by Burke, Darcy
“You came,” Beatrix said as soon as North was out of earshot.
“It turns out I couldn’t resist. Not knowing you would be here.” His gaze slid over her like a silken coverlet. “You look magnificent.”
She tried not to blush and failed. “Thank you. So do you.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it. I never get to see you like this.”
“Not never. You saw me at the masquerade ball.” She moved closer to him—as close as she dared. “Are you saying you don’t like me in my men’s costume?” she whispered.
“I like you in anything. Or nothing, if that’s an option.”
She sucked in a breath as an electric pulse ran through her.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “That was gauche.”
“I am not offended.” He was not the first man she’d flirted with. Or kissed. Or gone to bed with. She’d had precisely one lover, several years ago, whom she’d never told anyone about. Not even Selina. How could she when Selina had endured such a horrible experience at the hands of her employer? “That…might be an option.”
Tom’s breath came out in a hiss. He pivoted toward her. “Beatrix, you are making it difficult for me to stand in a social gathering without drawing undue attention.”
Her gaze dipped below his waist. She could just make out the length of his cock. “My apologies. Perhaps we should talk about the weather. Or the price of cockles.” She lifted her hand to her mouth and stifled a giggle. “Not cockles. How about eel?”
His eyes widened, and he struggled not to laugh. “That’s somehow better?”
She pressed her hand harder against her smiling lips. “Not at all.” She took a deep breath and lowered her hand. “Turnips. Let us discuss turnips.”
“I’d like to discuss turnips in private.”
What was happening here? They’d flirted before, a number of times, but now that they’d kissed, their banter had taken on another depth.
She looked up at him and studied the familiar planes of his face—his wide forehead, sculpted cheekbones, and strong, square jaw. Her gaze lingered on his lips, the lower one thicker than the upper, and she recalled how they felt against hers.
They shouldn’t keep doing this. And yet when she thought about not… Well, she didn’t like thinking about that. “So why did you come today?” she asked softly.
“To see you.”
A warmth spread through her, sparking another smile. She hadn’t expected him to say so. “I’m glad you did.” It was difficult to keep her distance from him. They’d grown so close over the past fortnight, but that had been in a private setting. “This is odd, isn’t it? Being here with all these people?”
He grinned, nodding. “Yes. I’m not used to sharing you. Except with Regan.”
“I enjoy that, actually.”
“I do too.” His gaze was fierce. “More than you can know. Thea was not a good mother.”
“Oh, well. I couldn’t—” She wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t Regan’s mother.
“I just meant that it’s good for her to see kindness and caring in a woman. She enjoyed the end of your story this morning, by the way.”
Beatrix laughed. “Good.”
Selina approached them, and Beatrix saw the glint of determination in her gaze. Selina knew there was something between them, and Beatrix wasn’t going to be able to deflect her questions any longer—not when Selina kept seeing her with Tom.
“Selina, this is Lord Rockbourne. Lord Rockbourne, this is my sister, Mrs. Sheffield.” Beatrix couldn’t help but grin. “That’s the first time I’ve called you that. It sounds marvelous, doesn’t it?”
“It does indeed,” Tom said, taking Selina’s hand and bowing. “May I offer my most heartfelt felicitations on your marriage. Sheffield is most fortunate.”
“Thank you, Lord Rockbourne.”
Turning to Beatrix, Tom inclined his head. “Miss Whitford, it’s been a pleasure to speak with you. Please excuse me, ladies.” He made his way toward the door. Was he leaving?
“I didn’t intend to scare him off,” Selina murmured before directing her full attention on Beatrix. “What on earth is going on between you?”
“Nothing is going on.” Even Beatrix didn’t find that convincing.
“That’s hogwash, and you know it. Never mind that you’ve displayed an interest in and defended him before today and that you spoke with him after the church service on Sunday. Anyone looking at the two of you might think you were courting. Did you really just meet him at the masquerade?”
Beatrix exhaled. “No, it was before that.”
“When?” The question was low and clipped.
“You won’t approve.”
Selina swore quietly. “I don’t care. Tell me.”
“I don’t want to ruin your wedding day.”
Eyes widening, Selina gaped at her. “It’s that bad?”
Beatrix turned and pulled her to the wall. “Of course not. You know I’ve gone to Grosvenor Square to spy on my father.”
“Yes, but you stopped that.” She closed her eyes and took a breath. “Except you didn’t.”
“Tom—Rockbourne—lives next door to the duke. I climbed the tree in his garden to spy on Ramsgate.”
“And that’s how you met Rockbourne?”
Beatrix nodded, leaving out how she’d met him, that she’d seen his wife fall over the side of the balcony. “We’ve become friends.”
Selina’s brows arched nearly to her hairline. “You looked a bit closer than that. Exactly how often were you visiting him in his garden?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Selina briefly pressed her hand to her cheek. “Does he want to court you?” She shook her head. “He can’t. He’s in mourning. Why is he even here? Good gracious, I don’t understand Society’s rules one whit.”
“I don’t either. I’m fairly certain if it were you or I who were in mourning, we’d be vilified for coming to a friend’s wedding.”
“Mmm,” Selina murmured in agreement. “It seems like they’ll jump on any reason to disparage a young woman.” She pinned Beatrix with a dark frown. “You are not helping matters behaving in that way. You can’t go to his garden anymore.”
“I know.” She did know.
“Good.” Selina touched her arm. “I’ve been so focused on the wedding, but things will return to normal now. Well, as normal as we can be.” She squeezed Beatrix’s elbow. “The most normal we’ve ever been.”
“I think that will be nice. Don’t you?”
“Exceedingly. I’m looking forward to getting back to work on the orphans’ home.” This had become Selina’s passion—after Harry, of course—and the Spitfire Society had taken up the cause. “I meant to tell you that I met someone whose sister-in-law runs an orphanage in Somerset. Her husband’s family has managed it for centuries, apparently. I plan to write to them for advice.”
“What a wonderful idea. Perhaps you and Harry should go take a tour. As a wedding trip.”
Selina laughed softly. “That would require me to persuade Harry to leave his position at Bow Street for longer than a week, which I am not sure he’s willing to do. Things are very busy there lately.”
So it seemed. Beatrix was just glad she and Selina were not in any way responsible for that. And they could have been, if things had gone differently. Indeed, Beatrix could still find herself in trouble if she continued to steal.
Instinctively, she smoothed her hands over her gown and then remembered it didn’t have pockets. She’d decided all her new dresses, and this was her newest, wouldn’t have them. It seemed prudent. Where could she stash a stolen object if she didn’t have pockets? Hopefully, it would work.
“What about Rockbourne?” Selina asked with a half smile.
“We are friends.”
“Nothing more?”
“He’s in mourning.”
“He won’t be forever.”
No, he wouldn’t. “If I ever decide to commit myself to
someone, as you have to Harry, I want to be sure I’m doing it with my whole heart and that he is doing the same.”
“That is very wise. And you deserve nothing less.” Selina linked her arm through Beatrix’s. “Come, let us pretend we are members of Society for a while.”
Beatrix laughed. “We don’t have to pretend. Not anymore.”
At least not about that.
* * *
Though Thomas never took naps, he was tempted to lie down with Regan that afternoon. Staying up so late with Beatrix the night before followed by the wedding breakfast had combined to make him exhausted.
It was, however, a good sort of exhausted. For the first time in ages, he felt energized instead of drained.
As she did most days, Aunt Charity arrived in the late afternoon. Thomas met her in the drawing room for tea.
“Good afternoon, Aunt,” he said as he sat down with her at the small oval table that overlooked Grosvenor Square.
She poured the tea and added a touch of sugar, just as he liked. “How has your day been, dear?”
“You’ll be delighted to know I went to a wedding breakfast this morning.”
“Aylesbury’s son?” she asked in surprise. A smile brightened her features. “I’m so glad. How was it?”
“Lovely.” He was still thinking of the flirtatious conversation he’d had with Beatrix. “I didn’t stay very long.”
She nodded. “Wise of you. How did people react to your presence?”
He’d noted some looks of surprise, but then he’d mostly ignored everyone but Beatrix. “I only spoke with a handful of people, and they were kind.” To a person, they’d asked how he was faring and commented that he’d looked well.
“Brace yourself for the inevitable gossip that you’re looking for a new viscountess.” She sipped her tea.
“If there is anything you could do to quash such rumors, I’d be most grateful.”
“I can try.” She set her cup down, her brow pinching in apparent distress. “Speaking of rumors, I’m afraid I must broach a difficult subject. I visited with a friend earlier, and she heard that Bow Street is investigating Thea’s death, that it may not have been an accident.”
“Goddammit,” he breathed, his heart starting to race as his anger stoked. “How in the hell would she know?” His fury reached a boil. “Never mind. It’s her bloody mother.”
“Agnes Chamberlain?” Aunt Charity’s lip curled. “One of her children is to be transported for the crime of extortion and the other was a nasty person—a loathsome wife and mother. Why would anyone believe her?”
“She gave Bow Street ‘evidence.’” Thomas vaulted out of the chair and stalked to the hearth and then back again.
Aunt Charity stared at him in alarm. “What sort of evidence?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s all horseshit.” His voice rose, and he had to suppress the urge to throw something as he’d done the other day. The entire situation was a disaster.
“My lord?” Baines asked from the doorway. “Mr. Dearborn is here for the remaining interviews.”
Hell, he’d apparently been too tired, or too distracted, to remember. “Summon Osbert and Miss Addy to the sitting room downstairs. Make sure Mrs. Henley is attending to Regan.” The housekeeper often supported the nurse when it was necessary and if she was available. She insisted on doing so because she adored Regan.
“Yes, sir,” Baines said.
“Oh, and Baines, I’d like you to sit in on the interviews. If Dearborn objects, I want to know.”
“Very good.” Baines inclined his head and departed.
“Is Mr. Dearborn from Bow Street?” Aunt Charity asked, her features etched in concern.
“Yes.” Thomas gritted his teeth and went to the window. He stared at the lawn in the middle of the square. “He interviewed the entire household except for a footman and the nurse. He’s come back today to finish the job.”
“Did he talk to Regan?” She lifted her hand to her chest, aghast at the prospect.
“Absolutely not, and he never will.”
“You poor boy. That horrid woman is torturing you from beyond.”
Thomas massaged his temple and pivoted from the window back toward his aunt. “That was my precise sentiment. I would dearly love to just move on.”
“Yes, of course. Can I pour you something stronger than tea?”
“No, thank you. You can talk to me of something other than this investigation or Thea or the mess that is currently my life.”
Aunt Charity did just that, and while Thomas didn’t completely relax, he did cease thinking about Dearborn and whatever might be going on during his interviews. But when Baines brought him back to the drawing room, all of Thomas’s agitation returned.
“Pardon me, my lord,” Dearborn said, holding his hat. “I have concluded my interviews. I would like to ask you a few more questions, if that’s acceptable.”
“It most certainly is not,” Aunt Charity said, her brows pitched in anger.
“Aunt Charity, it’s fine,” Thomas said softly. He rose from the table and moved to stand near the hearth. He did not invite Dearborn to sit.
Dearborn glanced toward Thomas’s aunt in silent question.
Thomas scrubbed his hand across his forehead. “She can stay. I’ll tell her everything we discussed anyway.”
“That’s your choice.” Dearborn took a deep breath. “The nurse, Miss Addy, told me there’s a woman who visits you late at night—a friend. Who is that?”
Fuck. Thomas stared at the constable. “I’m not telling you her name.”
“Were you—are you—having an affair?”
“No.”
Aunt Charity stood quickly and joined them near the hearth. “Lady Rockbourne was the one who wasn’t faithful.” One hand on her hip, she stood close to Thomas and glared at Dearborn as if she might take him down.
“Yes, so we’ve heard.” Dearborn kept his tone even. He looked at Thomas, his gaze probing. “If you aren’t having an affair, why does this woman visit you late at night? Was she here the night Lady Rockbourne fell?”
Frustration and fury coiled through Thomas. His hands fisted, and his shoulders bunched with pent-up tension. “The woman is of no concern of yours. It is a tragedy that my wife died, but if you are looking for someone to grieve the loss, you won’t find them here. She was a cold, vicious woman—unfaithful and unmotherly. You can’t have heard many speak in her favor in this household. Everyone tiptoed around her in fear.”
Nodding solemnly, Dearborn said, “Yes, that is the portrait I have drawn of her from the members of your household. Her…disagreeability also provides a motive for wanting her dead.”
“Disagreeability?” Thomas gaped at the man. “That’s an intensely gross understatement in describing her behavior, Dearborn. As to motive, my relief at her death is not the same as seeking it out.”
Dearborn glanced toward the doorway. “Your butler tells me the household is far more peaceful now.”
“That is true.” Thomas forced his shoulders to relax and shook his hands out.
“Your butler also confirmed something the footman mentioned, that your hand was recently damaged after you hit a tree. Is that what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Chamberlain has testified that you are a violent man. Do you often hit trees? Or other…things? Or people?”
The rage bubbling inside Thomas boiled over. “For pity’s sake, man, do you really want to talk about violence?” He took a step toward the constable. “Let us talk about my wife, who liked to throw things—at me. I could show you the scar on my neck where she raked me with her nails several months ago. It’s a shame the bruise from the poker she wielded at my shoulder faded some time ago. Or perhaps I should have let her stab me with the penknife that night instead of side stepping her. Should I have sacrificed myself to her temper to save her from falling?”
Dearborn’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying you were on the balcony that night?”
&
nbsp; Dammit. There was no help for it now. “I was.”
“You lied.”
“To protect that faithless shrew.” Thomas shook his head once. “Not to protect her, to protect my daughter. I didn’t want her to know the cruelty and violence her mother was capable of.”
Dearborn exhaled. “Will you tell me precisely what happened? The truth this time?”
Thomas felt Aunt Charity’s comforting hand on his arm. Her touch leached away some of his anger and despair. “We were arguing. I went out to the balcony to get away from her raging. She followed me, shrieking about…something.” He heard the words quite clearly but wouldn’t repeat them. She’d broken his heart in every way possible, and he was supposedly the villain?
“She was always shrieking about something,” Aunt Charity said, her hand still on Thomas’s arm.
“What happened on the balcony?” Dearborn asked. He withdrew the little book from his coat along with his pencil.
“She came after me with her penknife, aiming right at my throat. I wasn’t wearing a cravat, so she had a straight shot at my bare flesh. Knowing what she was capable of, I moved to avoid the blow. She lost her balance at the railing and fell over.” Thomas’s vision blurred as he recalled the sight of her body pitching over the side and landing on the stones below. It was as if it had happened in half time, the world slowing to ensure he remembered every awful detail.
He squeezed his eyes shut briefly and shuddered. When he opened them, he blew out a breath. “There was nothing I could do to stop her from falling. I’d moved too far away to reach her.” Besides, he’d been too shocked in the moment to act. Shocked? Or had he just not cared enough to do so? If that had been anyone else falling—Regan or…Beatrix—he would have endangered himself to save them.
The blame he’d assigned himself roared through him. Perhaps Bow Street would find him guilty too. If not for his daughter, he might even allow himself to be punished for it. But she needed him, and he would fight for her with every breath he took.
