by Wicked Wager
“There’s nothing. ’Tis long ago now. Except—I don’t want him—” she spat out the word “—ever to know.”
“You have my word on that.”
She smiled then. “Perhaps there is something else. A life for a life? The little boy I knew had the potential to become a fine man. Be that man, Tony. Be what I hoped you could be.”
The love he’d felt for her all those years ago seemed to well up from some deeply buried, forgotten place in his soul. “Any chance I have to do that, I owe to you.”
“Thank you. That makes me feel a bit less guilty for having failed you. Well, I should get along now. Tom will be thinking I lost my way going to market.”
“Shall I see you again?”
She paused a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think that would be wise. Viscount Nelthorpe can have nothing in common with Mrs. Winston, the draper’s wife. And remembering is…still too painful.”
He nodded, knowing he could never imagine what she had lived through, triumphed over. “May you be happy.”
She pressed his hand again. “May you be so also.”
Tony sat his horse and watched her walk away, the tall, elegant figure with the upright carriage and graceful stride that would always be the image of a lady for him.
A lady coerced, raped, degraded by his own father. Lord in heaven. The very thought still made him sick.
Be the man I hoped you would be.
I shall try harder, he silently promised her.
TO AVOID THE CONGESTION OF the streets, far more crowded now than when she’d left early this morning for her ride, after leaving Lady Charlotte’s townhouse, Jenna directed her bay mare into Hyde Park. She’d take the path north that paralleled Park Lane, perhaps indulge in one last gallop while making her way home.
At first this morning, she’d meant only to ride as usual. But some vague, nagging sense of disquiet had disrupted the tranquility of that normally soothing activity. On impulse she’d decided to stop by Lady Charlotte’s, expecting at that unfashionable hour to have the butler inform her that my lady was still abed.
Instead Lady Charlotte had invited her to breakfast. After chatting at first of inconsequential things, Lady Charlotte had then asked what was troubling Jenna enough to impel her to so early a call. After an instant’s hesitation, Jenna found herself pouring out her suspicions and doubts about the events of the last few weeks.
Except for the details of her tryst with Nelthorpe, of course. She squelched an instantaneous niggle of longing by reminding herself how wise she’d been to dismiss him. She was reassuring herself that soon, this lingering ache for his company would fade, when her attention was snagged by the sound of hoofbeats approaching rapidly from behind.
A moment later, the rider reached her side.
Nelthorpe.
Her words of greeting faded on her lips. Stifling a surge of gladness at the sight of him, she tried to decide whether she should protest, reprimand his approach, or ignore him.
“Lady Fairchild,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “I understand you feel it best if we do not communicate, but I have new information concerning your safety I think it imperative that you know.”
A zing of alarm shocked through her. About to demand what he knew, she hesitated. ’Twould be safer to avoid him, have him convey the news via Sancha. But with him already at her side, that seemed a bit ridiculous.
While she dithered, he said quietly, “’Tis full daylight in the open park with your groom but a short distance behind us. You needn’t fear I might tempt you into doing anything you’d regret.”
You have no idea what you could tempt me to, the thought flashed through her head. Nonetheless, he was right—she was well protected. For the moment.
And you don’t truly want to send him away.
Squelching the little voice that whispered that insidious truth, she said, “Very well. Help me dismount and we shall talk. What information have you discovered?”
The touch of his hands as he helped her down was brief and impersonal. Still, feeling the imprint of his fingers like a brand against her, she vowed to have her groom assist her to remount.
Briefly he related his discoveries about the groom’s sudden death, his unexpected windfall—and his regrets about a “sweet lady.”
As he detailed his experiences in a grave manner devoid of flirtatious looks or innuendo, Jenna lost her wariness and focused on the dilemma she still faced.
“He can’t have been referring to the Widow Owens—the lady who threatened me the day of the funeral reception. Unless she is the best actress I’ve ever seen, when I called on her, she seemed genuinely shocked to hear about my accident—”
“You called on her?” he interrupted. “Good Lord, Jenna, not alone, I hope!”
She felt her face color a little. “You needn’t act as if I’m attics-to-let, stumbling heedless into danger! Sancha was waiting just outside in the hallway, and I had both my knife and my pistol at the ready. After all, I’ve fended off pirates in India and brigands on the Peninsular. Even had she turned out to be hostile, I believe I could—”
“You’re safe, so let’s not brangle over it just now. What did you discover?”
“Mrs. Owens seemed genuinely surprised about the accident. When I told her I’d lost my child as a result, she even appeared guilty, and apologized for her remarks. I believe she was telling the truth.”
“So where does that leave us?”
Us. The word sent a warm feeling of comfort and security through her before she remembered there must not be any “us.”
Once again, he replied before she could order her thoughts. “I know you think it wiser not to associate with me. I understand your reasons and,” he admitted with a wry smile, “you are probably correct. Nonetheless, I cannot like the idea of you pursuing this on your own. I’d hoped to enlist other aide, but thus far…If I vow on the graves of the Waterloo dead to keep my distance, do you not think we could work together long enough to solve this?”
“You’ve been a—a stalwart friend, helping me in my grief, but you bear no responsibility for my safety, nor have you any reason to try to fight my battles. That bullet might just as easily have struck you. If there is danger—if the groom was in fact dispatched by the same assailant who fired upon us—I cannot justify involving you any further in this.”
“If you call me friend, how can you expect me to stand aside and let you walk into danger alone?”
“I’m not alone any longer.” As a flash of something that might have been jealousy crossed his face, she continued hastily, “Though I’m not yet prepared to break and flee, I did take your advice and confide in Lady Charlotte. She was concerned—”
“As well she should be!”
“And I admit,” Jenna added with a sigh, “she too urged me to leave Fairchild House and come to her. I declined, but promised to accompany her when she departs shortly to begin Christmas preparations at her country house outside London. She also said she would ask Lord Riverton to make inquiries. But for the moment, we still know too little for me to wish to leave Fairchild House.”
“We can cover more ground, faster, if we work together. Shall we cry ‘pax’?” He held out his hand.
It would be more intelligent to share information. And by keeping in touch, she might more easily insure that he did not go into harm’s way.
As for herself, nothing, including her personal safety, was more important now than finding—and obtaining justice against—anyone, relation or not, who might have assisted in the death of Garrett’s child.
Vowing to pursue her continuing investigations as much as possible with just Sancha’s assistance, she offered her hand. The brief touch of his fingers as he shook hers burned through her gloves.
“Since the groom implicated a woman and you’ve eliminated the widow, that leaves the countess—or, much less likely, your aunt.” He frowned. “But I have difficulty believing either would go so far as to hire an assassin. That strikes more of a
man’s determination.”
Jenna sighed. “Perhaps, though you should not underestimate the determination of a lady! Nor can I see what else Bayard could hope to gain by eliminating me now.”
“What of your fortune? Were you to die without heirs, would Bayard inherit?”
Struck by that thought, Jenna considered it. “I’m not sure the terms of the settlement, but it’s quite possible.” A chill skittered over her skin. “I shall have to consult my lawyers.”
“If it should be true, would that be enough to convince you to leave Fairchild House?”
“Probably. Still, though Bayard is…strange, I cannot see him as an assassin.”
“Not all villains reveal their intentions plainly,” he said with a deprecating smile. “Promise me, though, if your cousin should prove heir to your fortune, you will hesitate no longer. Damme—dash it, but I hate it that you remain there still! At least vow to be extremely careful.”
“I shall be. Sancha is staying in my room now, and both of us shall be armed. Silly as it sometimes seems in the daylight, I must admit I feel better at night with my pistol by my side.”
“In the meantime, I’m an old acquaintance of Lucinda Blaine’s, and shall see what I can discover.”
“Was there no woman in London you didn’t seduce before the war?” she said, irritated at the immediate and entirely inappropriate images evoked by those innocuous words.
For an instant, the grin that was so appealing and dangerous to her self-control flashed to his lips. “In my younger days, I but worshipped at the shrine of beauty.”
“So many shrines,” she muttered.
“Still, you cannot deny it would be easier for me to obtain a private audience. And perhaps to persuade her into being…indiscreet.”
“I shouldn’t wish you to have to do something—distasteful,” she retorted, her tone more sarcastic than she would have wished.
“Ah, but I am ready to go to great lengths in the quest for truth,” he replied, a naughty twinkle in his eye.
The serious note beneath his innuendo checked her irritation. “Please, do nothing yet. I’m not sure what I mean to do if we determine that she is involved. Confronting her might arouse her suspicions—and could make her dangerous. Now, I’d better get back. Aunt Hetty is receiving and will think me very rude if I am too tardy to assist her.”
Nelthorpe nodded. “If I discover anything, I will send word through Sancha. You will do the same?”
“Agreed. Thank you, Lord Nelthorpe, for standing my friend—in spite of everything.”
He looked into her eyes, his expression so intense it sent a shock through her, made it impossible to turn away. “I will always be that. Your servant, my lady.”
He waited until the groom had assisted her into the saddle, then remounted himself. Conscious of his gaze following her—always, his gaze on her—she rode away.
EARLY THAT EVENING, Jenna descended the stairs to the parlor where she was to meet Aunt Hetty. Lady Montclare was hosting a musicale, so there was no chance of avoiding the entertainment. As Lady Charlotte and her party, including Colonel Vernier, were pledged to attend another dinner and she could not hope that Nelthorpe would be invited, it promised to be a dull night.
Although she was attempting to continue with her usual activities, as Nelthorpe had predicted, now that she’d been made aware of the possibility of wrongdoing, ’twas very difficult to carry on as though nothing had happened.
She’d found herself watching Aunt Hetty closely today, looking for—what? Signs of uneasiness, guilt, a touch of menace? And finding nothing beyond the somewhat petty, querulous, complaining behavior the woman had exhibited toward her ever since her arrival, behavior that Jenna’s instincts told her posed no threat.
Still, all her senses remained heightened, her eyes drawn to sudden flickers of light or movement, her ears registering small household sounds—the muffled closing of a door, the pad of a servant’s footsteps in the hallway—with an acuity she hadn’t experienced since leaving the battlefields of Spain. An uneasiness, not quite fear but more than caution, had seeped deep into her consciousness.
So that when, as she passed the library on her way to the parlor, Lane Fairchild’s voice unexpectedly sounded from behind her, she jumped. She had just a moment to compose her startled features before the library door opened.
“Ah, cousin, I thought that was your step. And how lovely you look.”
“Nearly as fine as you,” she replied, noting his dark evening wear, striking against his blond good looks. “Do you accompany us to Lady Montclare’s?”
“I shall escort you, but not remain. I am promised elsewhere, I fear.”
“Fortunate man,” Jenna muttered.
He choked off a laugh, turning it to an unconvincing cough. “Lady Montclare has been a good friend to you, Jenna. I’m sure you are delighted to accept her kind invitation. Besides, there shall doubtless be a horde of friends there to entertain you. First, I have a concern I wished to speak with you about, if you would be so good as to allow me a moment?”
Jenna’s sensitized nerves whispered caution, but she saw no reason to refuse. “Of course, cousin,” she said, following him into the darkened library. “What did you wish to discuss?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LANE MOTIONED HER TO A SEAT. “Yesterday, I discovered quite by chance from one of the footmen that you paid a call upon the woman who threatened you the day of Garrett’s services. Heavens, Jenna, how could you be so reckless?”
Surprised, and not sure how much she wished to divulge to her cousin, Jenna fumbled for words. “I—I am quite safe, as you can see.”
“Praise God nothing untoward transpired! But I’m still most upset with you. The woman might have been deranged. If you were still troubled about the incident, why did you not say so? I should have pursued it for you. Whether or not you ever gratify my fondest hopes, you are still family, and I am committed to your protection.”
After that ardent vow, a week ago she might have disclosed to him the whole. But that same cautious foreboding that had shadowed her since Nelthorpe’s warning made her hold back. Perhaps, she decided, imbued with the grim sense that she could now trust no one, she ought to reveal just enough to gauge his reaction.
“I am touched by your devotion, cousin. It was just that—oh, in the wake of that visit, it seems foolish even to mention it!”
“Mention what?” he demanded.
Watching him from the corner of her eye, she rose to pace before him, as if too agitated to remain in her seat. “I’m sure ’tis naught but the fanciful imaginings of a mind still disordered by grief, but of late I’ve had vague dreams that perhaps my fall was not an accident. Mrs. Owens did seem to have threatened me, though after hearing her fervent apology yesterday, I no longer believe she intended me any harm. Do…do you, cousin, know of anyone else who might wish me ill?”
“I can’t imagine! What would lead you to believe your fall wasn’t accidental?”
He seemed neither truly shocked by her doubts nor dismissive of them. Wishing she knew him well enough to be able to read him better, she replied, “Why would the groom mount me on a slug like Aunt Hetty’s old mare and not warn me she abhorred the whip? He knew me to be an intrepid rider. He must have suspected I would urge the beast to a faster pace as soon as we reached the park.”
“Jenna, you’ve just admitted that you’ve not been thinking rationally of late. Have you discovered anything else that would lead you to believe his omission was more than mere thoughtlessness?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “Except this continuing feeling of unease. I—I do feel particularly uncomfortable around Bayard. Much as I shrink from even thinking such a thing, you don’t suppose he might have…”
“Bayard wish you harm? No, ’tis preposterous! True, should you have been brought to bed of an heir, it would have displaced him as viscount, but you’ve seen how little he cares for that. All that matters to him are his cursed experiments. Wh
y, just last week I discovered he spent an enormous sum—on rocks! Rocks shipped from locations all over the globe, some of them encrusted with shiny minerals, some that, he said, are supposed to glow in the dark. He wishes to persuade them to ‘yield up their secrets.’” Lane shook his head in disgust.
“He is rather…odd,” Jenna observed.
Lane snorted. “When I took him to task for squandering estate funds on such a thing, he became incensed and cried that nothing could be allowed to block the advance of human knowledge, certainly nothing so trivial as—” He stopped in midphrase, as if suddenly struck. “As money,” he concluded soberly.
Jenna guessed where his thoughts were likely leading. “Does Bayard have a large personal income?”
“No,” Lane replied shortly. “He, like Aunt Hetty, was happy to respond to Garrett’s invitation to live here, as it saved his slender purse the cost of maintaining a separate establishment. Being viscount might mean little to him, but continuing his experiments would mean the world. Not,” he added hastily, “that I intend to imply I believe Bayard would ever dream of, much implement, a scheme to insure he retained the title and its wealth.”
“You are sure?”
Lane hesitated a moment. “Almost sure. But with your safety at stake, I had better make further inquiries.”
Jenna debated telling him about the shot, then decided against it. If he followed this line of argument logically, he should soon realize that if Bayard prized unlimited funds to pursue his experiments, he might well have concluded that the coffers of the estate he now controlled would be considerably enriched by the addition of the fortune that would most likely fall to the Fairchilds at her demise.
“Do you think I’m in danger?” she said instead.
“I am nearly certain you are not. But,” he sighed heavily, “as far-fetched as all this seems, I suppose it would be wise to be prudent. I would keep your maid about you. And for the moment, I would recommend you avoid encountering Bayard or his valet.”
