by Burke, Darcy
“But I should feel sad, shouldn’t I?”
“You must feel however you feel.” She nearly told him that her sister sometimes struggled with allowing herself to feel, but to reveal that would encourage a great many questions she couldn’t answer. It was bad enough he knew she was Ramsgate’s daughter. No one knew that save Selina, Harry, and Rafe.
“I don’t know if I can,” he whispered. His gaze dropped to the floor, where he stared for a moment before shaking his head briskly and reaching for his wine once more. “Do you know when you’ll come next?”
It was an abrupt change of topic, but Beatrix could understand why. He may not be grieving his wife in the normal sense, but his life had changed.
“I don’t,” Beatrix responded. “There are a great many events between now and Selina’s wedding.”
“I want to hear how things go at Almack’s.” The edge of his mouth ticked up. “I can’t ask you to visit after the ball—it will be far too late. In fact, I should see you home tonight. I can’t believe I haven’t before.” He looked aghast.
“You do not have to see me home. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”
“What if you’re set upon by a footpad?”
She waggled her brows at him. “What if I’m a footpad?”
There was a beat before he laughed. “I’d feel better if you’d let me see you home.”
“No. You need to take care of Regan.” She finished the rest of her wine. It was time to go. “I really am very capable.” She rose.
He quickly stood and closed most of the gap between them. “Of protecting yourself from footpads? How can that be?”
“There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, Rockbourne.” Such as the fact that she had been a footpad when needs had become dire.
“Perhaps someday I’ll learn,” he said softly.
A shiver danced across Beatrix’s shoulders. She wanted to tell him she kept a small pistol in her pocket and that she knew how to use it. She longed to show him how she could outrun nearly any man.
Instead, she turned and went to the desk. Sweeping up her hat, she smashed it over her hair, which she’d piled tightly to the top of her head.
He beat her to the door and held it open for her. She went out onto the balcony and was slightly disappointed to find it hadn’t started raining. If it had, she could have allowed him to see her home.
On the balcony, she abruptly turned to face him. “I shouldn’t visit again. We’ve established it isn’t proper.”
“But we seem to enjoy it anyway. What’s more, you are now friends with my daughter.”
Damn, he was right. “I suppose that’s true. I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”
“And what of me?”
“My lord?” A distressed female voice carried out to the balcony to the sitting room.
Rockbourne’s eyes widened. “That’s Miss Addy.”
Beatrix raced for the trellis and descended quickly. Five or so feet from the ground, she jumped and hurried through the garden, taking care to stay in the shadows. When she reached the corner, she looked back at the house. The balcony was empty.
She let herself out through the gate and made her way to Duke Street. In the light of a lantern, she shook her wrist until the stick of wax slid into her palm.
It was a silly thing to have taken, but she hadn’t thought twice. In truth, she hadn’t thought at all. The stick had been there, next to her hat, and when she’d picked up the accessory, the wax had simply come along for the ride.
Being an inconsequential object, he likely wouldn’t even miss it, which was so much the better. Still, she should probably return it. On her next visit. That she really shouldn’t make.
The first raindrop hit her sleeve. Tucking the wax into her pocket, she dashed into the night.
Chapter 4
Laughing, Thomas swept Regan up into the air the following afternoon on the lawn in the middle of Grosvenor Square. She giggled, and her bonnet went toppling to the ground.
“Oh no,” he said, grinning as he lowered her to the ground.
Regan touched her now bare head. “My hat.”
Her nurse picked up the accessory and smiled at Regan. “Let’s put this back on. We don’t want you to get freckles.”
Thomas actually liked freckles. Miss Whitford had a few on her face, and they only added to her charm.
“Afternoon, Rockbourne.”
Thomas turned to see his neighbor, the Duke of Ramsgate, walking toward him. Of average height with dull brown hair and a round paunch, the duke bore almost no resemblance to his beautiful daughter. Except for the eyes—the shape was the same as Miss Whitford’s, though hers were a sparkling mix of light brown and green while the duke’s were just brown.
“Afternoon, Ramsgate.”
The duke eyed him speculatively. “You look well given the circumstances. Allow me to offer my condolences.”
“Thank you.” Thomas worked to hide his dislike, which was how he now felt toward the duke after having met his abandoned daughter. How a man could ignore his own flesh and blood was not only beyond Thomas, it made him furious.
“I lost my wife five years ago, so I understand what you’re going through.”
Thomas doubted that. For so many reasons.
“It’s a bit different, of course,” Ramsgate continued. “You don’t yet have an heir, so you’ll want to find a new wife. I didn’t need to worry about that.”
That’s what he meant about understanding Thomas’s position? “How did you manage your grief, particularly with regard to your children?” Thomas wasn’t sure why he bothered asking, but he wanted to know. Mostly because he wondered if the duke truly ever thought of his other daughter, Miss Whitford.
Ramsgate waved his hand and scoffed. “Bah, grieving is for milksops. My children were fine. Both my daughters were already wed, so I was fortunate there. Managing unmarried daughters can be so troublesome!” He laughed, seemingly unaware that Thomas not only had a young daughter, but that she was standing just a few feet away with her nurse.
Thomas stared at him but said nothing.
“It’s good that you’re carrying on,” Ramsgate said. “That’s the way to go about things.”
The duke’s nonchalance was infuriating. Thomas couldn’t seem to let it go, particularly where Miss Whitford was concerned. She’d said her father had loved her mother. Had she been wrong? “So you don’t let death or loss concern you?”
“Why should I? The duchess lived a good life. I suppose our daughters were sad, but we didn’t discuss it.”
“Papa!” Regan wrapped her arms around Thomas’s legs. “Fly again!”
Thomas swung her into the air and twirled her around. She shrieked with glee, and he hugged her to his side. “Now it’s time to go inside for something to eat.” He looked over at the duke, who was gaping at them as if Thomas had stripped off his clothes and run around the square nude.
“Ramsgate.” Thomas inclined his head at the man before turning with Regan toward his house.
The moment Thomas stepped into his entry hall, he realized something was amiss. The butler, Baines, was not at his post. Instead, one of the footmen opened the door. And the young man appeared nervous, his gaze furtive and his shoulder twitching.
“What is it, Preston?” Thomas asked.
The footman glanced at Regan in Thomas’s arms. Thomas handed her to the nurse. “I’ll join you in a moment.”
The nurse clasped Regan to her side and nodded before going upstairs.
Thomas turned his attention back to the footman. “Is something wrong?”
“No, my lord. I mean, I don’t think so. There is a Bow Street Runner, er, constable, waiting in the sitting room. And another one is downstairs speaking with Baines.” His cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away.
“That troubles you.” Thomas gave him an encouraging nod. “Don’t let it.”
It seemed Mrs. Chamberlain had gone to Bow Street after all. Thomas entered the s
itting room and immediately recognized the constable. “Mr. Sheffield.”
Harry Sheffield, brother to Thomas’s friend North, the Viscount Northwood, inclined his head. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Please, call me Rockbourne. Your brother is a friend of mine.”
Sheffield was a rather imposing figure, with broad shoulders and an inch or two on Thomas. His dark auburn hair was brushed back from his forehead, which was lightly creased. “That’s why I’m here. My colleague is leading an investigation into your wife’s death, and I asked to accompany him.”
Even from the grave, Thea would torment him. “May I ask why? Not why you’re here, but why is there an investigation? Thea fell from the balcony. It was a tragedy. She is already interred.”
“Her mother, Mrs. Chamberlain, is concerned it may not have been an accident. She asked Bow Street to conduct an inquiry. It’s a formality, Rockbourne.”
Thomas supposed he understood that. “What will this investigation entail?”
“We’ll interview everyone in the household and look at where she fell.”
Everyone? “You won’t speak with my daughter. She barely understands what happened.”
Sheffield shifted, his features displaying a slight discomfort. “That won’t be necessary. My apologies. I wish we weren’t bothering you at all.”
Thomas exhaled. “I understand. Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you. Shall we sit?”
Gesturing to the settee, Thomas took a chair opposite. He waited for the constable to pose his first question.
Sheffield withdrew a small bound book and a pencil. He opened it and scratched something on the parchment. “Can you tell me what happened prior to Lady Rockbourne’s fall on Sunday night?”
Tension spun through Thomas’s frame as he tried to find a comfortable position. He hadn’t wanted to think about this again, let alone speak of it. “We were in the sitting room, as was sometimes the case at that hour.” In truth, Thomas tried to avoid her, but occasionally that was impossible. “She’d imbibed in a great deal of port, which was not unusual.”
“Her maid, Miss Emily Spicer, said you and she were arguing and that you often became angry with her.”
Spicer had provided testimony? He’d rarely spoke to the woman. She was—or had been—Thea’s maid and kept entirely to her mistress.
Thomas flexed his hands, then flattened them on his knees. “Is that what she said?”
Sheffield’s gaze was unflinching. “It was.”
Unfortunately, the maid wasn’t entirely wrong. They had been arguing, and Thomas sometimes grew angry with Thea. To her, his anger justified her outrage. She hated when he failed to rise to her bait, which he tried to do as much as possible.
“I would rather not discuss the specifics of our conversation. The woman is dead, and I’d prefer to let her rest in peace.” Thomas wanted peace too.
“Why would her mother think you’d pushed her? Many married couples argue.”
“Do they?” Thomas had hoped his own parents were an aberration. “I understand you are shortly to be wed. Do you expect to argue with your wife?”
A quick smile flashed across Sheffield’s mouth. “In fact, I do. I also expect to make up in a thoroughly enjoyable fashion.”
Thomas wanted to laugh, but the truth was that he couldn’t imagine such a relationship. Envy burned within him. “To answer your question, I can only guess at why my mother-in-law would think I pushed my wife from the balcony. Lady Rockbourne despised me. She likely told her mother any number of untruths about me, such as that I was unfaithful. Which I was not.” Thomas saw no harm in telling him something Thea’s mother had likely already reported to him or another constable.
“Your wife despised you? How did you feel about her?”
Exhaling, Thomas glanced toward the portrait of them that hung in the corner. It had been painted shortly after they’d wed. He made a mental note to remove it immediately. “I suppose I felt the same way about her.” He met Sheffield’s gaze and didn’t flinch.
“You won’t tell me what you were arguing about?”
No, he wouldn’t, not entirely. “I confronted her about her infidelity—I doubt her mother mentioned that. The countess grew angry. She went out onto the balcony and the next I knew, she’d fallen. As I said, she was quite intoxicated.”
“And this was a common occurrence? Her intoxication, I mean.”
“Yes. I would say a night never went by when she didn’t have multiple glasses of port. I have the receipts for the quantity I am required to purchase on a regular basis.”
Sheffield scribbled some notes in his book before looking up at Thomas once more. “How did you become aware of her infidelity?”
“It’s not uncommon knowledge.” Distaste curled through Thomas. “I don’t wish to soil her reputation now that she is gone. She is still my daughter’s mother.”
Sympathy creased Sheffield’s features. “Yes, I understand. Was she having an affair with a specific gentleman?”
“I believe so, yes. But don’t ask me who, because I don’t know for certain.” However, he had his suspicions. “I can’t imagine his identity matters.”
“Just so I may make a record, you deny pushing her?”
“I do. Emphatically.”
After writing more onto his parchment, Sheffield snapped the book closed and returned it and the pencil to his coat pocket. “You weren’t even on the balcony.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, I thank you for your time. I’d like to speak with whomever else was home that evening. I can wait here.”
“You really want to talk with everyone in the household, even the scullery maids?” Thomas knew the answer, but hoped the man had perhaps changed his mind.
“If it’s not too much trouble. My colleague, Mr. Dearborn, is downstairs speaking with your butler and whomever else, so I can speak with anyone who hasn’t talked with him yet.”
“I’ll find out.” Thomas rose. “May I offer my congratulations on your upcoming marriage?”
Sheffield stood. “Thank you. I’d hoped you would be able to attend the breakfast, but I understand that isn’t possible.”
“My aunt tells me it is, that the ton is already wagering when I will wed again.”
“Is that your intent?” Sheffield’s eyes narrowed as he asked.
“No. My intent is to focus on my daughter, who is now without a mother. And despite what anyone says, she doesn’t need one.” Thomas winced inwardly. In his effort to assure Sheffield that he wasn’t interested in marrying—and thus might have had a motive in wanting his wife dead—he’d indicated his daughter didn’t need a mother. Hopefully, the constable wouldn’t interpret that as a motive either.
“I’ll go and fetch someone.” Thomas took himself from the room and found the housekeeper. As soon as he told her she was to be interviewed by the constable, the poor woman had gone white with fear. Thomas had tried to reassure her that everything would be fine.
However, the truth was he didn’t know. There was no telling what his mother-in-law or Thea’s maid had said to them.
He could only hope this was exactly what Sheffield had described it to be—a formality—and that it would soon pass. He really just wanted peace. And another visit from Miss Whitford.
* * *
Almack’s was a glittering palace with gilded columns and a plethora of mirrors that reflected the sparkling cut-glass gaslights. For such a beautiful setting, the food and drink was atrocious. Day-old bread, dry, tasteless biscuits, and the most pitiful lemonade Beatrix had ever tasted.
“This fare is worse than what we eat at home,” Beatrix said to Selina. Their housekeeper also cooked for them and had no kitchen skills whatsoever. Selina had hired her because of her trustworthiness, which had been the most important trait given the fact that Selina had been conducting business as a fortune-teller under an alternate identity and Beatrix was stealing jewelry to pay for her season. Selina had since t
erminated her fortune-telling scheme, and they’d returned all the items Beatrix had stolen.
Selina’s shoulders twitched. “I didn’t think anything could be, but you’re right. I admit I’m looking forward to moving to Cavendish Square and having a new cook.”
Just that afternoon, Harry had shared the good news that he had leased the house in Cavendish Square that was owned by their friend the Marchioness of Ripley. It had become known as the Spitfire Society headquarters, which Selina didn’t mind at all since she was quite involved with the group now. She and Beatrix planned to take up residence there on Friday, and Harry would move in after the wedding.
“I am too,” Beatrix said with enthusiasm. “I’m glad Mrs. Vining is able to return to her former position at the inn.” Their housekeeper-cook hadn’t been at all disappointed to leave their employ. In fact, she’d been relieved to go back to her less demanding job.
“Put down the biscuit,” Selina said. “There’s another gentleman coming this way.”
Beatrix had danced with several gentlemen already. She’d been amazed at how well they comported themselves, but then it had come to her attention that vouchers were often awarded to men based on their dancing ability.
The gentleman who approached was accompanied by Harry’s sister, Lady Imogen. She smiled broadly as she greeted Selina and Beatrix. “Allow me to present Lord Worth.”
Beatrix was glad she’d managed to swallow her last bite of terrible biscuit because she likely would have choked. The man was a trifle shorter than Rockbourne, with brown hair and somewhat familiar hazel eyes. He was also her half brother.
She dropped into a curtsey. “My lord.”
“Lord Worth, this is Lady Gresham, who is to marry my brother Harry very soon, and this is her sister, Miss Beatrix Whitford.”
The earl took Beatrix’s hand and pressed a light kiss to the back. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. I should be honored if you would dance the next set with me.”
Beatrix shot a look of distress toward Selina, who knew that he was Beatrix’s half brother. Selina widened her eyes almost imperceptibly in silent communication. Owing to Society’s stupid rules, Beatrix couldn’t refuse him.
