by Olivia Drake
“Ollie was both owner and captain of a fine merchant ship,” Bernice said with pride. “And Halcyon Cottage is perfectly suited to my needs now. What would I want with such a great pile of stone as this?”
“One’s home is a monument to one’s rank. Especially here in London where polite society is the pinnacle of the civilized world.”
“Society is full of gossiping hens and preening dandies. I met far more interesting people among the savages of Canada and Brazil.”
“Such blather! You never did understand that a lady derives her status from her husband.”
“And you never did understand that a lady derives her happiness from marrying a man whom she loves.” Despite her pithy retort, Bernice had a kindly, almost pitying look on her lined face. “But neither of us has a husband, anymore, Prudence, so that’s that.”
Lady Dashell persisted doggedly in her one-upmanship. “Yet you will finish out your days as a plain missus, whereas I retain the title of marchioness. I shall always outrank you. It matters naught that I’ve been widowed for a year now.”
“I’ve been widowed for ten. And I’d trade all my worldly possessions to have my Ollie back. My only regret in life is that he and I were never blessed with children. Be thankful you have two of your own, both fine young men, to my understanding.”
Lady Dashell plucked at the counterpane. “Thankful! I am confined to this bed ever since the accident, plagued by every ache and pain imaginable.”
“Not every. I doubt you’ve ever had scurvy. That made my hair fall out during one voyage. Ever since, it grew back in sparse.”
“Hair! That is nothing compared to being crippled. Or suffering chronic dyspepsia and arthritic joints, too. Why, I can scarcely sleep a wink at night.”
“I was seldom ill while sailing the high seas, breathing all that fresh air. It helps foster deep slumber, too. Speaking of which, the air is rather stuffy in here. I daresay that has a debilitating effect on your health.”
Bernice sprang up and went to the wall of windows. Rory parted her lips in warning, then decided to bide her tongue and see what happened. As her aunt raised the sash on one window, the inevitable screech came from the bed.
“Close that at once! I’ll catch my death!” Lady Dashell hurled one of the bolsters at Bernice, though the pillow fell harmlessly short of its target.
“’Twas my belief you hurt your legs, not your lungs,” Bernice countered, as she went to open another window. A pleasant breeze stirred the draperies, carrying the scent of the outdoors. “It isn’t the ocean, but it’s nicer than that stale sickroom smell.”
“Miss Paxton!” the marchioness barked. “Run over and shut those windows immediately.”
“Rory, stay right where you are,” Bernice countered, her arms crossed obstinately. “As for you, Prudence, I won’t have you treating my niece like a lackey. She’s as wellborn as you!”
Having arisen from her chair, Rory stood uncertainly. She felt caught between the dueling curmudgeons. Her duty was to obey Lady Dashell, yet she agreed with her aunt that fresh air could be beneficial.
While she was debating what to do, a masculine voice spoke from the doorway. “What is all this uproar?” Lucas Vale demanded. “I could hear shouting all the way down the corridor.”
He walked into the bedchamber, planted his hands at his waist, and stared at the women. His dark blue coat brought out a trace of cobalt in the iron-gray of his eyes, and an austere white cravat emphasized the smooth-shaven angles of his face. He was not smiling.
Then again, he never smiled.
Nevertheless, Rory’s heart did a little flip inside the confines of her corset. She hadn’t seen him since they’d parted company in the middle of the night, and she had convinced herself that her attraction to him had been a product of candlelight and semidarkness. Yet now that keen awareness rekindled in her, adding a hitch to her breathing and a sparkle to her veins.
“It’s about time you came to visit me,” Lady Dashell carped. “I’m being harangued on all sides. It’s enough to bring on one of my megrims.”
He bent down and kissed her wrinkled cheek. “I’m sorry, Mama. I had business to attend to this morning.”
When he straightened up and gave Bernice an inquiring look, Rory remembered her manners. “Lord Dashell, I’d like to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Bernice Culpepper. She arrived in town this morning to visit my stepmother and asked if she might call on the marchioness.”
Bernice came forward to shake his hand. She examined him up and down and gave an approving nod. “So you’re the marquess. How do you do? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You’re the aunt from Norfolk, I presume.” A faint furrow to his brow, he glanced from her to Rory and then to the marchioness. “Am I to understand that you and my mother are old acquaintances?”
“We made our bows the same season,” Bernice began.
“Then she married a lowly sea captain,” Lady Dashell broke in. “You must forgive her any gaffes. She tossed away well-bred society in order to mingle with sailors and savages.”
“Now, what gaffes have I committed?” Bernice said, humor tugging at her weathered face. “I vow I’ve been as polite as you deserve!”
“You opened the windows against my wishes! Lucas, I want them closed immediately, lest I develop a lung disorder on top of all my other afflictions.”
Lord Dashell took a step in that direction, but Bernice was closer and beat him to it. “Oh, I’ll shut them if you insist, Prudence,” she said over her shoulder as she pulled down one sash with a bang. “Though you’ll never be hale enough to leave that bed at the rate you’re going.”
“Hale?” the marchioness scoffed, her upper lip curled. “How cruel of you to suggest such a thing. The finest specialist in London said my case was hopeless.”
“There’s no sense wallowing in the doldrums about it, then. One must always make the best of things, as Ollie used to say.”
Lady Dashell dug her fingers into the counterpane. “Oliver Culpepper! What could he have known of anything? If the fellow was forced to earn his living, he might at least have chosen a more respectable profession!”
Instead of being offended, Bernice clucked her tongue in commiseration. “You’re bitter. I was that way for a time, too, after my husband’s death. But when my niece came to live with me, she helped me to see that I was squandering my life by being unhappy. Isn’t that true, Rory?”
All eyes turned to Rory. Bernice was smiling, Lady Dashell scowling, and Lord Dashell … well, Rory didn’t quite know how to describe his look. It was forceful and penetrating as if he wished to peer into her soul.
Unwilling to let him do so, she gazed at her aunt. Bernice had a point. Her ladyship would never enjoy any contentment if she continued to let acrimony rule her life. “You were difficult at first, Auntie. But I suppose I was, too, being sent to rusticate so far from London. So, we helped each other, I’d say. And we’ve scraped along quite well together these past eight years.”
At that moment, a small parade of footmen entered the bedchamber. Each bore a covered tray from which emanated delicious aromas. Lady Dashell snapped an order to one of the manservants to move a small table and chairs close to the bedside for Bernice and Rory.
Dashell strolled to Rory’s side. The directness of his gaze caused an unwelcome fluttering in her bosom. He bent his head close, enveloping her in his alluring scent of pine and leather. “We need to talk,” he murmured for her ears alone. “If you won’t mind leaving your aunt here, you’ll take luncheon with me downstairs.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Rory sat at Dashell’s right hand in the dining chamber while a pair of footmen served them spring lamb, braised endive, and roasted potatoes. She felt oddly at home in the formal setting, though a lifetime had passed since she had enjoyed a meal served on fine china. And in the company of a handsome gentleman.
Not that she cared a fig about handsome gentlemen anymore, except as a coconspirator. Lucas Vale
might prove useful if he could help her nab the blackmailer and earn her reward money.
He made a discreet gesture to the servants, who bowed and departed, leaving them alone in the cavernous room with its baroque décor and the burgundy drapes fastened by tasseled gold cords. For a few moments, the only sounds were the clinking of heavy silver utensils against the plates. The marquess seemed content to eat without conversing. Perhaps he wished to finish his meal before broaching the topic of the mystery. Then again, she knew from their one silent dance together all those years ago that no one could ever accuse him of being a chatterbox.
The memory tickled Rory’s sense of humor and made her want to tease him out of his stuffy manner.
“Are you not aware that dining with a scarlet woman could damage your reputation, Lord Dashell?” she said, cutting a slice of lamb. “What would Miss Kipling say if she knew?”
“My servants don’t gossip and my brother has gone to Newmarket for the day, so there’s no one to see us.”
“Your mother might tell her. She seemed rather put out when you whisked me away from her bedchamber just now.”
“My mother won’t see Alice again until I say so.” He flashed Rory a reproachful look over his wineglass. “Though it seems you haven’t learned your lesson about extending invitations to this house without my permission.”
Rory arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t imagine you would object to Aunt Bernice paying a call. She is an old friend of your mother’s, after all. And they seem to be getting on quite well.”
“From the clamor I heard down the corridor, they were quarreling.”
“The marchioness thrives on quarreling. I suspect that no one has pushed back before now, so she’s become something of a tyrant.” Rory thought the same thing was true of him, though she kept that observation to herself.
His eyes narrowed on her. “I see. So, you’ve solved all her problems even though you’ve been here little more than a day.”
“Sometimes an outsider can view the situation more clearly. And I believe it would do the marchioness a great deal of good to renew old acquaintances. Does no one ever visit her?”
“There were quite a few callers directly after her accident. But when she refused to see anyone, they stopped coming.”
Though his expression remained flinty, Rory noted a trace of worry in the furrowing of his brow. She set down her fork to give him her full attention. “The accident happened over a year ago, did it not? Will you tell me about it? If you don’t mind, that is.”
His gaze flicked to hers before he stared down into the ruby contents of his wineglass. For a moment, she thought he might refuse. Then he spoke in a monotone. “She and my father were traveling back to London from the family seat in West Sussex. He’d been drinking heavily and decided to climb up to the coachman’s seat and take the reins. Mama tried to stop him, but he refused to listen. He drove too recklessly and veered off the road while passing another carriage. The coach overturned. He was thrown to the ground and broke his neck. Mama might have died, too, had she not been sitting inside.”
Rory imagined the horror of that moment, the crazy tilt of the coach, the jarring crash, the agonizing pain. Sympathy for the marchioness stirred in her. And for her son, who’d had to take on the burden of her care.
It was also the longest speech she’d ever heard Dashell make, which indicated the incident still deeply disturbed him. “I’m so very sorry,” she murmured. “It must have been a difficult time for you and your family.”
He turned troubled eyes at her. “Do you really suppose my mother can ever find contentment again? I’m at my wit’s end with her.”
She was moved that he’d let her see a crack in his granite façade. On impulse, she reached across the white linen to touch his hand. It felt warm and solid, a testament to his masculine strength. “Yes, I do think she could be happy again. But she has to find that resolve within herself. Perhaps my aunt can help her see the way.”
His stark gaze held hers for another moment. Then he withdrew his hand and picked up the crystal decanter to refill his wineglass and hers. The cool look returned to his face. “Handing your post over to someone else already, are you?”
“Only because Aunt Bernice is more qualified, given her own widowhood. If she’s agreeable, it will be good for your mother. And it will allow me more time to find the blackmailer.”
He frowned. “The man is a criminal and likely dangerous. I would rather you left this matter to me.”
And give up her reward? Never!
“My stepmother asked me to find him, and I intend to do just that. Besides, it may be someone in her household, and you can’t investigate there. I’ve identified several suspects already.”
“Who?
“When I called this morning, a Mrs. Edgerton was present. Do you know her?”
“Only slightly. A widow and quite popular with the gentlemen.”
Having witnessed the woman’s sensual walk, Rory had no trouble imagining that. “She is a particular friend of my stepmother’s, so she would have had the opportunity to steal the letters. There’s something I don’t quite trust about her. I’ll need to find out if she’s short of funds.”
“Who else?”
“There are two servants of interest, one is Foster, my aunt’s maid. She’s a rather timid sort, but if she’d spotted Kitty with the letters, she might see it as her ticket out of service.”
“And the other?”
“Grimshaw, the butler. He’s always been a snoop. This morning, I caught him listening outside the breakfast parlor.”
“Servants do eavesdrop,” Dashell observed. “Is there another reason why you suspect him?”
Rory battled the rise of a blush. She had no intention of revealing that Grimshaw was the one who’d caught her in flagrante delicto with Stefano. Or that the butler had gleefully informed her father and brought him running.
“He’s a busybody, that’s all. He knows everything that goes on in the house, so it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he’d found the letters where Kitty left them in her sewing basket.”
“There was no one else?”
She shook her head. “You were to check into your father’s old cronies. Who did you find?”
A secretive look entered his eyes. “I had other things to do this morning, but I do have two suspects in mind. Colonel Hugo Flanders is an old lecher who likes to lavish expensive gifts on his mistresses. And Lord Ralph Newcombe is a hardened gamester who’s up to his eyeballs in debt.”
“Newcombe! Mrs. Edgerton mentioned going to a card party at his house tomorrow night.”
“Indeed? I don’t gamble so I wasn’t invited. But I might just have to wangle an invitation.”
Rory itched to go, too. She couldn’t let Dashell be the one to catch the blackmailer, or Kitty might renege on the reward. But how could a woman of her reputation infiltrate society? She would have to ponder the matter.
In the meantime, something else weighed on her mind.
“I’ve been thinking about the necklace that Kitty gave to the blackmailer,” she said. “If the culprit is in need of money, then he may have tried to sell it.”
“I’d been considering that angle myself.” Dashell pushed back his chair and came to draw back hers. “You don’t mind skipping the dessert course, do you? We’ll go to my study and fetch paper and pen. You can sketch the necklace for me.”
“For you?”
“Yes, I’ll take the likeness around to jewelers and pawnshops. The proprietor may be able to give me a description of the seller.”
Rory sprang to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides. “You’re not going without me.”
He wore the indulgent look of a father mollifying a petulant daughter. “Don’t be irrational. Ladies don’t frequent pawnshops. I’ll be venturing into the most treacherous parts of town.”
“Not all women are helpless creatures in need of a man’s protection. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Oh?”
“It’s true.” When he gazed skeptically at her from his superior height, she added, “And for that matter, I’m terrible at drawing. I can’t even do a credible stick figure.” She didn’t mention that Celeste could create a lifelike illustration of the necklace in a flash.
“Then describe it to me,” he said. “Surely you can manage that much.”
Rory contrived an innocent look. “I’m afraid description isn’t my strong suit, either,” she fibbed. “It seems you’ll just have to take me along with you.”
Chapter 12
It is far more beneficial to the feminine mind to study algebra and geography than to memorize rules of etiquette.
—MISS CELLANY
Half an hour later, they sat side by side in a well-sprung brougham driven by a coachman. The enclosed vehicle was a new mode of carriage that had not been in use during her debut season. It resembled a coach cut in half, leaving room for only two passengers.
The tufted blue satin on the walls and cushions created an intimate bower. The gently rocking motion of the brougham should have had a soothing effect on the senses, but Rory felt alive with excitement. She had to force herself to sit still, for if she dared to move, her skirts would brush Dashell’s leg or her arm would touch his sleeve.
Not that he seemed aware of her presence.
He gazed out the window, observing the busy traffic and the many shops along Oxford Street. His classically handsome profile might have been chiseled from marble. Yet maybe he wasn’t so hard-hearted, after all. During their luncheon, he had showed deep concern for his mother’s well-being.
Feeling more charitable toward him, Rory refused to attribute the exhilaration inside her to anything but the adventure of tracking down a blackmailer. Allowing herself to feel something deeper would only lead to trouble. It would be the height of folly to develop an affection for a nobleman who believed her to be suited only to the role of his mistress.
Besides, Dashell was wooing Alice Kipling. He needed the heiress’s vast wealth to save him from financial ruin. It bothered Rory to recall his formal manner toward the girl the one time she’d seen them together. He had displayed not a trace of affection. What a pity he couldn’t marry for love.
