“Yes. Of course.” Mary looked at Lucilla. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”
Lucilla arched her brows but answered readily, “Because my time is not yet, and . . .” A faint frown disturbed the fine line of her brows. “The place, apparently, is not here.”
Refocusing on Mary and Henrietta, she grimaced slightly and shrugged. “You know how it is. I don’t know the details—I just know I have to wait.”
Someone called Lucilla’s name; she looked, then, with a small wave, left the two sisters and forged into the crowd.
Mary snorted and took another sip of tea. “Better her than me.”
Henrietta laughed. “Indubitably.”
Tea consumed, the sisters returned their cups to Sligo, then with a fond kiss on each other’s cheeks, they parted, turning to follow their own paths, each returning to walk by the side of the hero into whose arms The Lady had steered them.
Across the crowd, Lucilla joined her twin; it had been Marcus who had hailed her. His was one voice, one call, she would always hear, would always answer, no matter the distractions, no matter the distance. Meeting his eyes, dark blue like their father’s, she arched a brow. “What is it?”
With a tip of his dark head, he drew her to the side of the lawn. Originally his hair had been as red as hers, but while hers had held its color, his had progressively darkened, almost to black. “We—me and the others—wondered if you and the other girls might like to join us for a stroll around the lake.”
“Why?” The obvious question.
Marcus flicked a glance at the crowd of their elders. “Sebastian suggested—and all of us agree—that perhaps we should make plans for Christmas. He and the others would like to celebrate this Christmas in the Vale—we haven’t had everyone up for an age. You know the elders will need persuading, but we thought, if you and the other girls agreed, we might talk it through—discuss strategy, as it were.”
Lucilla considered the prospect and found it to her liking. She nodded. “All right.” She turned to look over the crowd. “I’ll go and find Prudence and Antonia. We’ll meet you and the others at the summerhouse—we can set out from there.”
Marcus shifted. “You might want to winkle out some of the others, too—Therese and Juliet, at least—and, of course, if we want to succeed—”
“We’ll need Louisa.” Lucilla nodded more definitely. “I’ll find her first, and she can round up the others.”
With no further words—despite the years, they still understood each other instinctively—the twins parted, Lucilla fixing her sights on Louisa while Marcus retreated to summon his peers.
Five minutes later, Devil found his wife by the porch steps, her gaze fixed on the group of youngsters gathering before the summerhouse. Dipping his head, he murmured in her ear, “What’s that about, do you know?”
She gave a deliciously distracted shiver but after a second replied, “I’m not sure, but, given our three are there, and Louisa is at the heart of it, I’m sure we’ll hear soon enough.”
They watched as the group formed up, then started strolling, heading toward the lake.
Closing his hand about one of Honoria’s, Devil said, “They’re growing up. In another year, Sebastian will be down from Oxford, then a year later, Michael will join him, along with Christopher, and probably Marcus, too.”
Honoria glanced up at Devil’s harsh-featured face, a warrior’s face that had changed little with the years. Thought of her sons, especially the elder, who shared such similar features with his sire. “Have you given any thought as to how to keep Sebastian occupied for that first year—when he hasn’t got the others around him?”
“Filling his time will be easy enough—there’s a great deal he has yet to learn about managing the dukedom.” Devil glanced down and met her eyes. “And what it takes to manage a ducal family.”
Honoria smiled. “He won’t have to do that—his wife will. And until he marries, Louisa will always be there, just itching to take the reins.”
“True, but he needs to appreciate what it is they do.” Devil held her gaze. “What it is you, and the other ladies, too, bring to the family.”
Seeing that appreciation writ large in his eyes, Honoria discovered she couldn’t speak, that emotion had, for just a few seconds, closed her throat.
No doubt sensing that—and that she wouldn’t approve if he discombobulated her for too long—Devil’s lips curved and he looked ahead.
Released, she drew breath, then fell in beside him as, twining her arm with his, he led her back into the crowd.
They wended their way around their guests, their family, their close friends, exchanging comments and, often, looking ahead, prognosticating on the future.
Momentarily distracted by the sight of a laughing line of younger children dancing through the crowd, they were standing at the edge of the gathering, not far from the toddlers and infants in the nursemaid’s crèche, within sight of the cricket match on the side lawn, and the group of girls now making daisy-chains nearby, when the older children returned from their walk.
Both Devil and Honoria noticed, looked.
Took in the confident strides, the energy, the inherent power.
Devil smiled, every inch the proud patriarch. “That’s our future—the future of this house, the next generation.”
“It is.” Honoria raised her head. “And they’re healthy and strong, and know the value of kinship and friendship, and . . .”
When she said nothing more, Devil tipped his head to look into her face. “And what?”
A heartbeat passed, then, lips curving, Honoria took his arm; turning him, she cast him a measuring glance. “And they’re planning.”
Predictably, he frowned and looked back at the group. “That’s good?”
She patted his arm, waited until he looked back at her to say, “It means they’re looking ahead—that they’re facing forward and seeking to shape their own futures. And, yes, that is, indeed, how it should be. How they need to be.”
Faintly disgruntled, he allowed her to steer him back into the crowd, but then murmured, “And what will our role in that future be?”
Facing forward, confident herself, Honoria smiled gently and murmured back, “Our role is to keep the foundation rock-solid, steady and sure, and otherwise . . . learn to let them go.”
She knew that the latter would find little favor with him and his peers. It would go against their ingrained instincts, but that was, indeed, the next battle they would face.
Eventually, however, the Duke of St. Ives drew in a deep breath and asked, “So by your estimation, all is well?”
And, still smiling, his duchess replied, “In my estimation, everything is exactly as it should be in our family’s world.”
Following is an excerpt from
Where the Heart Leads
The first volume in
The Casebook of Barnaby Adair
By #1 New York Times bestselling author
Stephanie Laurens
Available now from Avon Books
The second and third volumes of
The Casebook of Barnaby Adair
will be released in 2014
November 1835
London
“Thank you, Mostyn.” Slumped at ease in an armchair before the fire in the parlor of his fashionable lodgings in Jermyn Street, Barnaby Adair, third son of the Earl of Cothelstone, lifted the crystal tumbler from the salver his man offered. “I won’t need anything further.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll wish you a good night.” The epitome of his calling, Mostyn bowed and silently withdrew.
Straining his ears, Barnaby heard the door shut. He smiled, sipped. Mostyn had been foisted on him by his mother when he’d first come up to town in the fond hope that the man would instil some degree of tractability into a son who, as she frequently declared, was ungov
ernable. Yet despite Mostyn’s rigid adherence to the mores of class distinction and his belief in the deference due to the son of an earl, master and man had quickly reached an accommodation. Barnaby could no longer imagine being in London without the succor Mostyn provided, largely, as with the glass of fine brandy in his hand, without prompting.
Over the years, Mostyn had mellowed. Or perhaps both of them had. Regardless, theirs was now a very comfortable household.
Stretching his long legs toward the hearth, crossing his ankles, sinking his chin on his cravat, Barnaby studied the polished toes of his boots, bathed in the light of the crackling flames. All should have been well in his world, but. . . .
He was comfortable yet . . . restless.
At peace—no, wrapped in blessed peace—yet dissatisfied.
It wasn’t as if the last months hadn’t been successful. After more than nine months of careful sleuthing he’d exposed a cadre of young gentlemen, all from ton families, who, not content with using dens of inquity had thought it a lark to run them. He’d delivered enough proof to charge and convict them despite their station. It had been a difficult, long-drawn and arduous case; its successful conclusion had earned him grateful accolades from the peers who oversaw London’s Metropolitan Police Force.
On hearing the news his mother would no doubt have primmed her lips, perhaps evinced an acid wish that he would develop as much interest in fox-hunting as in villain-hunting, but she wouldn’t—couldn’t—say more, not with his father being one of the aforementioned peers.
In any modern society, justice needed to be seen to be served even-handedly, without fear or favor, despite those among the ton who refused to believe that Parliament’s laws applied to them. The Prime Minister himself had been moved to compliment him over this latest triumph.
Raising his glass, Barnaby sipped. The success had been sweet, yet had left him strangely hollow. Unfulfilled in some unexpected way. Certainly he’d anticipated feeling happier, rather than empty and peculiarly rudderless, aimlessly drifting now he no longer had a case to absorb him, to challenge his ingenuity and fill his time.
Perhaps his mood was simply a reflection of the season—the closing phases of another year, the time when cold fogs descended and polite society fled to the warmth of ancestral hearths, there to prepare for the coming festive season and the attendant revels. For him this time of year had always been difficult—difficult to find any viable excuse to avoid his mother’s artfully engineered social gatherings.
She’d married both his elder brothers and his sister, Melissa, far too easily; in him, she’d met her Waterloo, yet she continued more doggedly and indefatigably than Napoleon. She was determined to see him, the last of her brood, suitably wed, and was fully prepared to bring to bear whatever weapons were necessary to achieve that goal.
Despite being at loose ends, he didn’t want to deliver himself up at the Cothelstone Castle gates, a candidate for his mother’s matrimonial machinations. What if it snowed and he couldn’t escape?
Unfortunately, even villains tended to hibernate over winter.
A sharp rat-a-tat-tat shattered the comfortable silence.
Glancing at the parlor door, Barnaby realized he’d heard a carriage on the cobbles. The rattle of wheels had ceased outside his residence. He listened as Mostyn’s measured tread passed the parlor on the way to the front door. Who could be calling at such an hour—a quick glance at the mantelpiece clock confirmed it was after eleven—and on such a night? Beyond the heavily curtained windows the night was bleak, a dense chill fog wreathing the streets, swallowing houses and converting familiar streetscapes into ghostly gothic realms.
No one would venture out on such a night without good reason.
Voices, muted, reached him. It appeared Mostyn was engaged in dissuading whoever was attempting to disrupt his master’s peace.
Abruptly the voices fell silent.
A moment later the door opened and Mostyn entered, carefully closing the door behind him. One glance at Mostyn’s tight lips and studiously blank expression informed Barnaby that Mostyn did not approve of whomever had called. Even more interesting was the transparent implication that Mostyn had been routed—efficiently and comprehensively—in his attempt to deny the visitor.
“A . . . lady to see you, sir. A Miss—”
“Penelope Ashford.”
The crisp, determined tones had both Barnaby and Mostyn looking to the door—which now stood open, swung wide to admit a lady in a dark, severe yet fashionable pelisse. A sable-lined muff dangled from one wrist and her hands were encased in fur-edged leather gloves.
Lustrous mahogany hair, pulled into a knot at the back of her head, gleamed as she crossed the room with a grace and self-confidence that screamed her station even more than her delicate, quintessentially aristocratic features. Features that were animated by so much determination, so much sheer will, that the force of her personality seemed to roll like a wave before her.
Mostyn stepped back as she neared.
His eyes never leaving her, Barnaby unhurriedly uncrossed his legs and rose. “Miss Ashford.”
An exceptional pair of dark brown eyes framed by finely wrought gold-rimmed spectacles fixed on his face. “Mr. Adair. We met nearly two years ago, at Morwellan Park in the ballroom at Charlie and Sarah’s wedding.” Halting two paces away, she studied him, as if estimating the quality of his memory. “We spoke briefly if you recall.”
She didn’t offer her hand. Barnaby looked down into her uptilted face—her head barely cleared his shoulder—and found he remembered her surprisingly well. “You asked if I was the one who investigates crimes.”
She smiled—brilliantly. “Yes. That’s right.”
Barnaby blinked; he felt a trifle winded. He could, he realized, recall how, all those months ago, her small fingers had felt in his. They’d merely shaken hands, yet he could remember it perfectly; even now, his fingers tingled with tactile memory.
She’d obviously made an impression on him even if he hadn’t been so aware of it at the time. At the time he’d been focused on another case, and had been more intent on deflecting her interest than on her.
Since he’d last seen her, she’d grown. Not taller. Indeed, he wasn’t sure she’d gained inches anywhere; she was as neatly rounded as his memory painted her. Yet she’d gained in stature, in self-assurance and confidence; although he doubted she’d ever been lacking in the latter, she was now the sort of lady any fool would recognize as a natural force of nature, to be crossed at one’s peril.
Little wonder she’d rolled up Mostyn.
Her smile had faded. She’d been examining him openly; in most others he would have termed it brazenly, but she seemed to be evaluating him intellectually rather than physically.
Rosy lips, distractingly lush, firmed, as if she’d made some decision.
Curious, he tilted his head. “To what do I owe this visit?”
This highly irregular, not to say potentially scandalous visit. She was a gently bred lady of marriageable age, calling on a single gentleman who was in no way related very late at night. Alone. Entirely unchaperoned.
He should protest and send her away. Mostyn certainly thought so.
Her fine dark eyes met his. Squarely, without the slightest hint of guile or trepidation. “I want you to help me solve a crime.”
He held her gaze.
She returned the favor.
A pregnant moment passed, then he gestured elegantly to the other armchair. “Please sit. Perhaps you’d like some refreshment?”
Her smile—it transformed her face from vividly attractive to stunning—flashed as she moved to the chair facing his. “Thank you, but no. I require nothing but your time.” She waved Mostyn away. “You may go.”
Mostyn stiffened. He cast an outraged glance at Barnaby.
Battling a grin, Barnaby endorsed the order with a nod. Mo
styn didn’t like it, but departed, bowing himself out, but leaving the door ajar. Barnaby noted it, but said nothing. Mostyn knew he was hunted, often quite inventively, by young ladies; he clearly believed Miss Ashford might be such a schemer. Barnaby knew better. Penelope Ashford might scheme with the best of them, but marriage would not be her goal.
While she arranged her muff on her lap, he sank back into his armchair and studied her anew.
She was the most unusual young lady he’d ever encountered.
He’d decided that even before she said, “Mr. Adair, I need your help to find four missing boys, and stop any more being kidnapped.”
Penelope raised her eyes and locked them on Barnaby Adair’s face. And tried her damnedest not to see. When she’d determined to call on him, she hadn’t imagined he—his appearance—would have the slightest effect on her. Why would she? No man had ever made her feel breathless, so why should he? It was distinctly annoying.
Golden hair clustering in wavy curls about a well-shaped head, strong, aquiline features and cerulean blue eyes that held a piercing intelligence were doubtless interesting enough, yet quite aside from his features there was something about him, about his presence, that was playing on her nerves in a disconcerting way.
Why he should affect her at all was a mystery. He was tall, with a long-limbed, rangy build, yet he was no taller than her brother Luc, and while his shoulders were broad, they were no broader than her brother-in-law Simon’s. And he was certainly not prettier than either Luc or Simon, although he could easily hold his own in the handsome stakes; she’d heard Barnaby Adair described as an Adonis and had to concede the point.
All of which was entirely by the by and she had no clue why she was even noticing.
She focused instead on the numerous questions she could see forming behind his blue eyes. “The reason I am here, and not a host of outraged parents, is because the boys in question are paupers and foundlings.”
He frowned.
Stripping off her gloves, she grimaced lightly. “I’d better start at the beginning.”
The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh Page 42
