Cloaked in Danger

by Jeannie Ruesch

  Cordelia’s expression remained fixed, her eyes shuttered. He couldn’t see past the blank stare. “I want what I want.”

  “Halton is not an option.”

  She crossed her arms. “You said it would be my choice, Adam. Mine.”

  “And I thought you would use that choice wisely. Halton is old enough to marry Mother.”

  “Which only means I would achieve a measure of freedom that much sooner. He has an heir and a spare—he doesn’t need children. Either way, as his wife I would have the wherewithal, and the ability, to do what I wish.”

  Adam hated to think his sister was that shallow, but the proof glared at him with impatience. “I will not marry you off to a man who will—”

  “Hurt me as Blythe’s first husband did? For heaven’s sake, give me some credit. I am not so naïve. I won’t be swayed by charm and romance. And one family secret is enough.”

  Her words were a slap, and Adam stood, shocked into a lack of response.

  Regret softened her features. “Adam, I—I did not mean it. I—”

  “It’s the truth. So allow me to learn from my previous mistakes. I let Blythe marry that man. I will not let it happen again. And without my approval, I guarantee Halton will not propose a match.”

  Anger flushed her cheeks, and her lips had thinned to a white strip. Cordelia turned on her heel and moved past him. Seconds after she sashayed into the room, a shower of effusive compliments erupted.

  He’d known keeping this particular sister in line would be difficult. Of all his sisters, she was the most headstrong, stubborn and unlikely to bend simply because he demanded it.

  He rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension pulling inside of him, but the memories flashed through his head anyway. The vivid, horrifying image of running up the stairs at his sister’s country home and seeing Blythe held at gunpoint.

  By the husband he’d allowed her to marry. Thomas Ashton.

  Protecting his family was all that mattered.

  Which brought him back to Ravensdale.

  And Miss Whitney.

  To his everlasting annoyance, he couldn’t stop thinking about the hot burst of energy he’d felt upon meeting the troublesome Miss Whitney. Or the way his blood had surged when she lay beneath him.

  Or his flash of fury at the idea that she and Ravensdale were involved.

  “Adam?”

  He snapped his head around to see his younger sister—and at the moment, his favorite for her uncomplicated and non-troublesome manner—stepping off the base of the stairs and walking toward him with a half smile.

  He cleared his throat and gave himself a mental shake. “Lily, how is your morning progressing?”

  She moved to stand in front of him. “Perhaps better than yours. You looked so fierce.” The chatter from the front parlor caught her attention, and she sighed. “I left my journal in there. I had hoped to snatch it before Cordelia’s suitors arrived.”

  “No need to wait. Cordelia has them well in hand, I imagine.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Six.”

  A mischievous curve tilted Lily’s lips. “And how many do you think will still be there after an hour with her?”

  “May I hope for none?” Adam chuckled. “She can be quite charming when she wants to be.”

  “Yes, she’s focused on finding the best possible match.”

  “—my future brother in law,” Cordelia’s voice broke in. “You do know the Duke of Ravensdale, don’t you?”

  Silent laughter shook Lily’s shoulders. “I do not imagine Blythe’s betrothed would approve of Cordelia appropriating his name for her own benefit.”

  “Likely as not,” Adam replied with a lightness he did not feel. He had come to grudgingly tolerate Blythe’s happiness with Ravensdale, and to have that threatened now...

  “Blythe loves the duke,” Lily said softly. “Isn’t it time you accepted that?”

  “You sound like Blythe.” Adam was momentarily surprised by her understanding. For all her fifteen years, she was so quiet most of the time it was easy to forget how intelligent, how aware she was. “I have accepted him.” Blythe had told him to fake it.

  “Keep practicing that. If you say it enough, you might convince someone.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” He raised an eyebrow in mock horror.

  “A bad one, at that.”

  “I ought to lock you in your rooms.”

  “Would you please?” Her expression turned earnest, though the humorous glint in her eyes matched her amused tone. “If you lock me in my rooms, Cordelia won’t be able to find me when her suitors have gone. She’ll want to catalog the assets of each and every one, and that could take hours.” She shuddered. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “Then I think your punishment ought to be accompanying me into the lion’s den. You did say you wanted your journal.”

  “You don’t want to go in there alone.”

  “Can you blame me?” It was one thing to reign supreme as the man of the house, lording over lowly suitors vying for his sister’s affections. It was quite another to be in the room with said sister while the men fawned and pretended Cordelia was filled with sweetness and light.

  Especially given it was entirely too early for a drink.

  He slanted a pleading look at Lily. “Have pity? If nothing else, you could sit in a corner, pretend to write in your books and catalog some of your own thoughts about Cordelia’s suitors. I would appreciate another opinion.”

  Pleasure dawned on her face. “Truly?”

  He nodded. “Truly.”

  She lifted her chin and faced the doorway. “I shall eavesdrop with the best of them.”

  Adam chuckled as they entered the well-appointed parlor. Cordelia sat in a high-backed chair, her flock of men on the edges of the surrounding couches, leaning forward.

  As their attention wavered to Adam, the gentlemen quickly stood. Cordelia remained seated, giving the intruders her back.

  “Gentlemen.” Lily tried to slide away from him, but Adam stretched out his hand and grabbed her arm. He made quick introductions. The last one, Mr. Robert Melrose, was a bit of a surprise. The third son of a marquis, he was heir to nothing. Both of his brothers stood in good health. Melrose knew the title, estates and fortune would never be his.

  Mr. Melrose stepped forward. “Lady Lily, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “My pleasure, as well.” With a brief acknowledgment toward the others, she retreated to a corner of the room, grabbed her journal, and bent her head as if completely absorbed by her task.

  Mr. Melrose stared after her a moment, then returned to his chair.

  “Lord Vanderwyne, I do believe you were in the middle of a story,” Cordelia said with a slanted glare at Adam.

  Lord Vanderwyne perked right up. “Yes, of course, Lady Cordelia. As I was saying, the wheel of the phaeton had completely unhinged itself, and there I was, alone and unattended. I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what to do.”

  Cordelia had to be faking that intent interest, because truly, what was so hard about a carriage wheel? It fell off, it got fixed. You went on your way. Story over.

  The Duke of Halton also looked rather pained to be sitting in the room. Adam couldn’t imagine how the man could stomach it, sitting here, three times the age and at least five times the consequence of some of his so-called competition.

  Adam imagined his coffee contained something stronger and turned to the indolent Mr. Melrose. Did the man resent his place in life? Or worse, did he lounge about without a care in the world for his family or finding a way of becoming his own man?

  As Adam casually studied Melrose, the man’s gaze slid to the corner of the room.

  Lily.

  Adam’s back stiffene
d. There was nothing untoward in the glance, other than that it was surreptitious. But God forbid Cordelia should catch an idea that one of her beaus felt even a passing fancy about her younger sister.

  God forbid one of Cordelia’s beaus should feel a fancy—passing, fleeting or any blasted kind—for Lily.

  It would mean war in the house.

  “Mr. Melrose, how is your father?” He offered the man a pointed stare. It went unnoticed.

  “Jolly good, as a matter of fact.” He smiled benignly, his focus direct again. “Took a recent trip to Bath with my mother, and they were both quite restored by it.”

  “I have not yet ventured to Bath. I hope to plan a trip this summer.” This was spoken almost like a timid question by the young—possibly younger than Cordelia?—Earl of Marbleton.

  “Oh, you must visit Sydney Gardens,” Lord Vanderwyne said. “It truly is elegance personified.”

  “Oh yes! And the labyrinth!”

  Cordelia appeared pleased at the turn of topics, since this one lent nicely to gauging the spending habits of the men present.

  Adam set his empty cup down. “So shall we go down the row, one at a time, and you can ensure me of your intentions toward my sister?”

  Cordelia gasped, but before she could open her mouth, Higgins stood in the doorway.

  “My lord, there is a visitor.”

  Adam jumped up. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

  The minute he hit the door, Higgins handed him a card. “A Mister Calebowe to call.”

  The man in question was of an age with Adam’s mother, elegantly dressed without being fussy, with a shock of silver hair. He turned upon Adam’s entry.

  Mr. Calebowe inclined his head slightly. “Lord Merewood, I am here to call—”

  Adam moved toward him. “I am afraid you are too late, sir. There are suitors aplenty today. If you leave your card, I will be sure Lady Cordelia gets it.”

  “There must be some mistake, as I—”

  Adam let out a sigh of frustration. “My sister has plenty of visitors at this time and—”

  “I am not here to see your sister,” Mr. Calebowe interrupted, blinking a few times.

  Adam frowned. “Then what may I do for you?”

  “Franklin?” The name was half-whispered and Adam turned to look at his mother, who clearly knew the man.

  And was also clearly shocked by his arrival.

  She took the final few steps down the stairs and stopped, her attention never wavering from the stately man who stood in front of Adam. “Franklin, it’s truly you.”

  Mr. Calebowe inhaled, and on his exhale of breath he said her name: “Hypatia.”

  “What are you doing here?” Adam’s mother looked frozen with alarm.

  “I came to call on you.” The last word was raised slightly, turning it almost into a question. “Forgive me for being a little late.”

  Adam’s gaze volleyed back to his mother and he startled. She held herself stiffly, her emotions bared in the angry set of her jaw, the shock in her wide eyes and the protective instinct to cross her arms over her chest. How could a man he had never met have caused such immediate emotion?

  “Late?” She covered the distance of the corridor in seconds. It would appear anger had kicked in as well. “Late would be thirty minutes. Late would be an hour or two. Maybe even a day. Bloody hell, Franklin!”

  “Mama!” Who the hell was this man?

  “Young man, this does not concern you,” she tossed back, without looking in his direction. Her righteous indignation was directed at the unsuspecting man whom Adam was starting to believe should leave. Immediately.

  “‘Patia, I can explain.”

  Adam frowned at the intimacy of his address. “Kindly address her as Lady Merewood in this home, Mr. Calebowe. My mother deserves the proper respect due her station.”

  Mr. Calebowe bowed his head slightly, accepting the criticism with the quiet fortitude of one who knew he asked a lot to be forgiven. “Lady Merewood, a few minutes of your time. Let me explain.”

  To Adam’s utter amazement, tears filled his mother’s eyes and she shook her head.

  “You are too late, Franklin. Thirty years too late.” And with those throaty, emotion-filled words, she turned on her heel and went back up the stairs.

  Adam turned to their uninvited guest. “You need to leave.”

  The man suddenly seemed smaller. Defeated. He reached into the inside of his overcoat and pulled out an envelope. “Would you give this to your...to Lady Merewood? I had not expected her to see me, but I had to try.”

  Adam took the envelope and nodded. Mr. Calebowe shot a final, regretful glance at the now-empty staircase before turning toward the door. Higgins held it open with a stoic expression.

  “Mr. Calebowe?” Adam asked.

  He turned back. “Yes?”

  “How do you know my mother?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted in a sad smile. “I was betrothed to her.”

  Chapter Five

  Aria set her reticule on the table by the front door. A yawn escaped, and she jumped a little in place to try and force some energy into her body. She was forever coming and going these days, adhering to the God-awful late hours society kept. She peered out the small window in the front door.

  It was a little past eight and a long evening loomed ahead after a completely fruitless day. It was no wonder society disdained anyone who worked for a living. You could not possibly put in a full day of work in any capacity and then stay out until the morning hours at parties and balls.

  And for what? To mingle with people they’d known all their lives? Where was the adventure in that?

  Aria shook her head. They weren’t terrible people. She was just weary. Of going to balls, of pretending to be something she wasn’t.

  “Ready for this evening, Miss Whitney?” Lady Beasley teetered out of the parlor, sherry in hand. It was at least her third, perhaps more, since her arrival an hour before.

  “Looking forward to it,” Aria replied. “Thank you for acting as my chaperone.”

  Lady Beasley took a lengthy sip. “I am delighted to attend tonight’s performance. I have friends who shall be there.”

  Which meant another evening in which Aria would be free to pursue her own plans. She sent a prayer to the heavens, thankful for tipsy, flighty chaperones.

  A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

  When she opened it, Mr. Patrick Wade stood on their porch, dressed in simple black and dark blue. His kind of handsome was the devastating kind, with a grin full of charm and a smooth manner intended to set one at ease.

  She waited for that feeling to strike her—the same tingle, the awareness that had flooded her around Lord Merewood. But her body felt perfectly normal.

  “You look quite perfect tonight, Miss Whitney—an Incomparable.”

  “Thank you. But I shall be the envy of every woman at Vauxhall simply for the handsomeness of my escort.” She pushed open the door and moved aside. In seconds, he filled the space with a large working man’s frame. Strong, muscular shoulders that hinted of hours of labor, arms and hands that had seen their fair share of toil.

  “Aria, I am not sure this is the—oh. Mr. Wade.” Emily stood on a step, one foot poised to step down and her hand on the rail as if she would turn and run. “Don’t you look dashing this evening.”

  “Mrs. Whitney, you grow more beautiful each time I see you. Lady Beasley, how enjoyable to see you again.”

  Lady Beasley beamed, while Emily playfully batted her hand at him, then rested it on her belly. “Poppycosh, you charmer.”

  “Aria, might we have a moment before you leave?” Emily asked.

  “I have some of the whiskey you so enjoy,” Aria told him and gestured toward the parlor. �
��Please, help yourself.”

  “I don’t mind if I do.” With a wink, he moved where she’d directed.

  Aria turned to Emily. “What is it? I want to arrive before they light the lamps.”

  “Tell Mr. Wade the truth. Perhaps he can help.”

  “Do you see him attending parties with me? With how he feels about the aristocracy? They’ve done little to earn my respect, but he hates them. And besides, Mr. Wade doesn’t have the connections I need. He’s a merchant. He imports the goods they buy. They would never allow him in their circles.”

  “But he does have business connections. Perhaps there is something—”

  “I don’t need his help, Emily. And the less people involved, the safer Papa is.”

  “You don’t have to handle this alone. Mr. Wade’s feelings for you are abundantly clear. Even when he travels for business, he returns to your side the minute he sets foot in London.” The characteristic pinched lips and a brow furrowed with disapproval appeared upon Emily’s sweet face. Aria was forever disappointing her stepmother. “Think about letting him help.”

  “Aria? Is there something you need my help in?” Patrick stood in the doorway, a glass with a modicum of whiskey in his hand.

  “Why do you ask?”

  He quirked an amused smile. “When you answer questions with questions, I know something is amiss. What has you so concerned? If there is some way I may resolve it, you know I will.”

  His hand landed on her arm, offering a firm, almost hard squeeze. She felt affection for him—they were companionable, comfortable. But trust him with her father’s life?

  That wasn’t quite so simple. She wasn’t sure she had the ability to trust anyone so completely, much less when it concerned something so important.

  “Aria, let me help you,” he urged. He took a final step and loomed a little too close.

  She stepped back. “Nothing is amiss.”

  A tic jumped in his jaw, but it quickly disappeared. “Very well. Shall we go?”

  As he escorted her to their carriage, irritation emanated from his solid steps, his strident gait. Aria knew he was disappointed.