by Anne Mallory
"Your backhanded challenges don’t work on me, my lord." She belied her words by reaching forward and lifting the pile. He smiled victoriously and she merely raised an eyebrow. "Someone has to be mature around here."
His smile widened and she resisted the urge to hurl the papers. What was it about him that made her want to do him bodily harm?
"Wool-gathering?"
She shot him a dark look and began reading a brief on Mr. Merriweather.
"Merriweather died three years ago. An untimely death, so we may want to inspect him more closely. I thought we should leave no stone unturned," he said.
Calliope agreed absently, something on the sheet catching her attention. "Why would a part-time wrecker get involved with the French?"
He looked up with interest. "Well, it’s like this ...."
They continued discussing the documents into the late afternoon. They were making only a small dent in the piles and they still needed to go over Stephen’s extensive collecting and business interests.
·
Calliope swallowed a yawn. She needed to stretch, but there was so much more to do and she had vowed to be the last to quit.
James stood. "Why don’t we take some air? Do us both some good. Do you like Gunter’s?"
Her interest perked and she looked up. "Yes, I love ices."
"Good. Grab a wrap and let’s go."
"I’ll be back shortly," Calliope called as she sprinted up the stairs. She quickly changed out of the unflattering dress, donned a light blue day dress that was draped over a chair and added a light gray pelisse. Makeup and wig in place, she skipped down the stairs to where James was waiting in the entryway. He looked at her wig in distaste, but offered her his arm.
They set off at a quick pace toward Berkeley Square
in James’s curricle. The light breeze felt cool on her cheeks and she was glad she had chosen to wear the pelisse. It was not the fashionable hour to be out, but there were a number of vehicles whose occupants paused to converse. Calliope sighed inwardly as she forced herself to flirt and dissemble with the various men they encountered.
After what seemed an inordinately long period of time, they arrived at Gunter’s Tea Shop, on the east side of the square. James stopped the bays under a spreading maple tree across the street. As Calliope stood, James put a restraining hand on her arm.
"There’s no need to rise, my dear. "
Calliope sank back into the seat, embarrassed for forgetting etiquette. In the past she had strolled into Gunter’s to buy an ice, whereas the beau monde did not find this necessary. Ices were brought to them. It was considered de rigueur.
The square was busy as usual. Vehicles of all styles and speeds occupied the lanes. Participants were sightseeing or vying to be seen. Gossiping matrons in slowly plodding chaises were passed by young bucks in high-seated phaetons weaving precariously through the traffic. Smartly dressed couples lounging in. landaus yielded to spirited horsemen who raced irreverently down the path. It was a wonderful spectator sport.
In the midst of the frenzy, waiters dodged in and out of the traffic. Calliope typically liked to watch them wend their way. But it didn’t seem as enjoyable when one of them was risking life and limb for her. She watched their waiter start across the lane. A phaeton shot past and the waiter pulled back to avoid the collision. He darted forward and encountered an older high-flyer phaeton as it rocked by, its driver trying to prevent it from tipping. It barely missed him. The waiter sidestepped an ancient landau and catapulted to their side as a curricle blazed by.
James uncurled her left hand from her skirt. His gaze had been focused on the waiter, and had never glanced her way during the perilous crossing, but somehow he had sensed her concern. She scarcely heard him order and then the waiter was off again. She somehow managed to keep her eyes open as she watched him cross the street and re-enter the shop.
James looked at her in amusement. "One would think you had never been here before."
Her head shot up. "I don’t see the problem with getting out and ordering ourselves."
He waggled a linger and touched the tip of her nose. "Much better for my consequence this way."
She had to smile. "I’m not sure that it needs any more tending, my lord."
James raised a haughty eyebrow. "One’s consequence always needs tending."
She laughed. "I’ll bet you put all the others to shame."
"I believe in being the best at everything I do."
"Well, I’ll admit you excel at being a pain in the—"
"Here you are, my lady."
Calliope glanced at the waiter standing beside the carriage in surprise. He had already returned with two ices.
"Thank you."
She averted her eyes as he barreled back across traffic. James muttered about sneering women and the merits of buying them treats. Calliope ignored him and spooned a mouthful of ice.
"I swear this is ambrosia. It’s heavenly."
James had stopped muttering and was heartily digging into his own ice. "It’s not bad."
She waved a spoonful of the divine concoction. "Not bad? That is like saying that the pyramids are not bad or that the Sistine Chapel is not bad, or that a symphony by Mozart is not bad, or--” She caught his grin and pointed the spoon at him. "In any case, you take my meaning."
She punctuated the statement by plummeting the spoon to her mouth. It made it halfway in. The other half caused ice cream to dribble down her cheek.
She giggled.
He looked at her and laughed.
She tried to lick the ice cream off.
He stopped laughing. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbled gently at her lips. "I could think of a better way to clean it off."
His eyes suddenly made her pelisse useless.
"Maybe we should go to Hookham’s and see if there are any books on seals or signets?" Calliope said as she studied her ice.
"Coward."
"Maybe."
"Esmerelda. Angelford. How good to see you both."
Robert Cruikshank rolled up next to them. His greeting belied his expression.
"Good day, Mr. Cruikshank. Nice weather we are having," Calliope said with a forced smile.
Robert looked irritated.
"Yes, it is. I was hoping to see Mr. Chalmers. Have you seen him about?"
"Oh, he is gallivanting in the country for a few days. You know how Stephen is."
Robert sent her an admonishing glance, but was unable to continue because a team of grays was eager to move beyond. He nodded a polite farewell.
James watched Robert’s retreating figure. "I had forgotten that he knows Stephen well. We’ll need to add his name to the list."
Startled, Calliope turned to him. "Why would Robert be on our list?"
He cocked an eyebrow. "Robert?"
"Mr. Cruikshank. He is a distant relation of Stephen’s." She added hastily.
"Very distant. Hmmm . . ."
"There is no need to discuss him further, he is not a suspect."
James’s eyes narrowed. "No? You seem awfully sure of yourself. I wonder why."
"Trust me, he isn’t."
"Yes, well, let’s go to Hookham’s as you suggested."
Calliope was relieved to be moving again and away from any conversation concerning Robert.
They had spent an hour in Hookham’s searching through books but had discovered nothing new. The sun was dipping in the sky as they rolled down the street toward her townhouse. The trees and plants were in bloom, flowers perking their heads up here and there. It was pleasant.
James stopped the bays in front of the house. "I’m famished. An ice and a few biscuits do not count as a meal."
She looked up and felt her stomach gurgle its agreement.
"I have something in mind. I’ll gather our papers and speak to Grimmond," he continued.
"What are you thinking?"
"We’ll go to my townhouse."
A gust of uncertainty swept Calliope. "I’m not sur
e that is such a good idea .... "
He looked at her in amusement. "I think your 'virtue' will be kept intact in a house full of my servants."
She mumbled under her breath.
"Besides, my chef, Louis, is an absolute genius in the kitchen. Wellington was trying to steal him out from under my nose last month. "
As he exited the curricle, he elaborated on the fabulous dishes and pastries that his chef routinely prepared.
By the time he returned with the papers, she was ready to grab the reins from him and urge the bays to greater speed, her mouth watering with anticipation from his delicious descriptions.
They arrived at his townhouse on St. James’s Street a scant ten minutes later and her hunger threatened to overcome her.
He surveyed her with amusement as she ascended the steps ahead of him. "I think I’ll go first, if you don’t mind. You might eat Templeton otherwise, and I would really despair if I lost my butler. Remind me to feed you regularly from now on."
She was too hungry to think straight, but her brain registered that the personal remark implied future events.
Templeton met them at the door and removed her pelisse.
"Templeton, we need dinner to be served as quickly as possible."
Templeton nodded in his austere way and headed through the narrow hallway beneath the stairs.
This was only the second time Calliope had been in his townhouse and she studied the gorgeous ceiling. "I must say that I love the ceiling. It’s quite exquisitely detailed."
A shuttered look came over his features. "My mother had it commissioned before she died."
Calliope touched his arm. "l am very sorry for your loss."
"It was a lifetime ago." He walked toward the dining area.
The spacious room contained a huge table. Calliope imagined that if two people were to sit at either end they would need to yell to hear the other. A snort escaped at the thought.
"Something wrong? "
She shook her head. "No, just thinking about how one would converse from the opposite ends of the table."
He smiled faintly. "With great difficulty. We usually sat at one end. But I had a stickler of an aunt who demanded we dine formally. It was always amusing when she visited."
Dinner was served and Calliope devoured the succulent pheasant as James related amusing anecdotes about his extended family and friends. She noticed he did not mention his parents. She recognized many of the names and filed the information away, almost unconsciously, for future use.
Calliope stifled a clumsy yawn and James suggested they retire to the study.
Following him, she found herself immersed in a room with dark wood, reds and royal blues. She hadn’t paid attention to the furnishings the previous morning. It was a very manly room, no hint of a feminine touch anywhere. A sleek, ginger feline was curled in the nook of the sofa, head tucked under its arm. It glanced up and assessed her. James stroked it absentmindedly as he passed. It continued to stare at her.
She approached cautiously, and the cat did not seem to have any intention of moving. She extended her hand for the cat to sniff. Its nose twitched delicately at her fingertips and licked her finger pad. Calliope lightly stroked its chin. Satisfied, the cat stretched back into the corner and closed its eyes.
She looked up to find James observing the display with a small smile. "Gideon is a good judge of character. It is unusual for someone to receive a token of his affection so quickly."
She glanced at the sleeping furball and was about to comment when Templeton entered. "My lord, this note was just delivered. Would you like tea served?"
James nodded and took the note. Templeton strode out of the room.
James scanned the note. A satisfied expression crossed his features.
"How do you feel about attending a house party this weekend?"
She looked up in surprise. "House party?"
"Yes, Pettigrew is hosting one at his estate just outside of London. Since he’s on our list, it would give us the perfect opportunity to have a look through his . . . things."
Her eyebrows lifted. "His things?"
"You are starting to sound like a parrot, Miss Minton. I am sure that Ternberry and Roth will also be in attendance. It is quite a good opportunity. "
His parrot comment struck a discordant note and she said a bit tartly, "And what if Stephen’s house is broken into and the object we are so desperate to find is taken?"
A glint of amusement lit his eyes. "We can only hope someone does try to break into Stephen’s house. Several of my acquaintances will stay in the townhouse while you are gone."
"Oh, and how long will we be at Pettigrew’s?"
His shoulders moved in a lazy gesture. "Through the weekend."
A delicate shiver caught her.
He retrieved two pieces of parchment and wrote two notes. Templeton appeared a moment later with tea.
"See that these are delivered," James told the butler, who nodded and departed with the notes.
Calliope unsuccessfully tried to stifle another yawn.
"Maybe we should cut the evening short tonight. My driver will see you safely home. Everything will be ready when you arrive. There will be sufficient time for us to plan our strategy on the journey to Pettigrew’s."
Calliope rose to leave and he grasped her right hand and pulled her forward. Their eyes held. His forefinger stroked her palm.
"I will pick you up tomorrow. " He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on the inside of her wrist. "Sleep well, my dear."
She hurried out of the room like the Fates were nipping at her heels.
James stared at the entryway ceiling after she left. He usually avoided looking at it whenever possible. The pain had dulled over the years but he could still feel the emptiness that remained.
He remembered the glow on his mother’s face when the ceiling had been finished. She had been so thrilled with the way it had turned out. His father had given the painter more money than initially negotiated. Any amount of money was worth his marchioness’s delight.
His vibrant mother passed away a scant two months later. The doctor had said she contracted a lung disease. James knew then, at the age of twelve, that her illness was a result of the chill she had developed on their last outing. If only he had not requested that last picnic, she might still be alive.
His father had agreed. The day his mother was locked in the family crypt was the last day his father had spoken to him. In whispered tones James overheard the servants saying he looked too much like his dear mother for his father to stomach. And just at the age when James had needed his father the most, he was completely out of reach.
Unreciprocated love was a bitter thing.
James recalled the last evening he had allowed himself to cry. He had been in bed when he’d heard his father screaming in anger. James had come running, only to duck as a spray of glass crested the top of the staircase. He had cowered at the railing, peering through the uprights, hidden from his father’s view. But James had a clear view of the tableau.
The gathered servants had scattered in all directions. His father had gone into a frenzy, threatening to tear the ceiling down. He had hurled two more crystal goblets at it, but no damage was done. He had then crumpled to the floor and cried for what seemed like hours. Unbeknownst to the older man, only a stone’s throw away, his young son had cried with him. Cried for his father and for himself.
His father drank enough to forget his enraged promises concerning the ceiling, but James had not forgotten. He couldn’t recall ever seeing his father sober again. His father’s gambling exploits became legendary and he was rarely in residence at the London townhouse.
The marquess finally joined his beloved wife a year later, leaving his only offspring with a ruined empire and the assured knowledge he would never fall in love. Never succumb to weakness.
James broodingly stared at the half-full glass of scotch in his hand. He abruptly placed it on the Queen Anne table and left the room.
<
br /> * * *
Deirdre and Robert walked into Calliope’s sitting room an hour after she returned to the townhouse. Robert looked determined. He was undoubtedly there to discuss her dealings with Angelford and had decided to bring reinforcements.
"When did you acquire such a burly staff?" Deirdre queried.
Two of Angelford’s footmen had ridden home with Calliope and were now installed in her household. They looked more like pugilists than servants. "They are temporary replacements for Stephen’s footmen. Charlie contracted pneumonia and Fred twisted his ankle. I believe the new men are relatives."
