by Liz Carlyle
But Jolley had laid both sheets to the window glass with an expression of confusion on his face. “Now, this new one, sir,” he said, squinting through the loupe at it, “is curiously watermarked.”
“Watermarked?”
“Aye, it’s been made, sir, with a dandy-roll on a continuous papermaking machine.”
“I know what a damned watermark is, Jolley,” said Napier irritably.
“Well, then, have a look at it, sir.” Jolley popped out the loupe and offered it. “It’s the Maid of Dort mark.”
“Dort? What’s Dort?”
“It means Dordrecht, sir. It means the paper weren’t made here, but in Holland.”
“Not British paper?” Napier slapped the paper to the glass to better see the faint embossing. “I don’t need the loupe, thank you. What the devil is she holding? A hat on a stick? And a . . . a creature of some sort?”
“Just so, sir,” said Jolley in the tone of one tutoring a child. “That’s the Maid of Dort, and she’s speared her enemy’s helmet. And her lion—see him, just here?—he’s got some arrows and a sword. It’s like a warning, sir, to Holland’s adversaries. And if you find a paper with this mark, then you might know who wrote the letter.”
“Interesting,” muttered Napier. “It must be a relatively rare paper, mustn’t it?”
“Not common, no.” Jolley handed Hepplewood’s old letter back. “What d’you mean ter do, sir?”
Napier tossed them onto the table and stared at them for a long moment, still thinking about death—and, if he were honest—about Lazonby’s vile accusations against his father. Actually, they had been Miss Ashton’s accusations, though he still believed Lazonby was behind it.
It was like circles running around circles. Letters upon letters suggesting this and demanding that.
Damn it all, he did not have time for any of it. With a muttered curse, Napier refilled his brandy, three fingers’ worth this time, watching as the liquid gold shimmered in a shaft of fading sunlight.
He set the decanter down, forgetting it was open. The nagging in the back of his mind and that dark, awful doubt would not relent. And frustratingly, the truth to all of it likely lay at Burlingame Court.
“Jolley,” he finally said, “would Mrs. Bourne fancy a fortnight’s visit to her sister down in Hull, do you reckon?”
“Oh, I should imagine.” Jolley reached around to stopper the decanter.
“Well then, old fellow.” Napier paused to slowly exhale. “Perhaps you and I ought to take a little trip of our own.”
“Ooh, sir, not ter Wiltshire again.” Jolley flashed a sidelong wince. “Never much cared for the country, meself.”
Napier shrugged. “I fear that’s of no consequence,” he said picking the offensive letters up again. “You’ve chosen house arrest—and the choice of which house must be mine.”
CHAPTER 3
An Accident in Mayfair
Valise in hand, Napier set off the following morning in the general direction of Hackney, intent upon executing Sir George’s orders. Although he found himself inexplicably hesitant to call upon Elizabeth Ashton, he wanted it over with.
After that first fateful meeting in his office—nearly two years ago now—Napier had naïvely imagined he need never see Sir Arthur Colburne’s daughter again. What a fool he had been. Trouble had practically wafted from her skin like that unusual scent she favored. Even now he could see those long, slender fingers deftly slipping loose the buttons of her bodice, those bewitching eyes locked to his—taunting him—as she suggested just how she might negotiate her position.
She had called herself Elizabeth Colburne then. And she had called herself desperate.
He wondered how desperate she was now. And then he wondered why such a thought had crossed his mind. Good Lord. He had only to call upon her and step through her statement one last time—while trying hard not to drown in those incredible eyes—before beginning his fool’s game of waiting for the American authorities to apprehend her ephemeral brother.
No, it was not likely the lady would be slipping loose any buttons for him now.
As if to clear the vision from his mind, Napier drew a deep breath of the cold spring air, noting as he did so that the acrid smell of coal smoke had diminished during the night. Then carefully timing the traffic, he dashed between a cartload of bricks and a westbound mail coach to make his way across Hyde Park Corner.
Napier had always believed his curricle too flashy for a public servant, and there being as yet no trains to Hackney Station—or even a roof over it—he’d thought it best to simply walk up to Oxford Street and catch the green omnibus. But despite these well-laid plans, he found himself taking an oddly indirect route, and halfway up Park Lane, turned onto Upper Grosvenor Street, telling himself he was taking a shortcut through the alleyways of Mayfair.
At Lady Anisha’s house, the semicircular drive was empty, the iron gates still shut up. It was, of course, too early to call. Which was a ridiculous notion, when he had not even meant to call.
Feeling a trifle foolish, Napier turned up the alleyway alongside the house, intent upon reaching Oxford Street as quickly as possible. But halfway along the lane separating the house from the mews, there came a great splash of water over the fence, right between two shrubs.
He leapt back on a curse, very nearly stumbling into a pile of fresh horse manure.
“Oh!” A colorful scarf poked between the shrubs. “Oh, dear! I’m so frightfully . . . good heavens. Mr. Napier—?”
“Indeed, ma’am,” he said, glancing down at his shirtfront. “Good morning.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” Lady Anisha Stafford peeped out of the greenery at him, her head and shoulders swathed in a bright gossamer scarf, her chocolate eyes wide as saucers. “How awkward I am!”
Napier regained himself, and sketched her a little bow. “Not in the least,” he managed. “You are, as always, grace and beauty personified.”
“Then either Grace or Beauty has ruined your coat.” She rushed down the fence and unlatched a little gate. “Which does not sound especially welcoming to someone I am so glad to see. Oh, come in, do. I was just trying to wash out Milo’s cage, and—”
“Haven’t you servants for that?” he interjected, before thinking better of it.
She flashed an embarrassed smile. “Yes, but Milo likes his things cleaned just so, and then certain herbs cut for him, and his water—oh, but never mind that. Now do come in. I shall have some tea sent out to the conservatory, and make a proper inspection of your coat.”
“Thank you,” he said, “but I can assure you, in my line of work, I get far worse than water hurled at me.”
She set her head stubbornly to one side, and motioned him in. Only then did he see the wire cage sitting in the grass beside the empty bucket. Satchel in hand, he followed her down a flagstone path past the rear entrance. She was dressed this morning for the privacy of her home, her slender form attired in a pair of silk trousers over which she wore a calf-length gown of shimmering blue, the scarf flowing behind.
“Round the corner,” she called over her shoulder, “and we’ll just pop in the back.”
A pair of doors gave onto a lofty space glassed in on three sides where a green bird glided about in the rafters. The persnickety Milo, he assumed.
Napier settled into the rattan chair she offered, and after ringing for tea, Anisha took one opposite. The bird sailed onto the curved back with a great whoosh! and proceeded to peck at the gold embroidery of her headscarf. “Milo!” she chided, tossing back the scarf with a laugh.
Only then did he see the wicked yellow bruise that ran from her temple deep into her hairline. “My God!” he exclaimed, coming half out of his chair. “Anisha!”
The lady threw up her hand. “Mr. Napier, I am quite all right. And as you see, my traditional scarf can be a quite useful wardrobe accessory.”
Until that moment, he realized, he had not been entirely sure of Lazonby’s wild story. “By God, I could kill Sir Wi
lfred Leeton myself,” he gritted.
“Thankfully, that job has been done for you,” she said wryly. “In truth, I expected you before now. I did not think for one moment you would heed Lazonby’s threats to stay away from me. You are here for my statement, I daresay?”
He deliberately cocked one eyebrow. “But I was given to understand you remembered nothing.”
She eyed him carefully across the tea table. “I took a frightful blow to the head, yes, and was unconscious for a time,” she said slowly, as if carefully choosing her words. “But I can remember whatever is necessary to see justice done.”
He wasn’t sure what she was offering. Or threatening. “And your notion of justice would be?”
“Has anyone been charged with anything?”
“No, the mysterious Jack Coldwater has vanished,” he said dryly, “never to be seen again, I’m reasonably confident.”
Anisha exhaled on a long sigh. “Good!” she said. “Then we must leave well enough alone. We will leave well enough alone, Assistant Commissioner, will we not? None of us, I think, want this scandal reopened?”
He settled back into his chair on a sigh. “I’m man enough to know when I’m beaten,” he said. “Yes, I suppose we’re done. And I don’t wish your statement. Like Lazonby, I wish you fifty miles away from this frightful scandal.”
“And that poor girl?” Anisha was still watching him. “Miss . . . Ashton, was it not? What did you think of her, by the way? Unconventional, isn’t she? And quite striking, too.”
“I was just on my way to see her,” he said, ignoring the rest of her question. “I need to review her statement one last time, as I’m leaving town for a while.”
At that point, the tea arrived. After pouring, Anisha settled back into her chair, cradling her cup in her palm as she studied him. “And where do you go, Mr. Napier?” she asked. “On holiday, I hope?”
“No, family business.”
“Oh, at Burlingame Court?” she enquired lightly.
When he looked at her in surprise, she smiled. “I recall you went some months past,” she added. “When Lord Hepplewood died.”
“You were aware of that?”
“That you had a death in the family, yes,” she said. “Really, Mr. Napier, you must know Lazonby had your every move watched, as you watched his. Though precisely how the gentleman was related to you, I never heard.”
“Lord Hepplewood married my great-aunt.”
“And she was—?” Anisha’s smile was coy. “You see, having come so recently from India, Mr. Napier, I have not yet memorized Burke’s Peerage. If I look closely, might I find your name in it?”
It was the moment of decision, he realized, or something like it.
“I think not,” he finally answered, “though I’ve never looked. In his youth, my father quarreled irrevocably with his family over his choice of bride, and took his wife’s name, Napier. I believe it was put about by his family that he’d died.”
She drew back an inch, her smile softening. “Mr. Napier, Lazonby once said you had eyes like a pair of kitchen knives,” she said. “I do believe you are stabbing me with them now.”
He felt his mouth twitch. “What, had he nothing to say of my nose? I have always been rather proud of it.”
“That it looked like a hatchet,” she added, setting down her tea. “There, I have pried enough, Mr. Napier. And I think you know I’m quite fond of your eyes and your nose. They suit you.”
He felt silent for a time then put his teacup on the table. “My last uncle recently died,” he said quietly. “There were three sons, you see, my father being youngest. So despite my grandfather’s ire, no one believed my father’s marrying down would do much harm to the family’s blue blood.”
“Ah,” she said quietly. “But now the elder brothers are gone? And gone without sons, dare I surmise?”
“Something like that,” he said ruefully. “My grandfather is a miserable old tyrant, and now he demands my return.”
“Ha!” she said. “He mustn’t know you very well if he imagines demanding will do the trick.”
“He scarcely knows me at all,” said Napier. “So he has written to Sir George Grey instead. Sir George’s sire and my grandfather were old friends, I collect.”
“Oh, dear.” Anisha looked solemn. “Why do I begin to suspect there is an old and noble title involved here? The Grey family is haute ton; even I know that much.”
“Yes.” For an instant, he hesitated. “And my grandfather is Viscount Duncaster, and my uncle was Baron Saint-Bryce by courtesy.”
“I fear I know nothing of either gentleman,” she said apologetically. “Are they great and noble titles indeed, then? Yes, I can see by the look on your face that they are.”
When he said nothing, her face fell. “And you are to have no say in the matter, are you?” she went on. “Sir George will not permit you to go on at work as if nothing has happened. The laws of entail will not permit Duncaster to disinherit you. Oh, Mr. Napier, I know what it is like to be jerked out of one life and thrust into another. Will that be your fate? Are you now Baron Saint-Bryce against your wishes?”
He gave an inward sigh of relief. Only Lady Anisha, he was certain, could have understood such a thing. And the sympathy on her face was real, he thought.
“Yes,” he quietly admitted. “I daresay I am.”
“Oh, well!” she said, that same face suddenly brightening. “There’s nothing else for it; you’ll be stuck with power and riches unimaginable. However, I will say, in my own defense, you should have told me you were coming into money. I might have considered your suit more carefully.”
He wanted, suddenly, to roar with laughter. “You don’t think like that, Anisha. Neither of us even believes you capable of it.”
The bird had begun to tug at the dangle on one of her earbobs. “Thank you,” she said.
He gave an audible sigh. “Lady Anisha, is it true, what I suspect? Have you agreed to marry Lazonby?”
She dropped her gaze. “I fear he has not officially asked me.”
“And if—no, when he does—will you say yes?”
She lifted her wide eyes back to his. “Yes,” she said quietly. “When he does, I will happily say yes. But you are my dear friend, and I’m sorry you don’t like him.”
“I don’t like him,” Napier agreed. “But you are no fool. And he will make you happy, I think. He will be too afraid of your brother Ruthveyn not to.”
Her mouth twisted. “Oh, Lazonby doesn’t have the sense to be afraid, even when he ought,” she said. “A character flaw he shares with you. Indeed, it might be the two of you are too like ever to get on. Did you ever consider that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mr. Napier,” she said slyly, “why, exactly, have you come here today?”
He gave a crooked smile. “I didn’t think I was coming here,” he said. “Although, if I’m to be as honest as you, I think in the back of my mind, I had the faintest notion of asking a favor.”
“A favor? Of what sort?”
“A great favor,” he confessed. “But your expectations of Lord Lazonby have forestalled it. I am . . . glad. I think I could not have asked it anyway.”
“But what might the favor be? And how do you know I would refuse it?”
He hesitated a heartbeat. “As I said, I have to go away,” he replied. “And I wanted you . . . well, I wanted you to come with me. And worse, under false pretenses.”
“Ah. This has something to do with your family at Burlingame, does it not?”
“It does.” He shot her a withering look, and sighed. “I needed a woman on my arm—a beautiful—and very eligible—one. An ornament, if you will, to forestall a matchmaking great-aunt—Lady Hepplewood, in fact. Duncaster’s sister.”
Anisha laughed again. “How you do flatter a lady. But surely the great Royden Napier would not be cowed by that?”
“Well, one would hope not,” he muttered. “But Sir George warns she’ll bedevil me to
distraction. It’s not precisely a social visit, you see, and I’d as soon Lady Hepplewood not know it, for there’ve been—”
He couldn’t think how to explain it, the gut feeling he’d had all those months ago upon reading the letter Hepplewood had sent Sir George. And again last evening, that curious missive in the post . . .
Still, it made no sense.
“Well, you’ve had two relations die under vague circumstances,” said Anisha tactfully. “So your expression is more daunting than usual, and understandably.”
“It’s probably nothing,” he said. “But I desperately need someone to guard my wicket and keep the old girl from dogging me whilst I poke around a bit.”
“Well, to be honest, I’m sorry I can’t, for it sounds like quite a lark.” She laughed again. “The misbegotten heir and his half-caste bride! Can you imagine the old dear’s expression? Still, if Lady Hepplewood is anything like Aunt Pernicia, I fear for you.”
“You aren’t giving me much comfort here,” he muttered.
“Wait, I’ve an idea—what about simply hiring an actress?”
Napier laughed. “Unlike yourself, Aunt Hepplewood probably sleeps with a copy of Burke’s Peerage under her pillow—annotated and updated in her own hand.”
Anisha’s shoulders fell. “Yes, that little ruse would last just long enough for the old girl to write a quizzing letter to one of her London cronies, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, well.” Napier set down his teacup. “On to the things I can manage. I should be off to Miss Ashton’s, I daresay.”
For an instant, Anisha snared her lip between her teeth. “Have a care, Napier,” she said quietly, “in dealing with Miss Ashton.”
This time his laugh was harsh. “I’m not an utter fool, my dear. Do you think I don’t know what she is?”
“Oh, I think it quite likely you do not.” Anisha did reach for his hand then, turning it palm up to stroke her thumb around the mounds of flesh. “Royden, I . . . I have seen her hand. That day in the fortune-teller’s tent. She’s deeply tormented; her whole life has been nearly destroyed by her family’s death.”
