by Liz Carlyle
Elizabeth was too emotionally spent to debate the definition of seduced.
“Father was charming, ’tis true,” she said. “And they both enjoyed fine things. But he always spoke of Mother as if she’d been the great love of his life.”
But both her parents had lived far beyond their means, she knew. And as to the great love of Papa’s life—well, there had been others aplenty, both before and after. Perhaps even during. She prayed not, but Bodkins was right. Her older, wiser self had become jaded.
As to Lady Mary Colburne, she died so young she likely never realized the poverty into which her children were being plunged. Elizabeth had only a child’s memory of her, but Elinor, her elder sister, had always painted their parents’ marriage a grand romance.
Elinor, on the other hand, had been much like Papa. Vivacious and captivating. Eternally optimistic—often to the point of naïveté. And oh, yes—beautiful.
“Bodkins,” she said in a surprisingly clear voice, “did you not realize my grandfather had paid Aunt and Uncle Ashton to take us?”
Bodkins looked suddenly guilty. “A choice I like to think Lord Rowend came to regret,” he answered. “After all, he has left you a small trust; enough to lease this cottage and enjoy a decent life and lovely things. Does that account for nothing?”
The old man sounded truly wounded now.
Elizabeth sighed. Was any of this Bodkins’s fault, really?
“Oh, do try to understand, sir,” she said more plaintively. “I just cannot stay here any longer. I simply cannot!”
He cut her a knowing look. “That devilish Coldwater fellow!” he said grimly. “Had I known of that cad’s mere existence, I should have counseled you strongly to cast him off. After all, you cannot really account him family.”
“No,” said Elizabeth, unable to hold his gaze, “perhaps not.”
“Indeed not!” said Bodkins. “And now you’re to be driven from your home by this scandal of his making. I know, my dear, that is why you are so intent on leaving.”
Her home.
Yes, hers. Though she’d come here alone and still grief-stricken, Elizabeth had nonetheless found a measure of peace in this house. A place of belonging—the first since her father’s death. Despite all the years she’d spent beneath Aunt Ashton’s roof, she’d never felt it her home.
Blinking rapidly, she looked around the large, well-furnished parlor with its broad, age-blackened beams, the pale yellow wallpaper sprinkled with roses, and the delicate pianoforte she’d so enjoyed—on those rare occasions when she’d let her mind relax enough to stray from the mission she’d set for herself.
The ruination of Rance Welham, Lord Lazonby.
The man who had selfishly set in motion everything that had destroyed her family.
Except . . . he hadn’t.
Dear God. Lazonby hadn’t ruined her life. He hadn’t stabbed poor Percy, Elinor’s rich fiancé—the man who was to have dragged them all from the brink of bankruptcy. He had not driven her father to suicide. Or caused Elinor to die of grief and fever. He had not, in all likelihood, even cheated at cards.
Elizabeth had returned to London in relentless pursuit of retribution—from the wrong man.
The cold horror of it ran through her again, and the urge to flee rose up in her breast like a panic, threatening to steal her breath.
Dear heaven, she could not stay here and simply wait for Lazonby to take his revenge.
For better than a year she’d put him through hell, smearing his name in the newspapers and skulking behind him, pillar to post. She’d spied on his friends, bribed his servants, and apparently driven Lady Anisha into asking dangerous questions, in some desperate attempt to prove her lover innocent.
Elizabeth had even gone through Lazonby’s rubbish bins in an effort to find something—anything—that might send him back to prison.
It was all she’d known to do; hate and bitterness had been her only comforts during those long, lonely years in Boston. The burning need to avenge the family she’d lost, and make Lazonby pay for all that he had taken from her. Papa. Elinor. Percy. Her entire existence, really.
And now, suddenly, it was over.
Her entire raison d’être had caved in atop her head.
No, Lazonby wasn’t apt to let any of this stand—not once he’d had time to think, and had his good name restored. And even if he did, that hawk-nosed, black-eyed police commissioner assuredly would not. Lazonby might be a laughing, devil-may-care scapegrace, but Napier was something else altogether.
Napier was ruthless; it oozed from his pores. And he meant to see that someone, eventually, paid for Sir Wilfred’s death . . .
Suddenly, it was as if the parlor floor shimmied a little beneath her feet.
“Lisette?” Bodkins moved as if to catch her arm.
She regained herself, and drew away. “I . . . I am fine, thank you.”
He let the hand drop. “Well, do reconsider leaving,” he said gently. “I’m sure the scandal will blow over. You must, of course, avoid Lady Leeton. But another school will be glad for your volunteer work.”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “I thank you, Bodkins, but you quite waste your worry on me. I’ve a notion to quit Hackney at once. Mrs. Fenwick will remain behind to shut up the house.”
Bodkins sighed. “I see you will not be dissuaded,” he said. “But I beg you, not Scotland. Consider . . . Paris, perhaps?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “It doesn’t seem all that far away,” she said, thinking of Napier’s black eyes and long reach.
Bodkins smiled. “The South of France, then, or the Italian coast?” he suggested. “A little house along the Camin deis Anglés, perhaps, with a view of the sea?”
“But not another lease,” she warned him. “I am done with travel, Mr. Bodkins. I want . . . I want a home. One that is mine. One I cannot be turned out of—or sent away from—on anyone else’s whim.”
The old man sighed. “Give me a few days, Lisette,” he said, “and I shall see what can be done.”
At the end of an afternoon wedged with too many appointments and fraught with inner conflict, Royden Napier arrived home in Eaton Square to a blessedly silent front hall and the scent of roasting poultry wafting up from his kitchens. The efficient Mrs. Bourne, of course, for this was the first Thursday of the month, which meant guinea fowl basted with bacon fat and a buttery three-root mash.
The scent was heartening, even absent an appetite.
Indeed, under the gentle hand of Mrs. Bourne, his entire house ran like clockwork. Some might have called it a life of dull predictability, but in his line of work one too often waded through life’s chaos and the tragic aftermath. In his private life, he strove for order and unruffled calm, a goal by and large achieved, save for the occasional entrance of a woman into his life.
Lady Anisha Stafford had been just such a woman—or could have been. Napier had met her months ago, and had been immediately struck by her warmth. When she’d eventually asked to see Lazonby’s old case file, he had agreed, perhaps foolishly. Yes, he had been attracted to her—and she had not been indifferent to him. That, however, had quickly come to naught, perhaps for the best. She was far above his station.
And yet, she wasn’t, was she?
On a soft curse, Napier tossed aside his hat, his attention veering back to his awkward conversation with Sir George. Had he made it known he was the grandson of Viscount Duncaster—and suddenly heir apparent to the title—would Lady Anisha have looked more favorably upon his suit?
Certainly her elder brother Lord Ruthveyn would have.
Yet he had not told her. And Napier was not so lacking in self-knowledge as to misconstrue his own motivations. Yes, he had wanted her to desire him for who he was, not what he was. But a part of him had simply not wished to take the time away from his work for the niceties of a proper courtship.
Though on this one occasion, he had been very tempted. Tempted to surrender his unruffled calm for something that had felt, yes, a little l
ike chaos.
But he had dragged his feet, and the lady, it seemed, had cast in her lot with Lazonby.
Ah, well. At the great age of four-and-thirty, Napier was on his way to confirmed bachelorhood and his aunt Hepplewood be damned, unless some plump, pretty widow turned up to warm his bed and then persuaded him to make a fool of himself. Still, it would be no woman of Lady Hepplewood’s choosing—of that he was bloody well certain. The Wiltshire branch of his family had not dictated to the London Napiers in going on four decades. He’d be damned if they’d start now.
Yanking Sir Wilfred Leeton’s file from his valise, he went into the passageway that opened on each side to his front reception rooms. In an uncharacteristically reflective mood, he paused to look around with new eyes at the gleaming wooden floors, the velvety Wilton carpets swept to within an inch of brand new, and the gleaming porcelain, marble, and hints of gilt that adorned the whole of it.
Did he want more than this?
It was not opulence that surrounded him, no. But it was upper middle-class elegance, at the very least, and since boyhood he had lived here with all the security and certainty that came from a life lived without want.
Yes, whatever Nicholas Napier’s failings, his son had lacked for little. And, as Sir George had pointed out, all that security and a fine Belgravia town house had been topped off by an education to rival any gentleman’s. All this despite the fact that Nicholas Napier had been, initially, nothing more than a low-level bureaucrat married to a government clerk’s daughter.
And suddenly, Napier wondered how he’d afforded it. Not just the house, but their entire way of life. So far as he could remember, his late mother had dressed as finely as any lady. They had dined well—sometimes even lavishly—and even entertained on occasion.
How? How had it been accomplished? In the back of his mind, he had often wondered.
Perhaps he need wonder no longer.
On a flash of irritation, he hurled the file aside and went into the drawing room to pour himself a generous splash of brandy, damning Lazonby to hell.
It was not possible. He would not think of it.
Napier set the decanter back down on the side table with a thunk! After tossing the brandy back with rather too much relish, he lifted away his afternoon copy of the Gazette, and began to sort meticulously through the post which always lay neatly stacked beneath it.
There was nothing save a couple of routine bills—statements from his haberdasher and his vintner—already slit open and unfolded for his review, along with an invitation to a musicale at the home of a superintendent in the General Register Office, a fellow whose means were far outstripped by his social aspirations.
Such invitations had come more regularly since vague rumors of Napier’s family connections had begun to worm their way through Whitehall. His friendship with Lady Anisha had merely added fuel to the fires of speculation, for her brother was a marquess, and a personal favorite of the Queen.
Still, the fact that he might suddenly be in demand made Napier snort with laughter. He pushed the invitation away to see what lay beneath it, and went a little cold.
“Jolley!” he shouted.
At once, footsteps came softly up the stairs, and within moments the servant appeared, looking rather like a wraith with his cloud of white hair, wooly white muttonchops, and long white work apron over his stark black suit. It was a deceptive appearance, to be sure. Jolley was utterly of this world.
“Yes, sir?”
“This letter.” Napier set a fingertip upon the offending paper. “When did it arrive?”
“Why, with the morning post.” Jolley looked mystified.
“And did no one question to whom it was addressed?”
Jolley looked more closely. “Gor blimey!”
Napier looked down at it again. The words taunted him:
Lord Saint-Bryce
22 Eaton Square
London
“You did not open it,” Napier remarked.
“No, sir,” he said. “It seemed of a personal nature.”
Napier took up a nearby penknife, slit the seal, and snapped the letter open. His gaze swept over the crabbed handwriting that listed badly starboard, and used only the topmost third of the page:
My Lord,
I wonder if You oughtn’t come home to Burlingame? If we might prevale upon You to do so, it might be for the best. Doubtless London is Great Fun, but things here continue passing strange cince the mysterious Deaths and Some of us remain Most Troubled that some Wickedness is afoot.
Yr. humble servent,
A Concerned Citizen
“A concerned citizen?” Napier tossed the letter back down. “Wickedness—?”
“May I, sir?”
At Napier’s curt nod, Jolley reached past him, and picked it up. “Well,” he said after reading it, “at least it’s not total rambling nonsense like poor old Hepplewood’s piece.”
“No, but it’s just as full of innuendo,” Napier growled.
“And that’s a business I still don’t like, sir,” said Jolley. “Gentlemen like Hepplewood do make enemies.”
“But Saint-Bryce had none,” Napier pointed out. “He was just like every other country gentleman moldering away in Wiltshire: paunchy, balding, and obsessed with tromping around in wet grass shooting at things. Where’s the wickedness in that?”
Jolley’s brow furrowed. “No connection between the titles, is there?” he asked. “I mean, otherwise, sir—well, put it like this—you’d be the only one ter gain by Saint-Bryce’s death.”
“Only you, Jolley, would have the gall to suggest me as a murderer,” said Napier evenly. “But no, Hepplewood was merely my grandfather’s friend and brother-in-law. His death brought me nothing. And Saint-Bryce’s will bring me nothing but grief.”
Jolley laid the letter down. “Still, who could have written such a thing?”
Napier took it up again. “Some desperate near-illiterate, one assumes,” he grumbled. “It’s probably naught but some sort of mischievous forgery. I ought to burn it.”
“Not a forgery, sir,” Jolley countered. “Without specific intent to defraud, sir, the law holds there is no such thing. They haven’t pretended to be someone they aren’t, nor asked you for any money.”
“No, not yet.” Napier scowled down at him. “And spare me your well-honed legal hair-splitting, Jolley. It was that, you know, which put you here.”
“Aye, so you say, sir. So you say.”
Jolley shuffled off, and began to inspect the wicks for the evening.
Napier returned his attention to the letter, oddly troubled. “No, not an illiterate, perhaps,” he murmured. “The sentence structure is fine, and the form is not bad—save for the fact that they cannot spell, and seem confused as to how I prefer to be addressed.”
Having accompanied him to Wiltshire during Lord Hepplewood’s illness, Jolley understood Napier’s family connections. “Still, sir, it does make one think,” the servant called over his shoulder, “of Hepplewood’s bizarre ramble wot was sent to the home secretary. Shall I compare them?”
It was a good idea.
“Thank you, yes.” Napier extracted a small key from his waistcoat. “It is in the second slot of the parlor bureau.”
Jolley found the document in short order, and carried it across to the windows. Napier followed, awaiting the expert opinion with more unease than he cared to admit. Why send such a letter? And why to him, of all people?
Because he was the heir?
Or because he was with the police?
“Hmm,” said Jolley.
“Key,” Napier barked, holding out his hand.
Jolley rolled his eyes, and surrendered it.
Napier tucked it back into his pocket. For all his angelic appearance, in his day Jolley had been the underworld’s most infamous screever, a professional forger of documents.
He’d also been its most talented. Indeed, Jolley had loved his craft like an art form, forging things even when ther
e was no real need and little profit to be made, just to see if he could get away with it. Wills, bills of exchange, certificates of shares; any manner of legal instrument fell to child’s play under Jolley’s deft hand.
He also had a barrister’s grasp of pertinent case law, often oozing around the technicalities like butter into the cracks of a hot crumpet. A few years past, however, Jolley came up against a charge he was not likely to defeat, for he’d been set up by a newer, rougher class of competitors in the East End. And he was no longer young.
Napier had offered Jolley an amicable alternative to a slow death in Newgate—something like the old adage to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It worked well. Jolley could eliminate his East End accent at will, and affect all the manners of a gentleman when necessary. He made a perfectly serviceable valet and general servant—provided one kept a close eye on him.
Jolley had extracted an old jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and stuck it in his eye. “Hmm,” he said again. “Paper’s been torn from a larger sheet—like a letterhead cut off—then turned upside down and wrote upon.”
“And—?” Napier pressed as the servant turned the older document toward the light.
“But no similarity in ink, pen, nor paper,” said Jolley, “and certainly not in wording. Still, both look to have been posted from Wiltshire. Marks are true as any I’ve seen.”
Pensive, Napier scrubbed a hand down his jaw. Something was nagging in the back of his mind—something to do with Lord Hepplewood.
In his day, Hepplewood had been a powerful man, a politician to his very core and a mover and shaker of the highest order. He’d held ambassadorships and even served on King William’s Privy Council. Such men knew things—oftentimes dangerous things.
But Saint-Bryce had been just a genial country gentleman who’d done nothing more controversial than judge the fruit preserves at the county fair. The phrase passing strange did not seem to remotely apply. Hepplewood had been old. Saint-Bryce had been a tad corpulent. Such men died, and that was that.
