There's Something About Lady Mary

by Sophie Barnes

  Given the limited time that remained before the deadline, this would have to do if he wanted to run the article. Besides, he very much doubted that a lady would put her own reputation at risk by fabricating such information. “You understand that once your story goes into print, the repercussions could be quite severe. Lady Steepleton might very well find herself dragged to court, perhaps even to prison. Are you prepared to let that happen?”

  “Why, of course; I would not have come here otherwise.” Lady Stephanie gave the editor a frosty stare that sent a shiver down his spine. “Lady Steepleton has overstepped her boundaries. She has acted rather despicably, to say the least, and I simply feel that it is my duty to stop her before someone else gets hurt—or dies.”

  The editor nodded slowly. She had a point, though he couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t a far more personal reason behind this attack. Still, a woman practicing medicine without a license. . .the public needed to know about it.

  “Well then,” he told her after a short sigh, “you may look forward to seeing your article in the paper no later than tomorrow morning. After all, we cannot allow for such disgraceful behavior to carry on any longer than it already has.”

  “I could not agree more,” Lady Stephanie told him as she picked up her reticule and rose from her seat. “I shall look forward to reading it.”

  Across the street, William Summersby was having a dinner jacket fitted by his tailor. It wasn’t something he particularly enjoyed, rather a chore that his father had given him upon seeing how worn the fabric was on the ones he had. His longtime friend, Col. Conrad Jennings, waited impatiently for him to finish.

  “I would like to make it to White’s by five,” Conrad remarked as he picked up a random hat from one of the shelves. He turned it over in his hands, glanced at the price, and then put it carelessly aside, feigning disinterest.

  “Why the sudden hurry?” William couldn’t help but ask. Conrad had told him earlier of course, but William had always enjoyed twisting the knife whenever Conrad was concerned.

  Conrad flapped his arms in annoyance. “You know perfectly well that I want to place a wager against Cummings before the deadline, which happens to be three o’clock, in case you need reminding.”

  Oh, dear; it was already quarter to.

  “I am surprised that you have not done so already,” William told him. “Why the devil would you wait until the very last minute?”

  He knew this too, of course. Again, the knife. . .

  “Well, I was hoping to discover if the poor sod might, by some miracle, be able to escape his fate, though it does seem that he will be married before the month is out.”

  “Miss Huxley certainly did her damnedest to trap him. It would be quite the scandal if he were to refuse her now, especially if she were to start showing.”

  “Dear me, I had not thought of that possibility. Do you think she might be—”

  “Who knows? But if she is, then there is even more reason for him to settle the matter expediently.”

  “You are absolutely right, and that is precisely why. . .Good Lord, who on earth is that?”

  William turned his head and leaned forward to peer out of the shop window. At first he couldn’t tell whom Conrad might be referring to, but then he saw her: Stephanie Maplewood with her head held high under a straw bonnet trimmed with yellow ribbons.

  “What an exquisite creature,” Conrad murmured, mostly to himself, but loud enough for William to hear.

  Exquisitely venomous, William thought.

  To Conrad he said, “If you pursue that woman, then I shall be the one placing bets at White’s as to how long you will manage to survive your marriage before she does you in.”

  “Oh, don’t be daft,” Conrad told him as his eyes followed Lady Stephanie. “A woman such as that, with a face so pretty and a figure so shapely—a man would be a fool not to pursue her.”

  “Is that so?” It was becoming increasingly difficult for William to keep a straight face at the sight of Conrad drooling over Lady Stephanie. Conrad was generally fierce in his demeanor—a military man who didn’t take nonsense from anyone. He was tough too in his bearing, the sort of man who instilled fear in his opponents. Yet here he was, ogling a woman as if she were a plum pudding he might be ready to devour.

  “Trust me on this,” William told him seriously. “That woman is nothing but trouble. In fact. . .”

  Damnation. Was that the office of the Mayfair Chronicle that she was leaving just now? What the devil was she up to this time? William was beginning to think he’d rather not know.

  “You were saying?” Conrad asked in a dreamy voice.

  William eyed his friend with a grim smile. “Only that she very nearly ruined the reputation of my future sister-in-law intentionally, I will have you know.”

  “Why on earth would she do that?”

  “Beats me, although I do suspect it has a lot to do with her affection for my brother.”

  “You don’t say,” Conrad muttered wryly.

  He waved his hand as if to brush aside this last piece of information as though it held no significance whatsoever. “No matter,” he said. “I shall have her all the same.”

  “Then you are either a fool, Jennings, or some sort of masochist—perhaps even both—because that woman will give you nothing but a headache, and I will happily wager that it will be from the frying pan she uses to hit you over the head.”

  “Feisty, is she?”

  “No, not exactly; more like vicious and vile.”

  “So I take it you will not be visiting me much once I marry her?”

  Once, not if?

  “Only if I can bring a pistol with me so I can protect myself when she tries to stab me in the back.”

  “Have a little faith, will you?” Conrad turned to William with a grin. “Did I tell you that I recently started breeding dogs in my spare time?”

  Bloody hell. Don’t tell me.

  “I shall look forward with great pleasure to putting a muzzle on that little vixen and making her heel.” He winked at William. “You will see; I shall promptly put her in her place and have her whispering sweet nothings in my ear before you know it. You can bet on that at White’s if you like.”

  “I will be sure that I do,” William said and grinned.

  He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it back to the tailor. “Let me have this in navy as well,” he said. “Now then, I do believe we had best be on our way if you still want to place that bet against Cummings; we have only five minutes to spare.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  * * *

  White fluffy clouds sped across the sky as Mary entered Hyde Park at a brisk pace that afternoon. She’d sent an invitation for tea to Lord Woodbridge earlier in the day, but before he arrived, she simply needed to get out of her house for a while.

  She’d returned there yesterday, against Ryan’s recommendations, but the fact of the matter was that she wasn’t comfortable with continuously imposing herself on Alexandra when she had a perfectly good house of her own. After all, Alexandra had a husband and a child to see to, and though Mary liked her immensely and valued her friendship, she knew that if something were to threaten that friendship, it would likely be a houseguest who got in the way—as all houseguests eventually did if they overstayed their welcome.

  So, having engaged in yet another lengthy argument with Ryan, she’d eventually gotten her way, though he had made it quite clear that he thought her a fool—a careless fool at that.

  Now, as she left the footpath behind her and marched hastily across the grass, she considered all the horrible things she’d said to him in anger. Ignoble cad and numbskull had certainly come up at some point, but she was perhaps slightly less proud of malodorous milksop, in response to which he had called her a jingle-brained harridan. Needless to say, they’d parted on less than amicable terms.

  Jingle-brained harridan, indeed. Insufferable man!

  Well, Mary had to admit that the insult she’d t
hrown at him with as much vigor as a spectator might apply in tossing rotten tomatoes at a poor performance in the East End had been grossly misplaced and merely a depiction of her own furious temper, which generally escalated with alarming haste whenever Ryan Summersby opened his mouth to speak.

  She now wondered if she ought to apologize. After all, he did have a point, but then again, so did she. She breathed a sigh of frustration. When would he come to realize that she loved her freedom and independence and that she had no intention of sacrificing it—not for anyone.

  But Ryan was already trying to dictate where she was allowed to go and for how long she was allowed to go there. He’d insisted that if he were otherwise occupied, she take Emma along with her at all times, and he’d even had the audacity to direct Thornton about, informing the aging butler that the security at her house was not up to scratch and needed seeing to immediately. The poor man had been left with no choice but to start adding locks to her bedroom door and boarding up her windows—a wise decision, considering that she was feeling increasingly compelled to jump out of one of them. In truth, Ryan was treating her like the helpless woman he clearly considered her to be, with need for constant guidance from a level-headed man, a position he’d quickly claimed without as much as asking for her acceptance.

  Not that she would have given it. She couldn’t deny that there were people with an incomprehensible desire to frighten her, perhaps even harm her, but even if she did find herself in the face of danger, she certainly didn’t want Ryan to be lurching behind her at every turn, ready to jump in and rescue her.

  And if she were to marry him—and there was still that big if in her mind, regardless of what she had told him—then she wanted the kind of partnership she’d spoken of at Whickham Hall. She didn’t want to be considered weak or inferior by anyone, least of all by her husband. She didn’t want to be brushed aside or treated like a child. And she especially didn’t want him to think that if he left her side for a minute, she’d fall prey to only Lord knew what.

  If that were truly the case, then she could just as well wave good-bye to her independence forever and acknowledge that she might as well remain home in bed. Her life as she knew it would be well and truly over.

  The sound of twigs snapping among the trees caught her attention. She’d been so caught up in her own thoughts and the dialogue she planned to have with Ryan the next time she saw him that she’d failed to notice where she was going. She’d left the most popular area of the park behind and was now quite alone, surrounded by trees. Nobody could see her.

  Her heart quickened as another twig snapped. A rustling sound followed. It was probably just a small animal—a squirrel perhaps, or a mouse.

  “Mary?”

  She gasped at the sound of that voice. Her heart leaped into her throat. She stiffened, paused, and turned around very, very slowly.

  “I hope I am not intruding.” It was Jack Helmsley, dressed rather casually in a beige jacket and brown trousers. “But I saw you walking and decided to follow. I must say, you certainly keep a brisk pace.” He was breathing heavily from the effort of chasing after her.

  Mary stared at him. She took a small step backward. “What do you want?” she asked in a strained voice.

  “Not exactly the warm welcome I was expecting.” He studied her for a moment.

  “Well, you startled me,” she said, willing her voice to stay calm. “I was deep in thought about a rather serious matter.”

  “I see.” He wiped his brow with a white handkerchief, then looked at her much like a father might at a child he was concerned about. “There is something you ought to know, something I have not yet told you.” He took a step forward. “I am afraid that I have not been very honest with you.”

  Mary took a sharp breath and held it. Her heart was still drumming vigorously against her chest.

  “You see, your father. . .How do I put this? I. . .well, you see, the thing is that—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I already know that you killed him.” The words were out before she could stop them. And once they were out, there was no taking them back. Mary clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at Jack.

  Oh, hell!

  “Is that what you think?” He gaped at her in astonishment. “How did you even. . .? Never mind; I know that you have been making inquiries.”

  He took another step in her direction, and she consequently tensed so much that she thought she might snap in two. “I have actually made a lot of interesting discoveries lately.”

  Dear God, why would I tell him that?

  “I see.” Jack frowned at her while he considered this. “And would these discoveries have anything to do with your father’s journals, by any chance?”

  “You are the worst kind of scoundrel I have ever met in my entire life,” she flared as a sudden wave of anger assailed her. The last of her fear was swept away as she leaned toward him. “My father loved you like a brother; he trusted you, respected you, helped you, and this is how you repay him, by having him killed?”

  “You have to listen to me,” Jack told her carefully. “I—”

  “No, you listen to me, Jack,” Mary sneered as she pulled the pistol that Alexandra had given her from her reticule.

  “What are you. . .?” Jack held up his hands in surrender. “Look, I realize how this must seem. I know your father mentioned me in the course of his investigation, but I did not sanction his death.”

  The laugh that Mary gave him was a mocking one. She tightened her hold on the pistol. “And why should I trust anything that you have to say? Because you told me that my life was in danger? Or perhaps because you informed me about my father’s investigation? Oh, wait; you did neither of those things, did you, Jack? Instead you deliberately kept it from me.”

  “I am sorry, Mary,” Jack told her as he stepped toward her once more. “You have every right to be suspicious of my actions.”

  “Stop right there,” she warned. “I will shoot you—do not make the mistake of thinking I will not.”

  Jack sighed. He dropped his gaze to the ground. “The truth is that I was just as worried as everyone else about what might happen if the journals were not destroyed. My whole livelihood is at stake, Mary. You have to understand that I could lose everything if my errors were brought to light.”

  “And I am supposed to feel sorry for you?” The sneer was back in her voice again. “You had my father killed, Jack. For that I can never forgive you.”

  “Have you not been listening to a single word that I have said?” He looked back up at her, his eyes full of desperation. “I did not—” But just then he made the irrevocable error of reaching out toward her. It was an impulsive plea for forgiveness on Helmsley’s part, a plea that Mary completely misread as a sign of aggression.

  Reflex rushed into her fingers, forcing her to squeeze the trigger. She closed her eyes, just as the gun went off with a loud bang, propelling her backward against the trunk of a tree. Silence followed. Her eyes remained firmly shut for one second, two seconds, three seconds. . .She opened them slowly.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the apostles—I have killed him!

  Mary peered down at the heap of limbs that lay sprawled at her feet. How curious; she couldn’t seem to find the point of impact. And there wasn’t much blood either. In fact, there wasn’t any as far as she could tell. It had to be on the other side of him then, the side she couldn’t see. She looked at her hands, still clutching the pistol. As if it had just scorched her flesh, she tossed it aside, into the bushes.

  What now?

  She leaned forward to take a closer look at Helmsley’s body.

  Closer and closer. . .

  A hand reached out and grabbed her. Mary screamed, her voice shrill with startled fright.

  “Mary. . .” Jack groaned, his eyes fluttering open. “What the blazes were you thinking?” His fist clutched the fabric of her skirt.

  Pulling away, Mary tried to run but fell instead, her knees hitting the ground with
a thud. “Help me, Mary; my shoulder hurts like the devil.”

  “Unhand me, you ill-begotten scoundrel!” she cried, her hands reaching for something, anything, that might help her pull herself away from him.

  “For the love of Christ, Mary,” Jack muttered as he rolled over onto his side. “You shot me; you could have bloody well killed me, you little idiot.”

  Mary scrambled about in the dirt, desperate to get away from him. She’d tossed away her only weapon and now. . .Oh God. . .Her dress caught on some brambles and tore. Her hand curled around the root of a tree. She tried to pull herself up, but Helmsley latched onto her ankle. Kicking with all her might, she did her best to be rid of him. It was of no use.

  “Is that it, then?” he asked her angrily. “Are you just going to leave me here like this?”

  “What do you think? After everything you have done?”

  With a pained sigh, he fell back against the undergrowth. “You do not know what you have gotten yourself into.” He winced with pain as he clasped his shoulder. “You have the wrong man.”

  “I hardly think so,” she hissed. “You have done nothing but lie to me these past few weeks—perhaps longer than that even; who knows? And of all the initials mentioned in my father’s journals, you are the only one I actually knew. Yes, I have met Clemens and Bosworth recently, but they were not friends of mine. You, on the other hand, you were like family.”

  Grabbing onto a nearby tree for support, she lifted her free foot and stomped down as hard as she could on Helmsley’s wounded shoulder. With a cry of sheer agony he released her. “Mary, please,” he croaked, but she didn’t stop to listen to what he might have had to say; she was running as fast as her feet could carry her, toward the corner of the park that would put her closest to Brook Street and home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  * * *

  In his father’s town house on Grosvenor Square, Ryan was quietly enjoying a cup of tea in the parlor while he waited for his father and brother to arrive. Percy had also been called to attend, though he was expected to be late; his brother and his father, however, were not.