by Amy Corwin
She couldn’t help defending John. “He was sitting by the fire.”
“Then he should know if anyone else left. You made a foolish wager, my dear, if you want my opinion. That Archer fellow already knows the results if he was sitting by the fire.”
“The wing chair has a high back, and he was staring into the flames as he listened to Miss Urick’s playing. You can hardly blame him if he noticed nothing but the lovely music.”
Mr. Fitton’s handsome face softened briefly at the mention of Miss Urick. The ghost of a pleased smile flitted over his mouth, and he cast another glance in her direction over his shoulder. “Indeed.” He bowed. “However, I am sorry that I am such a disappointing witness. I failed to notice the other guests.”
“Quite understandable,” Victoria replied softly as she examined his chiseled features wistfully.
Even though she’d realized that her heart lay firmly in John Archer’s hands, part of her felt sadly dashed to realize that Miss Urick had earned Mr. Fitton’s affection. The sense of doors closing, of opportunities lost, assailed her.
How could she be so contrary, so insincere and easily swayed? She longed for John with such depth of feeling that at times the intensity took her breath way, and yet here she was, pining over the loss of another man’s interest—a man for whom she had previously cared not one whit.
As inconstant as the moon… Or so Mr. Shakespeare would say.
She nodded, thanked Mr. Fitton, and walked away, ashamed of her conflicting emotions. Glancing around the room, she was relieved to note that John had the larger burden of talking to the women, for there were far more women than men.
Chewing her lower lip, she considered to whom she should speak. Mr. Wickson’s comment about her puce pelisse itched at the back of her mind, an annoying fleabite of a problem.
Had Rose taken possession of the pelisse? If so, why had she been wandering around London wearing it? Why had she walked by Sir Arnold’s townhouse? If she had been seeking Victoria, why hadn’t she knocked on the door and asked for her?
Victoria could only hope that Rose would obey their summons and come soon to explain such extraordinary behavior. There had to be a simple explanation, and hopefully one that didn’t have anything to do with the missing tiara.
Her gaze fell on the plump form of Mr. Wickson. He was standing next to the colonel, and the two men appeared to be deep in conversation. She hesitated for several seconds before straightening her back and walking over to them, conscious of the social awkwardness presented in her situation.
The colonel, a stickler for the proprieties, would no doubt disapprove of her boldness in approaching the two men rather than allowing them the privilege of addressing her first.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said as she joined them, a smile fixed on her face.
“Oh, Lady Victoria,” Mr. Wickson sputtered. “I say, has your maid returned then? Dashed odd thing—her wandering about London in your pelisse—dashed awkward.”
“Yes, well, I hope she shall arrive soon with an explanation, though I must admit that I told her she could have the garment.”
“As well you might!” Mr. Wickson exclaimed. “Wretched garment—not at all the sort of thing I imagine you’d enjoy wearing.”
“My old nanny made it for me. And puce is an exceedingly popular color with a great many people,” Victoria replied, once more leaping to defend the honor—and taste—of Nanny Barrows.
The colonel cleared his throat and eyed her with a hard, censorious gleam in his eyes. His rigid stance made him tower over her, and Victoria took a step back before she determinedly smiled up at him.
“Puce is an excellent color, however that does not explain why it keeps coming into the conversation,” the colonel said. He looked beyond Victoria to the doorway. “Or why it is necessary to drag others into the matter. However, I suppose no one will be satisfied otherwise.” He sighed and shook his head. “I find it all inexplicable.”
“As do I,” Victoria agreed as pleasantly as she could through gritted teeth. “In the meantime, I was hoping the two of you could assist me. You may think me excessively featherbrained, but I have made a wager that no one left the room while Miss Urick was playing. She is so talented, do you not agree?”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Wickson hastened to agree. “Exceedingly talented.”
“And yet you saw fit to escape to the balcony while she was playing, Mr. Wickson,” the colonel observed, his brows beetling over his piercing eyes.
“Well, yes, of course.” Mr. Wickson inserted a finger into his collar and yanked as he looked around the room. “Smoking, you know. Didn’t want to bother the ladies—dashed awkward, I know, but what can you do?” He shrugged. “They object, you know—the ladies, that is—they object to the smoke, though I can’t for the life of me understand it.”
“I’m sure our hostess appreciates your thoughtfulness, Mr. Wickson,” Victoria said reassuringly. “Did anyone join you?”
“Join me?” He stared at her blankly.
“On the balcony. Did anyone join you on the balcony?” she asked, working to keep her tone pleasant though she wanted to grab his neckcloth and shake him vigorously.
“Right, right.” He heaved a relieved sigh and stared at her expectantly.
“Well?” she prompted. “Were you alone on the balcony?”
“Right—oh—yes, well, Sir Arnold, of course.”
“Anyone else?” she prompted when Mr. Wickson stopped, his face assuming an expression devoid of any intelligence, at least as far as she could ascertain. She looked at the colonel. “Did you notice anyone leave the drawing room?”
“This talk of a wager does not fool me, Lady Victoria.” He clasped his hands behind his straight back and stared at her with a tight mouth. “If you are seeking to shift the blame to someone else, then I am afraid I cannot help you.”
“Not at all, Colonel. I assure you, I have no desire to shift the blame to anyone, unless they deserve it.” When he opened his mouth, she continued, saying, “As soon as my maid arrives, I am sure we will settle the matter of my puce pelisse. So. Did you notice anyone else’s absence?”
“I was here and there, Lady Victoria,” he replied vaguely. “Listening to the music. If anyone elected to leave the drawing room, they did not inform me of that fact.”
“I see. Well, I appreciate your observations, gentlemen.”
“Yes, well, don’t feel too bad if Archer wins the wager—he always does. Uncanny, how he does it. Downright uncanny.” Mr. Wickson patted her elbow awkwardly.
Victoria laughed. “Oh, I am still hoping that he shall not get the upper hand, Mr. Wickson. I certainly don’t intend to surrender, yet.”
“Excellent! Teach him a lesson, eh? Serve him right if he loses.” Mr. Wickson grinned as he pulled on his lapels and straightened his evening jacket. “I have a good mind to teach him a lesson, as well, eh? Can’t give up and let him win every wager, can we?”
“No, we cannot,” she agreed warmly. “Did you have a wager, as well, then?”
“Wager? I should think so—a hundred pounds if he marries you.” He winked and nudged her with his elbow. “Don’t give him the satisfaction, eh? Refuse and—I say—refuse and I will split the one hundred pounds with you. Fair enough, eh?” He stared at her with bright, hopeful eyes.
She stared back as the room spun around her. A wave of nausea whirled through her, rushed up, and hit the back of her throat. She reached out to grip the back of a nearby chair.
He wagered he would marry me! Just like Mr. Laverick! Her stomach fell, and if it weren’t for the support of the chair next to her, she’d have collapsed on the floor. As it was, her limbs shook and folded, landing her on the chair’s padded seat.
She loved him, and he had betrayed her. He’d never loved her at all—he was simply trying to win his wager.
But at what cost?
Then she remembered the delicate hints her parents had dropped about John’s family. And parentage.
Or lack thereof. Anger, humiliation, and a sharp, stabbing pain filled her. By marrying her, he would make his fortune through her dowry, and win one hundred pounds while he was at it. Not such a bad bargain, for him.
For her, it was devastating. How could she have been so stupid, so silly as to be fooled again by a fortune hunter? What did it say about her that men could so easily make her the subject of their humiliating wagers?
She couldn’t bear to meet the gaze of either Mr. Wickson or the colonel. Her cheeks burned as her body shook. She clasped her hands in her lap and took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm.
Cool. Controlled.
No matter what his motive was, the important thing now was to prove her innocence. She could not allow the shock of her discovery to weigh with her, couldn’t show how it had torn the very heart out of her chest and crushed it.
Never again. I will never again give my affection so lightly. She raised her head. Cold steel filled her. She would not betray herself. No one would ever see the depths of her pain.
She smiled, her lips stiff and unnatural, as she stood. The side of her face itched, and she turned her head to see John watching her, a quizzical look on his face. Colder still, she made another promise to herself.
Mr. John Archer was going to lose his bet.
Chapter Thirteen
What the devil had Wickson said to Lady Victoria that made her face go pale and forced her to collapse onto a chair? John studied the small trio of Wickson, the colonel, and Lady Victoria. The men appeared bored by the conversation, so it couldn’t have been too important. Whatever it was, she recovered admirably. In less than a minute, she was back on her feet, smiling.
Returning to his own task, John examined the nearly identical faces of the Misses Owsley and decided that Grace was the pleasant one and Maud was the serious one. In his experience of twins, there was always one who was happy while the other was, well, if not precisely sad, then sober and serious. It was as if they’d split one character into two, with one infant retaining the carefree portion and the other left with the worries.
Wrinkles were already forming across Maud’s forehead and around her mouth, while her sister’s face was devoid of any such fretful marks.
As Miss Grace turned to speak to Miss Jacobs, he asked, “Did you enjoy Miss Urick’s performance on the pianoforte, Miss Maud?” He drew her away from the two other ladies to speak to her privately.
The furrows in her brow grew deeper before her face cleared. She nodded. “Yes, she is very talented, is she not? I enjoy Haydn very much.”
Her sister laughed and gave Miss Jacobs a tap on her shoulder with her fan.
He watched the two thoughtfully for a second before turning his attention back to Miss Maud. “Most talented. She never missed a note,” he remarked, giving her the opportunity to mention the discordant jumble of notes Miss Urick had executed in the middle of the piece.
“No—I wish I could play as well,” Miss Maud stated wistfully. “I was sorry when her concert ended.”
“Then you were fortunate enough to remain in the drawing room throughout the piece?”
A blush rose up her slender neck to her cheeks, but before she could answer, Miss Jacobs stepped closer to them and said, “Your sister and I have decided we absolutely must visit Grafton House on Bond Street tomorrow morning. There is a very superior linen draper there—Wilding and Kent, I believe—and I simply must see if they have bugle bead trimming that will suit my new gown.”
“A new gown?” Miss Grace asked, her blue eyes brilliant with excited curiosity. She moved closer and gripped Miss Jacobs’s arm. “You must tell us all about it—what color is it? Is it silk or muslin or some other lovely fabric?”
“There are certainly some items I would like to purchase, as well,” Miss Maud interjected in a thoughtful voice. “And a morning walk would be an excellent change. I do not approve of so much time spent indoors. It is unhealthy.”
“Do you enjoy fresh air, then, Miss Maud?” John asked.
“Yes, I do,” she replied firmly. “My sister may be content to while away the hours indoors, gossiping over her sewing, but I must have some exercise.” Her words held the flavor of a well-worn argument between the twins.
The impression was strengthened when Miss Grace heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes at her sister. “We do not all feel the need to wander about London at all hours, dearest.”
“Surely, not all hours,” John murmured. “Have you been outside this evening, Miss Maud? The night air is remarkably refreshing.”
“Though I noticed you elected to sit by the fire, Mr. Archer,” Miss Jacobs said with a grin.
“No.” Miss Maud frowned and folded her hands together at her slender waist. “Despite my sister’s disagreeable humor, I do not take the air at all hours. Night air is not beneficial to anyone, as she well knows. The less time spent breathing in the damp vapors of the night, the better.”
“So, you remained snug in this delightful drawing room this evening?” John asked in an effort to pin at least one sister down.
“Where would she go?” Miss Grace answered for her sibling. “It would have been quite rude to leave, would it not?” She gazed up at John, her blue eyes wide with artful innocence. Her cheeks dimpled with a smile. “Though, I must say, I regretted it when Miss Urick made such a muddle of Mr. Haydn’s piece, halfway through. I cannot understand how she came to do such a thing, though perhaps Mr. Fitton distracted her.” Flashing a glance in Fitton’s direction, a contemplative and yet predatory look settled over her heart-shaped face. “He is dreadfully distracting, do you not agree?” Her smile grew again, and she stared at John obliquely through her thick lashes. “All of you gentlemen can be quite distracting, in fact.”
“Indeed, I hadn’t noticed,” John replied in a dry voice. At least he knew that Miss Grace had been in the room during the period in question, if she heard Miss Urick massacre Haydn. “Do you agree with Miss Grace, Miss Jacobs?”
Miss Jacobs laughed lightly, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Men are often more disagreeable than distracting.”
“Did you enjoy Miss Urick’s performance at the pianoforte?” he clarified, curbing his impatience.
He could sense the desire of the ladies surrounding him to be done with his questions and move on to the obviously more interesting—at least to them—topic of what tempting items they might find at the linen draper’s in Grafton House.
“Yes, from what I heard. Although, I must confess that I failed to notice this egregious error Miss Owsley described,” Miss Jacobs waved an airy hand, dismissing the topic. “I am not an accomplished musician, myself, you see.”
“You are too modest.” John bowed politely.
“Or honest.” Miss Jacobs laughed.
Although the girl was plain, the amusement brightening her gray eyes made her more attractive than her wispy, mousy-brown hair, bulb of a nose, and thin lips might otherwise have granted. It was clear why Wickson had been interested. He always fell for good-natured girls, which was fortunate, since they were the only ones who seemed able to tolerate his kind, but oft-vague intellect.
Too bad that he seemed torn between Miss Urick and Miss Jacobs, for it seemed Miss Urick, at least, was setting her cap at the handsome—and apparently tone deaf—Mr. Fitton.
“It is too bad about Lady Victoria, is it not?” Miss Jacobs asked, her gaze fixed on John’s face.
“Not at all,” John replied, glancing around.
Mrs. Stedman and Lady Longmoor were sitting nearby on a sofa in front of the fire. The wing chair next to them remained empty, drawing his gaze. The deep cushions had been remarkably comfortable.
His side ached dully, and he pressed his elbow against the bandage in an effort to concentrate. The sense of time passing bothered him like a pesky fly. He would not be allowed to question the guests forever. Sooner or later, Mrs. Stedman would demand that the authorities be sent for, with the inevitable result that Lady Victoria would be humilia
ted with an accusation—false or not.
It was unconscionable. His shoulders tightened with anger, and he rotated them, staring at the empty chair.
“It is difficult to believe that Lady Victoria would do such a thing,” Miss Maud said in a breathless voice. Her blue eyes glittered as her lips twitched in a half smile. “Perhaps she didn’t realize—or only meant to try on the tiara. I’m sure no one would have even thought to associate her with theft, but her own mother…” Covering her mouth with one gloved hand, she smothered a nervous giggle. “Well, if her own mother believes she is guilty, one can hardly argue. After all, one must agree that her own family knows her best.”
“Lady Victoria is not a thief. The case was empty when she found it,” John restated crushingly.
When he fixed his gaze on Miss Maud, she flushed and lowered her eyes to stare at the floor. “Of course,” she agreed quietly.
“Will you ladies excuse me?” John asked, not waiting for a reply before he walked over to the fire.
Stopping behind the wing chair, he rested his forearms on the high curved back and studied the two women on the sofa. Chances were good that neither one of them could add anything to his small sum of knowledge, but he wanted to hear Mrs. Stedman’s opinion. She seemed like a reasonable woman, not given to leaping to odd conclusions, and she might have seen or heard something. For her part, Lady Longmoor had clearly decided that her daughter was to blame, so her thoughts on the matter could be safely discounted.
“Good evening, Lady Longmoor. Mrs. Stedman.” He executed a shallow bow before going around the chair.
Both ladies rose to their feet, exchanging glances.
“Mr. Archer,” Lady Longmoor replied coolly. “Won’t you join us?” She waved at the chair. “It is very comfortable here by the fire.”
“So it appears,” he agreed, waiting until the ladies reseated themselves before he sat down. “This matter of Mrs. Stedman’s missing headdress is disturbing, is it not?”
“I cannot understand it,” Mrs. Stedman replied. A frown pinched her mouth.
