by Sharon Sobel
“Your search was successful, it would appear.”
“I need to speak with you immediately.” Lady Symmington gave Pris a dismissive glance. “About matters of utmost importance.”
Neville let a smile play across his lips when Pris did not take their hostess’s less than subtle hint that Lady Symmington wished to speak with Neville alone. Putting his arm around Pris’s waist, he asked, “What matters are these?”
“Sir Neville, I was wondering what you had planned for the evening’s festivities.”
“Planned?”
“You are our Lord of Misrule.” She frowned. “I assumed you would understand that your title comes with obligations. Pranks, games, and other entertainments.”
“In light of what has occurred, I assumed that such traditional farces would be set aside.”
Lady Symmington shook her head. “You assumed incorrectly. Lady Eastbridge requested that we hold the masquerade as planned. Her husband has set aside his grief to make sure her last wish is carried out, and I intend to honor her request. Will you do less, Sir Neville?”
“Yes.”
“What?” Lady Symmington asked, taken aback by his quiet answer.
“I thought my answer quite clear. I will do less. Much less. I will not be hopping about like a jester when a better way to honor the late countess would be to recall the grace and elegance she brought to her Twelfth Night entertainments.”
“But she always had pranks and silly games. My guests expect the same.”
“Then you, my lady, should have those arrangements already in place. Mayhap it would be better if you named someone else as Lord of Misrule. I fear my heart is not in the spirit of Twelfth Night tonight.”
“Nonsense. You were chosen as tradition decrees.”
“By having the crown bounce across the table and land on my plate? That is hardly traditional.”
Lady Symmington threw her head back and jutted out her chin, a move that, if she had been a man, would offer an invitation for a facer. “You ended up with the crown, Sir Neville. The obligation is yours, and I would strongly suggest that you take it seriously.”
“Why? This is nonsense.”
“Is it?” Her voice cracked. “It is the only way I can think of to salvage the Twelfth Night assembly. Don’t you hear it? Don’t you feel it?”
“Hear what? Feel what?” he asked, wondering if the stress had unhinged the baroness’s mind.
“The fear! There are over a hundred people in the hall, but it is so quiet you can hear the wind outside in the eaves. Why is it quiet? Because everyone is afraid! As soon as everyone heard that Lady Eastbridge’s death might not be a natural one—”
“It did not take long for the rumors to spread, did it?” He glanced at Pris who listened with a blank expression. She was taking her cues from him.
“Not rumors, Sir Neville. We have heard what Lady Priscilla found. If it had not been snowing so hard, I doubt there would be more than a few guests remaining.” Her mouth tightened. “I have spent months planning tonight’s gathering, and I would have gladly set it aside, save for the countess’s request that the party be held. But my guests are terrified that the murderer is still among us.”
“That is possible,” he said quietly.
Lady Symmington flinched. “I hope you are wrong. However, it does not matter. I will hold this Twelfth Night assembly, and, you, Sir Neville will provide entertainment as the Lord of Misrule.” She turned on her heel and strode away.
“Do not heed her,” Pris said. “She is so desperate to prove she is as good a hostess as Lady Eastbridge that she is acting half-insane.”
“Desperate? Enough to do something appalling?”
Pris looked at him, astonishment on her face. “Do you think that Lady Symmington may have done something to the countess?”
“According to Jeannette and Miss Baldwin, our hostess was the last one seen with the countess before Lady Eastbridge’s corpse was discovered.” He put his hands on Pris’s shoulders. “I am going to speak with Eastbridge. I want to know if he is the impetus behind Lady Symmington’s fanatic declaration to act as if nothing has happened. If you will take the children back to our rooms, I will meet you there.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” She smiled. “I would like to go with you, but I understand that Lord Eastbridge might be more willing to speak with another man.”
“Thank you, Pris.” He ran the back of his fingers against her soft cheek. “I hate asking this of you because I know you want to follow every possible clue to the truth.”
“We are a team.” She put her hand over his, holding it close to her face. “In every possible way.”
He bent forward to whisper against her ear’s enticing whorls. “The Lord of Misrule is about to make his first and only decree.”
“Yes?” Her breathless voice sent a pulse of craving through him.
“The Lord of Misrule and his lady shall not stay long at the masquerade. They shall enjoy a very private unmasking in their chambers.”
She quivered and whispered, “My lord, your wish is my command.”
With a laugh, he tapped her nose. “Keep that thought, darling.” He kissed her with unfettered longing, then released her while he still could.
He strode toward Eastbridge’s rooms with new resolve. More than ever, he wanted answers because, even though Pris had said nothing, they both knew that until the mystery of the countess’s death was unraveled, those questions stood between them and their night’s pleasure.
Chapter Ten
NEVILLE KNOCKED on Lord Eastbridge’s door. The maid Jeannette opened it.
“His lordship is in his private room,” she said with a curtsy in answer to his question. “Third door. Go right in.”
“Thank you.” Neville crossed the room, rapped on the bedchamber door which was slightly ajar, then walked in. He halted in mid-step. “By Jove!”
Miss Baldwin straddled Lord Eastbridge’s lap, her gown raised up to reveal an improper length of leg. The bodice was loose, and Neville turned away when his gaze settled on her firm breasts propped in the earl’s hands.
She gave a soft cry of dismay, and Neville heard her jump off the earl’s lap.
Lord Eastbridge cleared his throat and said, “That will be all for now, Miss Baldwin.”
Neville put his hand over his mouth to silence his laugh. Did the old cuff think anyone would fall for his moonshine? Pris had been right when she said the earl had designs on his wife’s attractive, young companion, but did Eastbridge want her enough to murder his own wife? Or did Miss Baldwin want the earl’s prestige and money enough to slay the countess?
When Miss Baldwin slipped past Neville, she was still trying to get her dress to cover her properly. Her face was as crimson as the earl’s waistcoat.
“You could have the decency to knock,” the earl said, standing.
“I did.”
“Then you walked right in without permission.”
“The maid told me to—” He smiled coldly. “I would warn you, Eastbridge, that your household is troubled by your affaire with Miss Baldwin. Servants have their unique ways of making their opinions known.”
Eastbridge swore an oath, then asked, “Which one was it?”
“Does it matter? Long ago, I learned that the sentiment below stairs is usually shared by most of the household staff.” Neville was not going to give the earl a reason to give a servant who was loyal to his late wife her conge. “I would not attempt to suggest how you should live your life, Eastbridge,” he went on, not attempting to keep his disgust out of his voice, “but there already are questions about how your wife died. If others see you in such a passionate embrace with Miss Baldwin, there may be those who believe the two of you have a reason for wishing the countess out of the way.”
“What you are suggesting is an insult I cannot endure. I should ask you to name your friends.”
“You will endure that insult and more if you continue to act impetuously.” Neville laughed without a hint of humor. “Will you challenge to a duel everyone who chances to see you and Miss Baldwin tangled up together?”
The earl lost his bluster and swore under his breath. “Dash it, man! Have some sympathy for a man who has just lost his wife.”
“Conveniently, it would appear, for you and Miss Baldwin.”
Eastbridge snorted a laugh. “Quite the opposite. Don’t you see, Hathaway? The arrangement with Annalee has been quite convenient for me while my wife was alive. Her death was no boon to me. Very much the opposite. Now that dark-haired fortune-hunter will not stop pestering me to make her my wife.”
Neville crossed his arms over his chest and met the earl’s eyes steadily. As Eastbridge looked away, Neville said, “I saw how you were bothered by her attentions.”
“As long as I can persuade her that there is a chance for her to become a countess, she is willing to do anything I want.”
“Even murder your wife?”
The earl stamped his foot and scowled. “Have you heard nothing I have said? My life was well-ordered with my wife overseeing my needs in my household and Annalee overseeing my needs in my bed.”
“But does Miss Baldwin want to be your countess enough to kill your wife?”
Again the earl seemed to deflate. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. The girl has changed since my wife’s death. She once was compliant. Now she is endlessly demanding.”
“How long has she been in your household?”
“A year, maybe less.”
“Where was she before then?”
The earl shrugged. “My wife handled the hiring and dismissal of servants. I can only assume Annalee’s references met her standards.”
Neville cursed silently. That Eastbridge knew nothing of his lover’s background could mean nothing or everything. Each time Neville saw the young woman, he was certain he had seen her before, but not in a fine house. That meant he must have seen her in the lower sections of London. Could Miss Baldwin actually be some sort of trading dame who had decided to find a better bed and better pay for her favors?
“Do you know where she was when the countess died?” Neville asked, hoping he could get at least one answer.
He walked toward the table where a bottle waited. “No, Hathaway. I don’t know where she was at the time my wife died. I do know that Annalee was the one who discovered my wife was dead.” He opened the bottle and poured out some of the amber liquid. Tilting it back, he swallowed it in a single gulp. “A week ago, I would have never guessed she could do anything horrible. Now . . .” He refilled his glass and drank it down again. “I don’t know what else I can tell you, Hathaway.”
Neville went out of the room. In the outer chamber, Jeannette worked dusting the lower shelf of a table. He nodded to her and continued to the door. As he reached it, he half-turned as he opened it. He caught, out of the corner of his eye, a satisfied smile on the maid’s face. She had sent him in to intrude on the earl and his particular, and she was quite pleased with herself.
The maid, Neville decided, was up to something more than embarrassing her employer. Silently he added Jeannette’s name to his list of suspects, but Annalee Baldwin’s was now at the top.
NOW IT WAS Daphne who had gone missing!
Priscilla wished there was a way she could train a foxhound to chase after her children when they went off on their own without informing anyone where they were bound. Usually she trusted their good common sense, but with the possibility of a murderer in the house, she wanted to know where her family was at all times. She had assumed Daphne was in the room she shared with Leah, preparing for tonight’s events. Daphne had promised to help her sister with her hair, and that was why Leah had come to Priscilla, upset that Daphne apparently had forgotten.
There truly was only one other place where Daphne could be. She was so excited about being a part of the festivities, even though she was not officially out, that she might have sneaked into the ballroom to see what had been prepared.
Priscilla walked along the elegant corridor that led to the ballroom which was in a wing of its own. The space seemed oddly deserted, and even though she knew the remaining guests were preparing themselves for the bizarre assembly, she could not keep herself from looking around on every step. A creak as the house settled in the cold was unnerving.
The ballroom had doors on both the ground floor and the first floor. The lower doors led to the main floor of the grand chamber while the upper ones would open onto galleries or private boxes. She headed for the doors on the first floor. With servants busy with last minute details, Daphne would peek into the ballroom from above. The only question was which door.
Luck was with Priscilla when she opened the first door and realized the gallery around the Symmingtons’ ballroom was continuous. It connected the various boxes and allowed guests to stroll around the ballroom and enjoy its beauty from every angle.
And the ballroom was stunning. The pale green walls between the tall arched windows were decorated with plaster flowers and vines amidst the paneling. The ceiling was painted with an al fresco scene of young people seated two by two in a meadow with butterflies and birds and cherubs flying around them. A trio of chandeliers were set equidistant from each other. Crystal prisms threw rainbows across the walls because the candles had already been lit.
That surprised Priscilla, but she appreciated the light that reached through the gallery’s railing. She stood still and listened. From below, she could hear the hushed voices of the servants as they made sure everything was perfect for the Symmingtons’ guests.
Then she heard a different sound. A soft, throaty laugh. It came from her right, and she recognized it as Daphne’s. Her first reaction was relief. Her daughter would not be laughing if she were in danger. Almost immediately, Priscilla wondered what mischief her daughter was up to now.
Priscilla got her answer when she took two steps along the gallery and saw two forms entwined in the shadows. The pose was similar to the statue Duncan had purchased for Aunt Cordelia, but fortunately these two people were fully clad.
Very fortunately because the two in the embrace were her daughter and Lord Witherspoon.
Clearing her throat served when Priscilla had no idea what to say to break the two apart. They leaped away from each other as if someone had lit a fire between them.
Daphne had the decency to look abashed at being discovered in Lord Witherspoon’s arms. He released her, stepping forward as if to defend her.
Priscilla focused her glare on him, and the young marquess almost crumbled in front of her eyes. A part of her was tempted to laugh because Neville had warned her that her “I am disappointed in your behavior” look could slice through the hardest armor. But she submerged her amusement. There was nothing funny about finding her oldest daughter wrapped in a man’s embrace.
“Good afternoon, Lord Witherspoon.” Her voice was as icy as her eyes.
The marquess wisely gave Daphne’s hand a squeeze and took his leave.
Priscilla walked in the other direction with her daughter. Neither of them spoke as they went out of the ballroom. The silence continued as they returned to their rooms. Priscilla broke it only to ask her younger children to give her and Daphne some privacy. Closing the main door behind them, Priscilla pointed to the closest chair.
Her daughter did not hesitate, hurrying to perch on the very edge of the seat. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made no effort to wipe them away.
With a sigh, Priscilla asked, “Do you have any idea how I have had to fight your great-aunt to keep you children?”
Daphne looked up in disbelief.
“Yes, it is true. Aunt Cordelia bel
ieved that I could not raise you to take your proper place in the Polite World because I had turned my own back on it when I married your father.”
“I had no idea, Mama.”
“I had hoped that it was a truth I could keep to myself, because I did not want you to think poorly of me or your great-aunt.”
Daphne cried, “I would never think poorly of you, Mama.”
“That is good to hear.” Sitting near her daughter, she said, “But you must understand, Daphne, that the ton will be eager to look askance at you because you are my daughter and Neville’s stepdaughter.”
“Mama, you always do the civil. Nobody would decry your manners and your grasp of the canons of Society.”
“Save for one error, for the daughter of an earl should never consider an offer from a vicar. What they considered a mesalliance stained my name, and it made me suspect among Society.” She smiled sadly. “Not that I became an outcast because I am the daughter of an earl. You, on the other hand, are the granddaughter of a deceased earl. Everything you do and say must be above reproach because the Beau Monde will be waiting for you to do the wrong thing and prove that you are unworthy of their company. They would gleefully send you to Coventry.”
“But Uncle Neville—”
“He does not care a rap about the ton, and he is a man. Those two factors make him somewhat immune from being ostracized. Also he is rich, and the ton will overlook many social solecisms in the case of those who are plump in the pocket.”
“It is not fair!”
“That is the truth, but it is the way of the Polite World. You can choose to accept its rules, or you can choose banishment.” Her voice became stern. “And if anyone else but your mother had found you in Lord Witherspoon’s embrace, you would be finding that out firsthand. Daphne, you are usually the one I can depend on for being sensible. What were you thinking?”
“When Mr. McAndrews asked Aunt Cordelia for her hand, it was so romantic.” She leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. A wistful sigh slipped past her lips. “I simply wanted to enjoy something romantic myself.”
