Unmasking Lady Helen: The Kinsey Family (The Kinsey Family Series Book 1)

by Maggi Andersen

  Jason laughed as he handed her the glass. “Do you think your older brother an ogre?”

  She smiled. “Certainly not. A bit stuffy perhaps.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I shall ignore that, as I suspect it’s meant to distract me from my purpose.” His grin slid away. “But why you feel the need for fortification does worry me a little.”

  She sighed. “Promise me you will meet him.”

  “I fully intend to.”

  “Then I shall invite him to dinner.”

  “Excellent notion.” He returned to his chair and crossed his legs. “However, there’s no reason why you can’t tell me more about him in the interim.”

  She sipped from her glass. “Bianchi is about your age, has never married, and, like me, is interested in Italian Renaissance art. He is handsome and good company. Will that suit?”

  “It’s a beginning. Why has he never married?”

  “One might ask you the same question.”

  Jason shook his head. “We are discussing this new swain of yours.” He would be deeply pleased to see the change in his sister, if only he could be sure the man merited it.

  “He told me he planned to marry, but his fiancée died. It broke his heart.” She gave a heavy sigh. “So you see, we have much in common.”

  A common interest in art and a broken heart seemed a tad too convenient. Jason suspected the situation could become challenging. He returned her smile and took a deep gulp of brandy. This would need to be settled before he was called back to the Queen’s Walk on Kinsey’s return. “Send Henry with a message. Invite the baron to dinner this evening.”

  “I’m sure he will be grateful. This is his first trip to England and he knows very few people here. But it will put poor Cook in a flap.”

  He laughed. “Cook complains that I don’t entertain enough. I’ll send her notice, but I’m sure she is in the process of creating a feast for Charlie.”

  Lizzie giggled. “You may be right.”

  When Lizzie left the library, Jason glanced at the book beside him. He made no attempt to pick it up, knowing his attempt to read would be useless. It was bittersweet to watch Lizzie awaken to life. If only he could be sure of the man responsible for it.

  Charlie wandered into Jason’s dressing room some hours later while his batman come valet was adjusting his cravat.

  “Damned if I can tie it the way you do, Hicks.”

  “It’s your Adam’s apple, my lord. It tends to spoil the arrangement.”

  “What would you have me do about it? Cut it off?”

  Hicks chuckled. No, my lord, it’s only when you tie the cravat yourself.”

  “A sneakier means with which to safeguard your position as my valet, I’ve never heard,” Jason said with a roar of laughter.

  Hicks fought a grin as he took up the clothes brush.

  “Why so glum, Charlie?” Jason asked, eyeing him in the mirror.

  “That cockfight turned out to be a poor show, hardly worth the effort.” Charlie threw himself onto a chair. “Probably rigged.”

  And he lost his money, Jason surmised. A salient lesson, he hoped. “You need to hurry to change for dinner. We have a guest.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A gentleman Lizzie has invited. A Baron Bianchi.”

  “Oh? Actually, I’ve invited two guests myself.”

  Jason frowned. “Have you notified Cook?”

  “Yes, just been down to the kitchen. She’s prepared enough to feed a troop.”

  “I’m sure she has,” Jason said dryly. “Who are your guests?”

  “Miss Groton, the lady I escorted from Oxford. She is staying with her aunt. The aunt is accompanying her.”

  “Is Miss Groton the sort of woman you would introduce to your sister?”

  Charlie looked affronted. “Of course. There is nothing about her demeanor to offend.”

  Jason arched an eyebrow. “Then we shall have quite an interesting dinner party.” He did up the cloth buttons of his single-breasted waistcoat embroidered with gold thread then nodded to his valet. “Thank you, Hicks. After you’ve assisted Charlie, you may have your dinner.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Hicks hurried out the door.

  Jason pulled down his cuffs. “Now. While you dress, you can explain about Miss Groton.”

  Following his brother along the passage, Jason was congratulating himself on remaining calm under the constant barrage of surprises his siblings inflicted on him when Charlie paused at the door.

  “There’s something I need to get off my chest, Jas. I told Miss Groton you could help her out of her predicament.”

  “I can hardly wait to learn of it,” Jason said wearily.

  “I think I’ll wear my new Apollo gold waistcoat tonight. It won’t clash with yours,” Charlie said, entering his bedroom.

  “Tell me one thing,” Jason said following him. “Where is this Basil Wentworth who got you into this scrape? And why isn’t he assisting Miss Groton?”

  “He’s returned home to his family in Yorkshire. His father isn’t plump in the pocket, and so I volunteered to deal with the problem.”

  “Shall you wear the navy wool coat with the velvet collar, sir? It complements the gold waistcoat,” Hicks inquired, the coat over his arm.

  “Perfect choice, Hicks. Well done.” Charlie stripped off his coat. “I suppose I should shave.” He ran a hand over his relatively smooth chin.

  “No time for that.” Jason straddled the ribbon-back wooden chair. He leaned his arm on the top, watching his brother. He wondered what lay behind this latest incident that Charlie didn’t wish to tell him. “Please continue.”

  “It’s just that Miss Groton”—Charlie’s voice was muffled as he pulled his shirt up over his head— “has been the recipient of some cruel treatment,” he finished as he reemerged.

  “There’s a basin of hot water and soap on the dresser, sir,” Hicks said, producing a towel.

  Jason waited impatiently while his brother washed.

  “What is this harsh treatment poor Miss Groton has endured?” Jason finally asked, after his frustration rose to the level of hunting for worms to fish in the river as a lad.

  “Her father was a shopkeeper in Oxford, but when he died, she had no one to turn to. When the business was foreclosed, she found herself out on the street.” Charlie tossed down the towel and disappeared again as Hicks threw a fresh linen shirt over his head. “She didn’t have so much as a groat in her pocket and had to make her way to her Aunt Bessie in Cheapside, so Basil promised she could spend the night in his digs then get the stage the next day. But it didn’t turn out that way, as you know.”

  “It’s about the only thing I do know,” Jason said.

  “There’s a chap who runs a gambling house in Oxford. He’s the devil’s spawn! Has an interest in a club here in London as well. He’s demanding Miss Groton pay her father’s gambling debts. She hasn’t the ready to pay him. The fellow’s a sharper, Jas.”

  “That’s the extent of it?”

  “Not entirely.” Charlie slipped on the gold waistcoat Hicks held out to him. “He’s here in London at his club. If she can’t meet Pomfret’s demands, he’ll have her work for him until it’s paid off.”

  “I gather it’s not as a maid?”

  “No. That’s just it.” Charlie cleared his throat. “She’s quite pretty. And sweet, Jas, as you’ll see.”

  Jason already saw a lot. He rose from the chair and moved it back against the wall. He had formed the deep suspicion that this young lady was not what Charlie believed she was. Still, he didn’t like to see her held to ransom by crooks, if what she said was true. He would certainly need to be on his toes tonight. “I’ll see you in the drawing room in an hour. Don’t be late.”

  “But you haven’t said if—”

  Jason held up his hand as he stalked out the door.

  Chapter Five

  In the small attic room, Helen stood with Diana and Toby around Bart’s bed. His arm lay by his sid
e over the coverlet, his face deeply etched with pain. She patted the footman’s hand. Pink scalp showed through his once thick brown hair.

  Bart groaned. He opened his eyes but didn’t seem to see her. “Tell Captain Peyton, I’m sorry.”

  Shocked, Helen clasped his hand tighter. “What about Lord Peyton, Bart?”

  “Couldn’t help. Thought it best… couldn’t tell your mother…” Bart’s unfocussed gaze found her face. “Be careful, Lady Helen, you must find out…” His voice a bare whisper, he closed his eyes.

  “I will, Bart. I promise.” Tears flooded her vision. She had no idea what he wanted her to discover, but he had slipped away from her. Was he warning her, or had he been muddled with sickness and pain?

  “He’s heavily drugged with an opiate and has not long now. He won’t say anything more, poor fellow,” said the surgeon, a quietly spoken man of some fifty years. “You must leave.” He spread his arms to encompass them and guided them from the room.

  “What would Bart have kept from Mama?” Toby asked, his voice wobbling with distress. “And why was he sorry about Lord Peyton?”

  “We must ask him,” Diana said, her voice muffled by her handkerchief.

  Helen silently agreed. Had her earlier suspicions of Lord Peyton been rooted in fact? “We must tell Mama what Bart said.” They descended the servants’ stairs from the attic. “And Papa will know what to do when he returns.”

  “I wish he was here,” Toby said.

  Diana sniffed. “Shall we have to wear mourning clothes and cancel my ball?”

  “No, dearest. Bart’s not a relative.” Helen put an arm around her sister’s waist. This was a terrible shock to them all, but perhaps it affected Diana more than her. Toby, although upset, considered himself a man. Despite Diana’s self-confidence, she was young and had never seen a death at close quarters. Even though Helen had witnessed their Aunt Violet’s laying out, she still shivered with shock.

  “How very strange,” Mama said on learning of Bart’s last words. “I shall notify Lord Peyton. And I must write to Bartholomew’s mother. I believe she lives in a village in Cumbria and is unlikely to travel all the way to London for the funeral.

  “Now my dears, the surgeon wishes to see me.” After kissing them both, Mama extricated herself from the morning room sofa, where Helen and Diana had huddled beside her. She put a hand on Toby’s shoulder where he slumped in a chair. “Do not be too distressed. Bartholomew is no longer in pain. God cares for him in heaven.”

  Helen watched her mother leave the room. How very curious it was. Lord Peyton must have waited at the foot of their garden with the intention of meeting Bart. And he’d inveigled himself into their house on what now seemed to be a ruse. Her breath hitched. She rubbed Diana’s arm as she leaned against her. They’d all been drawn to Peyton’s appealing, amusing manner. And thought him kind to promise to introduce Toby to Mr. Nash. He’d appeared so trustworthy. Was that a ruse too? How could she believe anything he now said? She hoped her mother would discover what lay behind this awful business, but if she didn’t, Helen was determined to.

  ***

  Dark-haired Baron Bianchi was of average height, with those liquid deep brown eyes that displayed a surfeit of emotion, almost at will. Fortunately, there was little in his mode of dress for Jason to suspect him to be one of those Latins he detested, who wooed a lady with flattery then revealed themselves to be corrupt at the core. Bianchi’s midnight blue tailcoat and white embroidered waistcoat were unremarkable, his only affectation a large emerald of a superior quality on the ring finger of his right hand. Jason imagined women would find him attractive. His sister undoubtedly did.

  The baron accepted a glass of wine from the footman, and they seated themselves in the drawing room.

  “How do you find our weather, Baron?”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but it rains rather often,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “And the sun, it is not as warm here as in Italy. Have you visited my country, my lord?”

  “Yes. A brief stay.” Jason was not about to elaborate. He had accompanied the Foreign Secretary, Viscount Castlereagh, to Italy during the Congress of Vienna, when Napoleon returned to France during the hundred days after his escape from Elba. Jason then fought under Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo. Fortunately, Bianchi knew better than to ask.

  “As you would be aware, Napoleon’s family hailed from Italy before they went to Corsica. Italian was the general’s first language.” Bianchi raised a black eyebrow with quizzical amusement. “I feel I must apologize for the appalling actions of my countryman.”

  “Please don’t think I will hold it against you.” Jason smiled as the door opened and Lizzie entered.

  He and Bianchi stood as his sister, dressed in a surprisingly frivolous deep lavender silk gown, the skirts and sleeves a mass of ruffles, came to take Bianchi’s hand.

  “How very glad I am you could come on such short notice, Baron Bianchi.”

  “I would have braved a snowstorm to be here, tonight, Lady Greywood,” Bianchi replied in his heavily accented voice, his gaze capturing hers for a long moment.

  “Thankfully, that wasn’t necessary,” Jason said, pouring a little cold water on the heated atmosphere. He met Lizzie’s fiery glance and smiled. “Just a little rain, Baron, of which we English are quite accustomed.”

  “Ah, yes, rain.” The baron nodded sympathetically.

  Charlie entered with Russell, who announced two ladies. Although Charlie had said Amelia Groton was pretty, Jason had not expected such a beauty. The slender young woman in pale pink was a perfect English rose with creamy skin, wheat-gold hair drawn into a topknot to display a graceful neck, and eyes the blue of an English summer sky. Her Aunt Bessie, tightly corseted in purple, cast a nervous glance around the room while clutching a rope of jet beads at her breast.

  Charlie drew them both forward. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Greywood, and my brother, Captain, Lord Peyton. Lizzie, Jas, please meet Mrs. Groton and her niece, Miss Groton. And this must be Baron Bianchi. How do you do.”

  Jason watched as Amelia’s speculative blue gaze roamed the drawing room from the swags of silk damask at the windows to the elegant furniture, the white columns decorating brick red walls hung with fine art and mirrors. She revealed none of her aunt’s nervousness when she turned to Jason. With a demure smile, she offered him her gloved fingers.

  “So very kind of you to invite us, my lord.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Groton.” Jason raised her small hand to his lips.

  As the rest of the introductions followed, Jason grew increasingly uneasy. If Charlie had a yen to make Miss Amelia Groton his wife, and many red-blooded men would be tempted, it would be very difficult to dissuade him.

  Jason had Miss Groton’s measure at first glance. While he was sympathetic to any young woman unprotected and at the mercy of some scoundrel, she would not marry Charlie.

  Bianchi, however, was not so easy to read. Some digging was required into the gentleman’s circumstances. Jason had a friend residing in Florence. He would write to him tonight.

  In the dining room, as Russell supervised the footmen bringing in the first course, Jason turned to the baron on his left, acutely aware of Lizzie listening to their conversation from across the table. “What has brought you to London, Baron?”

  “I have made fine art my interest, my lord. I particularly like the da Vinci drawing of a horse on that far wall. I suppose you don’t wish to sell it? No? I should not like to part with it myself,” he said when Jason shook his head. “I am presenting an exhibition of Renaissance art here in London, at a Mayfair gallery. Some of the works are from my estate in Florence, a Titian amongst them. Perhaps you’d care to attend the opening? It is on Thursday.”

  “Thank you. Regretfully, I have another engagement on Thursday.”

  “A pity. The exhibition will run for the following two weeks.”

  “Then I look forward to seeing it.” He smiled at Lizzie, who toyed wit
h her spoon. “You will accompany me, won’t you, Lizzie?”

  She smiled gratefully at him. “Such works of art require more than one viewing.”

  Miss Groton was giggling flirtatiously at something Charlie had said. His brother’s flushed face betrayed his fascination as Mrs. Groton looked on with a fond expression.

  Jason groaned inwardly.

  The evening passed without incident. When the front door closed on their guests, Lizzie paused at the foot of the stairs before retiring.

  Something was required of him. “The baron has a great deal of charm, Lizzie,” Jason said as they made their way upstairs. After dinner, over port, Bianchi had spoken effusively of his ancient villa and gardens, which he hoped Jason and Lizzie would visit one day. “I am keen to view what promises to be a superb collection.”

  “There is more to him than charm and his artworks, Jas,” she said, sounding exasperated.

  “You’ve only just met the baron, my dear. But by all means, take the time to get to know him.”

  With an affectionate smile, she took his arm. “Do you fear that if we should marry he’ll whisk me off to Italy?”

  That seemed so final it chilled him. Lizzie at her new husband’s mercy in some foreign country didn’t bear thinking about. Had he become too protective? He was determined not to let his own desire to keep her close and safe motivate him. “Of course, I would miss you. Very much. But it’s early days, Lizzie.”

  Reaching her door, he turned to her. “Apart from the fellow’s obvious good looks, what is it about him that so captivates you?”

  She paused for a moment, one hand on the doorknob. Her eyes were sad when she looked at him. “His warmth, I suppose. I adored Greywood, as you know. I wanted to die after he was shot. But he was brutalized by his years away at war. It was not always easy to get as close as I would have liked.”

  She was right of course. Jason bowed his head in agreement. The war changed men. A captain in the Foot Guards, Robert Greywood had lost most of his men at the advance of the French cavalry and artillery. He only talked about it when he and Jason had imbibed a good deal of brandy. And Jason knew Robert would never speak of it to Lizzie. The horror of battle was etched forever in his and Jason’s soul. How Greywood described wave upon wave of the French cuirassiers advancing, shouting, “Vive l’Empereur.” How his men had knelt, their bayonets raised, like a line of impassable steel, to thwart them. And then to watch so many of them fall. A man doesn’t forget that.