She picked at a bead on her dress. “I’d have given him funds but Papa’s will prohibited any such thing. Anyway, Edgar already received an inheritance from his father’s estate and continues to receive a generous annual allowance.”
Ewan took his seat again. “He needs more—a great deal more. I believe his life depends on it.”
Yvette looked to the window, her delicate features awash in sadness. “And he killed his mother and my father for it.”
“How is it you didn’t become ill too?” His gaze caressed her. Bathed in the morning sunlight filtering through the lacy curtain, she appeared lost and forlorn.
“We had attended a soirée. Papa and Belle-mére became sick hours after we returned home. The doctor thought they must have eaten something tainted. Belle-mere died two days later, Papa less than ten hours after her.”
“But,” he touched her arm, “you didn’t become ill?”
Yvette raised her eyes to his. “I was still recovering from my riding accident and had developed a fierce headache. I didn’t eat or drink anything that night.” She scrunched her forehead in concentration. “In fact, we were preparing to leave when Edgar arrived with two mulled wines, one for me and one for Papa.”
Ewan frowned. “But you said you didn’t drink anything.”
“I didn’t. I don’t tolerate spirits. Belle-mére took mine. I distinctly remember her telling Edgar they make me ill.”
Yvette gasped, her eyes rounding in horror. “Dear God, it was the wine.” The color drained from her face, and she clutched at the table’s edge. “Edgar poisoned the wine. Belle-mere wasn’t supposed to die.”
Yvette stared at Ewan, aghast. “I was.”
Chapter 10
Yvette wanted Ewan to deny it, to tell her she was wrong but he remained silent. Her gaze swept over him. Yes, it was as she feared. His eyes were full of sympathy. She sucked in an unsteady breath and closed her tear-filled eyes. Pain and fear, sharp and jagged tore through her. Several long, silent moments passed before she composed herself.
Ewan picked up one of her hands. His slightly rough thumb caressed her knuckles.
She opened her eyes and watched the slow, soothing movement. “Yesterday, when I met with Mr. Dehring, I added a provision to my will naming Vangie’s children as my beneficiaries—that is—if I never marry.”
His hand is so warm and big and brown. He must spend a great deal of time outdoors.
“That would be a dreadful waste.”
What did he say?
Yvette searched his eyes. “I’ve embarrassingly deep pockets,” she blurted to cover her discomfiture.
“I’m aware of the extent of your wealth.” His thumb stilled.
She couldn’t conceal a small start of surprise. Her gaze roved his impassive face.
Ewan smiled and squeezed her hand, before releasing it. “I made a point of discovering your worth,” he confessed.
“Why?”
He gazed at her for a lengthy moment. “I thought it might be helpful in my pursuit of your stepbrother.”
How did knowing her worth help him? That excuse didn’t wash at all. Ewan had only delved into her financial affairs because of Edgar’s suspicious behavior, hadn’t he? He had no other reason to be poking about in her private dealings, had he?
Bother it all. Was she always to be so distrustful?
Yancy’s unannounced entrance halted any further conversation. His gaze flicked over Ewan, then her. “Miss Stapleton, may I beg a few minutes alone with your betrothed?”
Was it her imagination or had he emphasized the word? She was sure neither man missed the tinge of pink she felt sweeping over her cheeks. Their smiles confirmed her fears. Dratted men.
Composing herself, she tilted her head. “Of course, Lord Ramsbury.” She stood, then hurried in the direction of the door.
“Yvette?”
Pausing, she looked over her shoulder. “Yes, Lord Sethwick?”
He approached her, then tucked a stray curl behind her ear, before tapping her earring playfully. “Go pack and change into traveling clothes. Take only what is essential. I shall ask Mrs. Quimby to see to the rest of your belongings. Yancy will make sure they’re sent on to Somersfield.”
He raised her hand to his lips, lingering over her fingertips. “Hurry. Show Trent what luggage you want to take with you. He’ll see it loaded onto the coach.”
A not-so-discreet cough brought her sailing back to awareness.
Yvette’s breathless, “Yes, my lord,” was followed by a wobbly curtsy to the earl. Her skirts swished and rustled around her ankles as she hustled from the dining chamber leaving the door open in her haste to pack.
She must speak to Mrs. Quimby about acquiring a chaperone. One that could leave . . . When did Ewan want to leave? Already halfway across the lobby, Yvette turned on her heels and rushed back to the dining room.
“‘Tis most convenient to be betrothed to one so beautiful and rich,” Lord Ramsbury was saying.
His words halted her a few steps from the door. Ewan said his friends knew he wasn’t truly betrothed to her.
“Don’t forget intelligent,” murmured Ewan.
Lord Ramsbury continued, “Is she? Hmm, I do believe wealth is the more desirable asset in a wife. I’d say you’ve done quite well for yourself, old chap.”
A wealthy wife? Done well?
Lord Sethwick chuckled. “Jealous, Yancy?”
“Immeasurably.”
Yvette heard what sounded like a clap on a shoulder.
A chair creaked as Lord Ramsbury asked, “What of Marquardt? Can she be of help to us in that quarter?”
Whatever was he blathering about? Help with Edgar? She cast a cursory glance around the deserted entry and crept a bit closer. Her skirts brushed against the door frame.
As one, the men looked to the open door.
Ewan swiftly rose from his chair, then strode to the entry. “Did you need something?”
“Yes, I . . .” She cast at glance at Lord Ramsbury. He appeared to be absorbed in studying the painted garden on the wall. “I was going to ask Mrs. Quimby about a chaperone, but I don’t know what time you intend to leave.”
Yvette searched his face. She could find no hint of subterfuge in the eyes twinkling back at her.
Ewan smiled. “I’ll procure a chaperone. You get packed. I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”
“Very well then, I’ll leave you to it.” Yvette turned and made her way to the stairs, her thoughts a jumble. Did Lord Sethwick have an ulterior purpose in escorting her to Somersfield?
Bother and blast. Confusion and anger skimmed over her. She paused mid-step.
This was all Edgar’s fault, damn him to hell.
Ewan’s gaze trailed Yvette’s path across the entry until she disappeared from sight.
Yancy snorted.
Ewan met his amused gaze. “You do understand we are not betrothed? I made that quite clear when I asked for your help obtaining the license.”
Nodding his head, Yancy exclaimed, “Ye gods man, you are truly taken with her though. When was the last time you saw her? Two years ago?” He held up two fingers, a sly smile quirking his mouth. “I say, my dear fellow, have you been carrying a torch for Miss Stapleton all this while?” His gaze skimmed Ewan. “That explains so much. Indeed it does.”
Ewan schooled his features. His friend need not know that mayhap there was a small grain of truth in his speculating. “The others?”
“Ah, well, as to that, I’d a pressing need to be rid of Rothingham and Fielding.”
“Pressing need? Do tell.” Ewan knew full well Yancy only tolerated Fielding. He grinned when Yancy sent him a scathing look.
“So, I sent them on an errand to the docks.” Yancy indicated the ge
neral direction of the wharf.
“Ah, the docks.”
“To seek word of Marquardt.”
“Very clever.”
“‘Tis a complete waste of their time.”
“Indeed.”
“But, at least they aren’t snuffling round annoying me.”
“How sensible.” Ewan’s grin widened when Yancy faced him, legs spread, arms akimbo.
“Do tell, are you enjoying mocking me?”
“Immensely,” Ewan admitted, waggling his eyebrows.
Yancy threw his hands in the air before stomping to a chair and sitting. He glared at Ewan, then shook his head and smiled sheepishly. “I’ve been duly chastised. No more prying into your, ah, relationship with Miss Stapleton. Can we get on with it?”
Ewan cocked his head. He wasn’t sure he was ready to let the matter go yet. He rather liked the verbal sparring. He found it quite invigorating, though a round in the ring or a bout of fencing would be much more satisfying.
No, a rousing romp in bed was what he really wanted.
A shadow crossed Yancy’s face. “We’re at cross-purposes here, Sethwick,” he said waving his hand. “What say you, a truce?”
Ewan smiled and nodded. “Aye, a truce then. Where’s Harcourt?”
“Off to change his clothes.”
“What the hell happened?”
“I presume you are inquiring about Belvidere?”
Ewan narrowed his eyes.
Yancy blew out a gusty breath and angled to his feet. “Blast it, someone knew we had the wretch.”
Ewan remained silent, waiting for the details he knew were forthcoming.
“After Harcourt and I left you, we went directly to the War Office. I needed to stop by my office, but sent Harcourt on ahead to continue interrogating Belvidere.”
Ewan walked to the door and stuck his head out. Giving an indiscernible order, he closed the door, resting against it.
“I was approaching the south wing when I heard a shout,” Yancy said.
Ewan shoved away from the door, strode to the window, and lifted the curtain aside. “I ran down the stairway. As I reached the bottom step, a man ran from Belvidere’s cell. He had on a floor-length, hooded cloak. It looked more like a woman’s wrap than a man’s, actually.”
Ewan pivoted to look at Yancy. Woman’s?
A knock halted Yancy’s narrative.
“Enter,” Ewan bade.
A servant entered carrying two tankards of ale. He strode to the table and deposited the frothy brews. Bowing, he inquired, “Will there be anything else, my lords?”
“No, thank you,” Ewan said as he took a seat. He looked to Yancy. He appeared to be deep in thought, lines creasing his forehead. Ewan doubted he even noticed the foamy-topped flagons.
“Here.” He handed Yancy a mug and allowed him to take a large pull of the draught. “What then?”
“When I ran in, Belvidere was already dead. He’d been beaten. From the looks of him, I’d guess he’d been tortured too.” Yancy tipped his mug again. “Harcourt was coming round. He said he’d surprised the murderer.”
Ewan nodded, then took a swallow of his ale. “He’s fortunate he only ended up with a crack on the skull.”
“Aye,” Yancy agreed.
“Yancy, what about the guard? Where was he?”
“Dead, throat slit. Looked professional.”
Unease prickled the length of Ewan’s spine. Professional? The devil take it.
Yancy released a sigh before taking another drink. Resting an elbow on the table, he crossed his legs. “Other than you and me,” he nodded Ewan’s direction, “and the agents who helped us capture him, no one knew we had Belvidere in custody.”
“Someone else knew and wanted to make sure he didn’t talk.” Lifting his tankard, Ewan took a deep, contemplative drink. He hoped to God he was wrong about whom. Matters were complicated enough already. “Did Harcourt notice anything about his assailant?”
“Not much. Only, that the fellow was quite small.
“Bloody hell.” Ewan banged his tankard onto the table. “It wasn’t a man.”
Yancy raised his brow. “No?”
Ian shook his head, then stood. “I’d bet Prinny’s Pavilion it was Pauline Borghese, the Italian assassin. She’s particularly adept with knives.”
“Ah, that explains the slit throats.” Yancy finished his ale. He placed both his hands on his thighs, before blowing out a sigh and shoving to his feet. “She’s collaborating with someone in the War Office then.”
Ewan swore inwardly again. The danger had just increased exponentially. He strode to the door, calling over his shoulder, “Find me a chaperone. Someone, anyone, reasonably respectable who can leave within the next thirty minutes.”
Chapter 11
Slightly under thirty minutes later, Yvette was packed. Her valise had been stowed in the boot, and her trunk was strapped atop the elegantly appointed park drag carriage.
For the trip she’d donned a gray-blue traveling dress. Each of its three ruffled rows was embroidered with blue roses. A smart, form-fitting navy spencer with silver silk braiding was fastened beneath her bodice with mother of pearl buttons. On her feet, she wore practical low-heeled boots. A straw bonnet covered her curls. A spray of silk flowers peeked over the brim waving each time she moved her head.
In addition to her reticule, she carried a hatbox, and sensibly, given the unseasonable heat, a fan.
Mrs. Quimby had packed a basket to tide them over until supper. It was filled to overflowing, and Yvette was sure they would not need supper at all. She changed her mind after discovering their traveling party consisted of two coachmen, Mr. Carmichael, and six uniformed outriders, each of which were armed.
Malcolm, one of the coachmen, assisted Yvette into the coach while Ewan inspected the coach-in-four. No chaperone waited inside. Where was she? Yvette bit her lip. Ewan didn’t expect her to make the journey without one, did he? It simply wasn’t done. She’d be ruined.
“Sethwick,” came the breathless voice of Lord Ramsbury. “I found one. Come along, girl, do stop your dawdling.”
Yvette scooted to the end of the seat, then peered through the coach door opening. Lord Ramsbury hurried down the street with a young woman clutching a bundle in tow. The chaperone? Why she couldn’t be more than ten-and-fifteen.
Ewan came around the rear of the carriage. His dark brows nearly touched his hat when Lord Ramsbury thrust the girl forward.
“Here she is. Her name is . . .” He turned to look at the girl. “What’s your name again?”
“Peggy, sir, Peggy Flanders. I be Molly’s sister.” She slanted her head in the direction of the Banbury Inn.
Yvette breathed a sigh of relief. Though a mere girl, Peggy would suffice for a chaperone.
Ewan had yet to speak. Three times his gaze circled between Peggy, Lord Ramsbury, and Yvette hovering in the carriage entrance.
Lord Ramsbury planted his hand on his hips, clearly annoyed. “Confound it, Sethwick. You didn’t give me much.”
“Sorry, gents,” Peggy interrupted, “I ain’t about to get inside that.” She pointed at the coach-and-four. “I gets sick, I do. I’d be spilling me insides on ta floor or on you afore we left town.”
“Whatever are you talking about? I told you it was a journey of several days,” Lord Ramsbury said, his color high.
“Aye, sir you did. But when me family goes jaunting about, we travels in an open wagon.” She stepped forward and peeked inside the carriage, then shuddered dramatically. “No ways is I ridin’ in there. I be gettin’ sick for sure, and I ate kippers this morn.”
Yvette winced. Good Lord. Now what are we to do? She sent a panicked glance to Ewan. He winked and smiled. She didn’t smile in return. There was n
othing humorous about this situation.
He pointed to the top of the carriage. “What about on top?” He glanced at Peggy, then to the seats atop the carriage. “Could you ride up there?”
Peggy nodded so fast, half her hair came loose and swirled around her thin face. “Coo, sures I could.”
Yvette did smile then. Well done, Ewan.
Grinning, he drew Peggy forward. “Miss Flanders, may I present Miss Yvette Stapleton.”
“I’m grateful you agreed to travel with us, Miss Flanders.” Yvette was giddy with relief.
“Jus’ call me Peg, miss. Ifn’ you call me somethin’ else, I mightn’t answer.”
“Let’s get you on board then,” said Ewan, giving her a hand.
Relieved, Yvette scooted back inside the carriage. It was already quite warm within.
After exchanging a few words with Mr. Carmichael and the soldiers, Ewan hoisted himself into the carriage, settling his powerful body opposite her. Thumping the roof, he signaled Malcolm. With a jerk and a creak, the carriage rolled away from the Banbury Inn.
Yvette swung her gaze from the window and caught Ewan’s staid, rather unnerving perusal.
Whatever is he staring at? Do I have a smudge on my nose? Food caught in my teeth? Merciful God, did I leave my jacket undone. She smoothed the front of her spencer. No, the buttons were done up. What was he gawking at?
She began to fidget. Surely he knows it’s impolite to stare. I should say something. Anything.
“Your lordship?”
“Yvette, if our betrothal is to be believed, you must learn to call me by my given name.”
“But, we’re alone.”
“True. Nevertheless, you must practice in private so addressing me by my name becomes natural to you. You called me Ewan earlier.”
She flipped open her fan, then began fanning herself. Lord above, but it was stifling. Was the sudden warmth due to the carriage’s confinement, or that disturbing man lounging across from her? She eyed him over the top of her fan. What was he thinking? Why had he agreed to be her escort? She couldn’t rid herself of the niggling suspicion he wasn’t being completely honest with her.
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