded curtly before rushing up the steps. With the exit of the girl’s mother, Angelica edged Lady Arcane onto a small bench. The girl remained doubled over in obvious pain.

  “In addition to the pain and the nausea, do you possess other symptoms?” Angel inquired quietly.

  Lady Arcane wiped her cheeks with the damp handkerchief. “Faint. Very faint. Stomach pains. Terrible headache. Very thirsty.”

  Angel knelt before her and held Lady Arcane’s hands. “Were any of these symptoms present before the evening meal?”

  “You cannot think—” Hunt protested, but Angel waved his objections away.

  “No.” The girl sounded breathy, and she retched with dry heaves.

  Strasser returned with a footman.

  “Permit the duke’s man to assist you,” Angel told the girl. “Mr. Roddick will arrive soon.” She ignored Hunt’s growing ire. “Mr. Strasser, please ask Devilfoard and Lord Remmington to step into the hall.”

  The butler shot a questioning glance to Hunt, but did as the lady asked.

  “What is amiss?” Hunt required.

  She caught his arm and urged him away from the now open door. “I believe someone has poisoned Lady Arcane,” she whispered.

  “Have you bats in the belfry?” he demanded.

  “You—” she began, but Remmington and his father appeared before she could finish.

  However, Hunt noted how Angelica’s hands fisted at her waist. If not for the presence of the others, Hunt knew he would have known the lash of her tongue.

  More irritating was how Remmington possessively caught her hand. “What service do you require?” the earl asked.

  It was deuced frustrating that Remmington proved himself more worthy by not questioning Miss Lovelace’s high handedness. Ignoring Hunt, she turned to the two men awaiting her insights. “Lady Arcane displays all the signs of gastric fever. I am thinking arsenic. I have seen the effects of arsenic previously.”

  “Arsenic?” his father demanded. “How would Lady Arcane consume something we only use for rats?”

  “The meal,” Miss Lovelace pronounced.

  Remmington caught her other hand. The earl spoke with quiet reason. “If it is as you believe, my dear, then how is it no one else knows the same symptoms as Lady Arcane?”

  For the first time since they entered the hall, Angelica appeared uncertain. Although he did not agree with her analysis, Hunt did not approve of Angelica’s self-doubts. Other than his mother and his twin, he knew few who could compare to her in intelligence.

  “Perhaps the tainted food was only meant for Lady Arcane,” she suggested timidly.

  The earl reasoned, saying the words ready upon Hunt’s lips. “I cannot imagine Lady Arcane has an enemy among His Grace’s guests. She is quite amiable.”

  “She most certainly does not!” the duke declared.

  “There must be an explanation,” Angelica implored. “Who served Lady Arcane? Whose seat did Lady Arcane assume at the table? Perhaps Lady Arcane was not the intended victim. Please, my lord, I am not one for dramatics, but my instincts scream for attention.”

  Remmington kissed her gloved knuckles. “I recognize your customary sensibilities. If you believe as such, then so do I. Who am I to ignore the female intuition?” he asked. “Devilfoard, might Mr. Strasser remove the place card before Lady Arcane’s setting— the one prepared by the duchess—and then identify which footman served the lady’s meal?”

  “Your request is highly unusual,” Devilfoard observed, but he motioned Strasser to do as Lord Remmington requested.

  They stood in quiet anxiousness until Strasser’s return.

  “Here is the card, Your Grace. I will call at the kitchen to locate the server. I assume you wish to speak to him.”

  “That would be wise,” Devilfoard instructed. He turned the card over, frowning as he read the name before he handed the card to Remmington.

  “Lord Newsome,” the earl announced.

  “Newsome? Again?” Hunt whispered.

  “This makes little sense,” Remmington concluded. “I am not fond of the viscount, but I know nothing of the man which would engender being poisoned.”

  “Perhaps it is time we ask the viscount to join us, and for the time being, this stays among us,” the duke suggested. “No one else is to know what we suspect.”

  “Devilfoard?” They turned to discover the duchess at the door. “You should see this.”

  Hunt and the others followed the duke into the dining room. At the room’s head, Strasser and several of the footmen assisted the women from the room through the servant’s entrance while at the foot, Lords McIntyre and Watkinson “reasoned” with an agitated Lord Newsome.

  “Easy,” the duchess cautioned as the duke and Hunt edged closer.

  “Duchess, you and Miss Lovelace should wait in the hall,” Remmington whispered.

  Hunt did not turn. He knew the earl would protect the ladies.

  “I swear it is nothing but my cane,” Watkinson reasoned. “There are no snakes in the duke’s dining room.”

  “But there are!” Newsome bellowed. “Why can you not see them? They are crawling across the table!” The viscount waved a gun about as if he meant to shoot one of the imaginary reptiles.

  Harry stepped behind Hunt. “Newsome claims Bedlam,” he whispered. “Threw a glass of water upon Lady Stinler. Thought the woman’s hair was on fire.”

  “Stay back,” Hunt cautioned.

  He withdrew the Lady Anne’s pistol he had placed in an inside pocket after today’s incident in the garden. He noted his father did the same.

  “Good man, Newsome,” his father announced. “Perhaps we should seek out the rotters and a few of the games men to set traps for the vipers.”

  The duke edged closer, as Hunt kept his gun upon the viscount. He never thought to shoot another person, but he would not permit Newsome to harm his father.

  “There are so many of them!” Newsome protested.

  “That fact will make it easier for my men to capture them. They cannot hide upon a white cloth,” the duke reasoned.

  Newsome’s eyes darted about the room as if searching for more invaders. “Do they not frighten you?”

  Devilfoard touched a fork abandoned upon the table.

  “Certainly not.” The duke permitted his finger to run along the silver plate finish. “I tamed these. Come touch them.” His father gestured to the men standing about the table. “We must prove no harm will come to us. Lord Newsome must realize a gun is not necessary.” Self-consciously, several of the men mimicked Devilfoard’s actions, stroking the metal. “Come now,” the duke encouraged. “Place your gun upon the table, Newsome. I will not permit my pets to bring you harm.”

  Although he concentrated on keeping Lord Newsome in his sights and within range, Hunt was painfully aware the duke acted with magnificent calm, completely
in control. Hunt marveled at the many facets of his father.

  Lord Newsome shivered. “I think not.”

  “Yet, I insist you put your weapon away. If you will do so, I will ask my men to remove the snakes.”

  Newsome scowled. “Should I not stand guard?”

  “But your actions frighten the ladies. A gentleman never brings disconcertion to a lady.”

  Hunt admired how unruffled his father appeared, while moving ever closer to Lord Newsome.

  At length, the duke caught the viscount’s pistol hand. “Give me the gun, Newsome,” he instructed. “Do not forget I am a duke and hold more sway than does a viscount.”

  For several elongated seconds, the viscount resisted, but with a curt nod Newsome released his grip on the gun.

  A collective sigh of relief filled the room, and Hunt lowered his arm to lean against the wall. His energies depleted, he clung to the molding strip for support.

  His father’s voice obliterated the buzz of uneasiness. “Lord Remmington. Sir Alexander. Might I prevail upon you to escort Lord Newsome to his quarters?”

  Hunt looked up to observe the viscount’s crumpled-over form. Newsome appeared as exhausted as was he.

  Remmington pushed past Hunt to capture one of Newsome’s arms while the baronet caught the other.

  “Let us discover some place safe, my lord,” Sir Alexander suggested in a composed voice. “I hold no fondness for snakes either.”

  Newsome nodded and permitted the two men to lead him away.

  “Are you well?” Angelica appeared at Hunt’s side. Such concern rested in her eyes that they reminded him of her anxiousness when they dwelt under the Wendts’ roof. It was all he could do not to gather her close.

  He chuckled self-consciously. “My knees feel as if I jumped from a great height, but otherwise, I profess health.”

  “You were very brave,” she declared.

  Hunt shook his head in denial. “Not half as brave as was my father.” He looked up to see his mother slip into the duke’s one-armed embrace. “Perhaps when I claim the dukedom, I will be judged a measure of Hamilton McLaughlin’s greatness. However, at the moment, I feel quite inadequate, and the prospect I must achieve a like sense of purpose frightens me beyond explanation.”

  Angelica glanced around to assure their privacy in a room full of people. “I cannot imagine your angst, but for what it is worth, I believe you will be a magnificent duke. The fact you question your ability speaks to your desire to succeed. Someday I shall be proud to say one of my dearest friends is Huntington McLaughlin, the Duke of Devilfoard.”

  * * *

  Mr. Roddick pronounced Angelica’s diagnosis correct. Lady Arcane ingested an unknown amount of arsenic. The surgeon praised Angelica’s quick response. Fortunately, the man thought the girl would survive, but Lady Arcane could suffer some after effects. Roddick prescribed a diet heavy with meats and vegetables, but with no sauces, as well as lots of milk to absorb the ingested metal before it settled in Lady Arcane’s liver. Hunt did not want to think on the possibilities of the girl’s future. Hopefully, this incident would not affect her ability to bear her future husband an heir.

  “How could this happen at my table?” the duke growled as the family gathered in his study to discuss the best means to address the chaos to their guests. Sir Alexander and Lord Remmington had joined them at Devilfoard’s request.

  “Could Lady Arcane have had an affair with one of Falonwick’s servants?” Etta asked. “Could the man have sought revenge and joined the duchess’s staff?”

  “I love your creative conjectures, Henrietta, but we are not writing one of your Minerva Press novels,” the duchess scolded. “As you are well aware, at Devil’s Keep, each footman is assigned a certain number of guests prior to the seating. Therefore, it is not likely Lady Arcane could be a target. It is more likely someone in the kitchen added the arsenic than did a footman.”

  “How so, Duchess?” the duke inquired.

  Although Angelica had made similar conjectures before the spectacle of Newsome’s hallucinations drew them away, Hunt thought it fascinating how his father valued the duchess’s opinion. It was another lesson Hunt suspected he would not have noticed if he held past memories of his parents arguing over something insignificant. Without those experiences to color his opinions, he saw his parents in a different light, and he found these new memories most satisfying.

  “Generally,” his mother explained, “each tray is loaded in the kitchen. Once the footman reaches the dining area, he places the plated dishes upon the table in a routine manner so he might keep the tray balanced. Let us say, the footman was assigned to attend to the needs of eight guests and Lady Arcane is the fifth of those eight, he would serve the girl the fifth soup bowl upon the tray. That fifth bowl would be in the same position on each tray brought to the dining room.”

  “Really?” The duke’s eyebrow rose in admiration. “I held no idea.”

  “Of course you did not,” the duchess chastised good-naturedly. “Men never realize the minute details we women manage.”

  “That would explain how Lady Arcane received the poison meant for that particular place setting, the one meant for Lord Newsome,” Hunt summarized.

  “In addition to the footman, we must also question those assisting Mrs. Brady in the kitchen,” his father declared. “Duchess, I assume you can provide us with the names of those hired specifically for this party.”

  “The housekeeper has the names of all involved. Most are young men and women from the village,” the duchess explained.

  The duke directed his next question to Remmington and Sir Alexander. “What of Newsome’s absurd behavior?”

  “Roddick believes someone added laudanum to the viscount’s private stock of brandy,” the baronet explained. “The opiate caused the delusional response. Newsome’s man says the viscount rarely has more than one drink during the day and never more than two after supper. The valet claims the viscount thinks too much drink affects his ability to shoot and to play cards.”

  Sir Alexander shot a knowing glance at Hunt, and Hunt thought of the vowels, promises of payment of debt, he held from the viscount. Had Newsome drunk heavily when he gambled with Hunt?

  “Can any of us imagine how Newsome would react if he ingested the poison Lady Arcane consumed?” Harry speculated.

  “Likely the viscount would not have recognized his symptoms as quickly as did Lady Arcane,” Remmington noted. “In all probability, Newsome would have retired early to sleep away the painful effects of the poison while under the influence of laudanum.

  Even if the viscount relieved himself of the food, Lord Newsome could have choked to death upon his own stomach’s contents.”

  “How bizarre!” Etta exclaimed. “But why? What could Lord Newsome have done to earn such an enemy?”

  Hunt shot a speculative glance at his friends, but neither Sir Alexander nor Remmington displayed any knowledge of their interest in Newsome.

  “You mean other than to tell one too many hunting tales?” Harry asked with a nervous chuckle.

  Ignoring his youngest son’s remark, the duke instructed, “Sir Alexander, I expect you to discover what occurred. Call in as many men as you require. I will stand the cost. I cannot have my wife’s guests dropping dead from white soup. No one ever departed Devil’s Keep in worse condition than when he arrived.”

  “Not true,” Etta observed. “Lady Sandahl has taken ill since arriving in Warwickshire.”

  Hunt looked upon his friends. “Could there be a connection to the Countess of Sandahl’s taking poorly and Lord Newsome?”

  “Not of which I am aware,” Sir Alexander admitted. “I have observed their conversing at various entertainments, but there is no gossip regarding the two. Yet, theirs would not be the first forbidden relationship in their histories. Newsome calls upon Lady Draper, as well as Lady Ryder. We all know how Lady Sandahl managed to trap Sandahl into marriage.”

  “How do we discover who prepares Lady Sand
ahl’s meals?” Hunt mused. “Could someone be providing Sandahl’s countess smaller doses of what Lady Arcane consumed? Are the countess’s symptoms similar to those of Lady Arcane?”

  The duchess’s mouth screwed up in frustration. “Lady Sandahl complained of dizziness and nausea prior to her accompanying the earl to Oxfordshire. Since the countess pronounced herself ill, Lady Sandahl has taken her meals in her quarters.”

  Remmington ticked off the probabilities upon his fingers. “That would eliminate all suspects except the countess’s maid, her daughter Lady Mathild, and the Earl of Sandahl.”

  Sir Alexander scowled. “I despise puzzle pieces which do not quite fit the frame. Malvern. Remmington. Come with me. We have plans to make.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was two of the clock when he slipped into her room. Hunt had told himself he meant only to advise her of Lady Arcane’s prognosis, but a certain part of his anatomy held ideas of long pleasurable nights spent with the delectable Miss Lovelace beneath him. He crossed the room on silent feet to perch on the edge of her bed.

  “Angelica,” he whispered close to her ear. “Wake for me.”

  “Lucifer?”

  She struggled to shake the sleep from her mind. She stretched her arms above her head, and Hunt watched her breasts lift to push against the thin muslin of her night rail.

  The warm scent of her filled his senses with desire.

  “That name again.” He chuckled. “Do you dream of your mystery man every night?” He leaned closer to brush his lips across her cheek. “Would a future duke with Devil as part of his name do as well as your Lucifer?”

  “My lord!” Her eyes sprang open, and the flash of longing faded. She clutched at her bedding.

  “Come now, Angel. It is not as if we have not met as such previously.” He urged her hand from the blanket. “I did not come for a seduction.” Hunt said the required words, but his manhood clung to the hopes of knowing her sweetness.

  * * *

  Angel experienced a prick of annoyance at his chastisement. “Just because we shared private moments does not mean I wish to continue them.” Her body screamed for Lord Malvern’s closeness, but she reminded her heart that no future existed with the duke’s heir. A titled lady would become Lord Malvern’s mate. “You promised me you would not return to my quarters.”