Daring Deception

by Hiatt, Brenda

  “I shall ask one of the grooms, if you wish, madam.” Frederica recognized the voice as that of Coombes, the butler. “They might know.”

  “Why did you not do so in the first place?” demanded the lady. “Pray go at once!”

  The harassed Coombes fairly shot from the parlor, nearly running Frederica down before he perceived her. “Oh, excuse me, Miss Cherry,” he whispered, grasping her arm familiarly to steady himself for a moment. “I’m on my way to the stables—or anywhere else to get away from that harpy in there.” He cocked his head towards the parlor door. “Don’t know what the master will say about her kind visiting the house.” He straightened disapprovingly then gave a suggestive wink. “Care to come with me?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Coombes,” replied Frederica frostily. “I take it his lordship is not in?”

  The butler shook his head. “And demmed lucky, if you ask me, though she is a taking piece.” With another wink in parting, he disappeared through a doorway at the rear of the house.

  Frederica bit her lip in indecision for a moment, then, holding the covered cage she carried behind her back, she pushed open the parlor door.

  A vision of loveliness with sky-blue eyes and clouds of black hair sat at ease on the divan. One glance at the scandalously low cut of her vivid blue gown and the crimson on her lips told Frederica that this was no lady of Quality.

  “Did you—?” the woman began, but on seeing Frederica she stopped, raking those perfectly shaped eyes over the drab brown figure before her. “Oh. I don’t suppose you know where Gavin is?” she asked petulantly, with just a hint of a lisp. “Are you the housekeeper?”

  “Assistant housekeeper,” replied Frederica demurely, surreptitiously taking in every detail of the woman’s appearance. So this was what a woman of easy virtue looked like. She was dazzlingly beautiful; a life of sin seemed to have left no outward mark as yet. Moving to the far corner of the room, Frederica set down her cage of mice behind a chair and pretended to dust a table so that she could further examine her.

  “Maybe you can be of more help than that dolt of a butler,” said the black-haired beauty after a moment. “Gavin was to have met me this afternoon at my rooms for tea, and then we were to go for a drive. He promised last night, after my performance. Have you any idea where he might be?”

  Frederica shook her head. Why, this woman was an actress! The fascination she felt at seeing such a creature mingled with an unpleasant sinking feeling at the thought of her spending time privately with Lord Seabrooke—her own fiancé! For a moment, as a wave of anger washed over her, Frederica forgot completely that she wanted no part of that betrothal. How dared he?

  “Perhaps his appointment with Miss Dominique has run late,” she suggested with sudden inspiration, pulling a name from a novel she had once read. “He seemed most eager to see her when he left the house.”

  “Dominique?” shrieked the black-haired lady, somewhat marring the china-doll effect as her features contorted with rage. “Do you mean Dominique Gaspard? That little snake! She knows full well Gavin is mine!”

  Frederica merely shrugged, delighted that she had happened onto a name that produced such an effect. His lordship would doubtless have a difficult time explaining his way out of this coil.

  “Well, I’m not budging an inch until he gets back,” the visitor declared, to Frederica’s secret dismay. “He’ll see that Ariel Sheehan can’t be cast off so easily! I suppose he means to stop payment on my carriage, as well?”

  To this Frederica dared not answer. Somehow she had to persuade the woman to leave before the Earl returned or he would learn that she had fabricated the story about another mistress—and would doubtless want to know why. Turning her back, she straightened a few ornaments on the mantel, working her way toward the chair where she had left her pet mice. Miss Sheehan, whose angry monologue grew more shrill by the second, scarcely noticed.

  Reaching her objective, Frederica quickly leaned down and flipped open the door of the cage. Whipping off the cloth that covered it, she shooed the six mice toward the furious actress.

  “All his fine promises!” she was saying. “And all the while he was...oh! Oh! Get them away! Where did they come from?” Amazingly, her voice rose another full octave as she scrambled up to stand on the divan.

  “I fear the house is sadly overrun by the creatures, Miss Sheehan,” said Frederica mildly. “I am surprised you did not see any before this. Shoo!” She waved the cloth at the confused mice, causing them to scurry closer to the woman.

  “Oh, I detest mice!” she wailed. “They are everywhere, you say? I’ll not stay another instant!” She leapt gracefully from the divan to the parlor door, making Frederica wonder if she were a dancer as well as an actress. “Tell Gavin to come see me when he gets in!” she commanded from the doorway. “I am not finished with him yet!” With that, she turned and fled for the front door, looking nervously along the floorboards as she went.

  “Oh, I think you are,” replied Frederica under her breath as the front door slammed behind her. “Quite finished, Miss Sheehan.” Turning back into the parlor, she began to coax the mice back into their cage, a satisfied smile on her face.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, after ascertaining that Lord Seabrooke had again gone out, Frederica hurried down to the library the moment Christabel was asleep. Yesterday’s events had strengthened her resolve to find some tangible proof of the Earl’s duplicity to show her brother. She had happened, from the top of the stairs, to see Lord Seabrooke when he came in last night, and it had been apparent that he was the worse for drink. Doubtless he had gone to Miss Sheehan, been dismissed, and had set out to drown his sorrows, she thought scornfully. No, she could never be happy married to such a man!

  Why she had chosen to wait up, peering down the winding staircase, she did not consider—nor did it occur to her that injured feelings played a large part in her anger towards the Earl. She only knew that she wanted out of the betrothal more than ever.

  Afternoon was generally a quiet time in Seabrooke House, the staff either busy below in the kitchens or retired to their rooms to rest. Frederica reached the library without encountering anyone. She took the precaution of pushing a chair against the door, to give her warning should anyone attempt to enter, before crossing to the desk.

  Pulling open one drawer after another, she discovered quickly that Lord Seabrooke had not nearly her penchant for organization. Receipts, letters and even pound notes were jumbled together with writing paper and bills in no discernible arrangement. Her search was going to be more difficult than she had anticipated. Finally, in a bottom drawer, she found a heavy ledger. Opening it, she saw that it did, indeed, contain the accounts for the Earl’s estate.

  Scanning it quickly with a practiced eye, she realized that here was the information she needed. The book detailed the income and expenditures of Brookeside Manor and its surrounding lands for the past several years, presumably since well before the present Lord Seabrooke had come into possession of it. She shook her head at the tale it told: it appeared that the Seabrooke holdings had never been particularly profitable. If anything, matters had improved in recent months, since Gavin had taken control. Frederica frowned. There were certain discrepancies here...but no, she had no time to puzzle them out now.

  Since she could hardly take the entire ledger as evidence, she pulled open the top drawer again to remove a few sheets of writing paper. Copies of some of the key entries would have to suffice for Thomas. As she riffled through the papers, a smaller sheet fluttered to the floor. Frederica picked it up to return it to its place, glancing briefly at it as she did so.

  It was a letter, dated less than a year ago, from Lord Seabrooke’s sister. Skimming its brief contents, Frederica’s gaze fell on the signature: Your devoted sister, Amity Browning. She blinked at it, then remembered what Lord Seabrooke had said about his sister’s fancy that she and Christabel’s father had married.

  A sudden thought seized her, making her temp
orarily forget her original purpose in searching the Earl’s desk. What if Amity hadn’t been imagining things? Suppose she and her officer really had married, without her brother’s knowledge? It could mean everything to Christabel—a real future, possibly even an inheritance from her father.

  Quickly, Frederica replaced everything she had removed from the desk exactly as she had found it. Her proof of Lord Seabrooke’s duplicity could wait. It mattered far more to discover whether Christabel was indeed the legitimate daughter of Amity and Peter Browning.

  CHAPTER 7

  Lord Seabrooke left his solicitor’s office in a thoughtful frame of mind. Two days before, when he had discovered that his new resources would make possible a more thorough search of the previous Earl’s business affairs, he had seen it as that much more proof of his dependency on the unknown Miss Chesterton’s wealth. He had left that same office feeling inadequate, even ashamed.

  A man should be able to conduct essential business dealings without relying on an unsuspecting chit’s dowry, he told himself. It mattered little that his attorney hoped to find holdings that might make her money unnecessary to him. The betrothal was accomplished, and he had achieved it by less than honorable means. Odd that his conscience had not pricked him so before.

  His conversation with Miss Cherrystone after Christabel’s near accident on his return had gone a long way toward restoring his spirits. Though she had infuriated him more than once, there was something about Cherry that always left him feeling...slightly exhilarated.

  Suddenly, he recalled what Mrs. Abbott had told him just that morning. He had left the checking of Miss Cherrystone’s references to her, as he did with any new servant he hired. Normally he heard no more about it. This time, however, Mrs. Abbott had found discrepancies disturbing enough that she felt it necessary to inform him of them. Most of Miss Cherrystone’s supposed previous employers resided in the country, she had discovered. The only ones in Town were the Launtons, and the housekeeper there had never heard of her.

  Mrs. Abbott had not gone so far as to suggest the nanny’s immediate dismissal, admitting that the young woman had been of great use both to Christabel and herself. Gavin himself was inclined to shrug the matter off. After all, Cherry had proved more than competent at her post—she might even have saved Christabel’s life! And it was patently obvious that she came from a genteel background. No doubt she had good reason to keep her past a secret, if that was what she was doing.

  As he strolled along Bond Street, Gavin found himself hoping that she might be moved to confide in him about it. He enjoyed sparring with Cherry and felt, after their last encounter, that something of a tenuous friendship had sprung up between them. He would not jeopardize that by questioning her. Besides, he merited reproach far more than she, and she did not appear to condemn him.

  Of course, if he were to tell her the complete story of his betrothal, he doubted that he would continue to enjoy the spirited nanny’s approbation. Drab she might be on the outside, but Cherry held very decided opinions and was not afraid to share them. He smiled to himself, remembering again her outrage when she had thought he was attempting to hire her as a mistress instead of a nanny.

  That thought led him to recall the bizarre scene with Ariel last night. He had gone to see her after her performance, prepared with apologies and a small gift to atone for missing their assignation earlier in the day. Before he could so much as explain the matters of business that had kept him from her, however, she began to hurl accusations, as well as more substantial objects, at his head, angry out of all proportion to the cause.

  At first he had thought that she had somehow heard of his impending marriage, the announcement of which he had delayed putting into the papers until Sir Thomas returned to London with word from his sister. However, her diatribe had included references to another actress, to his housekeeper, and to mice, of all things, but not a word about his fiancée. He had not stayed to hear all of it. Growing perturbed in turn, for he had been exceptionally generous with her, he had told Ariel that he was withdrawing his patronage.

  “You may seek another, more patient, protector, or you may go to the devil, for all I care,” he had said coolly as he left.

  She had scarcely paused in her vitriolic recital of his shortcomings, and he had closed the door behind him barely in time to avoid a flying powder box which, being made of heavy alabaster, might well have done him an injury. From the theatre, he had gone to one of his more disreputable clubs to dampen with strong spirits his confusion over the vagaries of the female sex.

  That was the trouble in associating with women of Ariel’s stamp, he thought now. However polished a veneer of elegance and breeding they managed to develop, a veneer it remained, allowing occasional glimpses of the coarser stuff beneath. Considering his upcoming marriage, it was probably high time he had done with mistresses altogether, at least until he discovered how he and Miss Chesterton dealt together, he thought gloomily.

  And now there was this other matter. Mr. Culpepper, his man of business, had just informed him that there was reason to suspect that Uncle Edmund had been diverting money out of the estate for some years, for purposes unknown. What he could possibly do about it, or how it could even be proved, Gavin had no idea. Nor did he see how the knowledge could benefit him. If the money was gone, it was gone, so it mattered little how his uncle had lost it.

  Shrugging, the Earl turned back toward the corner where his groom was waiting for him. As he climbed to the driver’s seat of his new high-perch phaeton, he was assailed by another attack of conscience at the thought of where the money to purchase it had come from. He suddenly wondered if he would feel better if he were to confess the whole to Cherry and submit to her judgment of his actions. The mere thought made him feel better, though of course he could do no such thing.

  Chuckling to himself at the absurd idea, he whipped up his pair and headed for home.

  * * *

  Christabel was already awake upon Frederica’s return to the nursery, so she had perforce to delay further thought on the possibility of somehow proving her charge’s legitimacy. As she had most of the morning, Christabel wanted to do nothing but play with the mice Cherry had brought her yesterday. It warmed Frederica’s heart to see the child so happy and involved with them, and she was glad she had thought to bring them for her.

  “What are their names again, Cherry?” Christabel asked as she reached into the cage to stroke each lightly on the back with one finger, as Frederica had shown her. She was proving herself remarkably gentle for a child of her age.

  “The white ones are Pinky and Dinky,” answered Frederica, pointing at them in turn. “Dinky is the smaller. The grey one is Graham, after my housekeeper at home, and the brown one is Chestnut.”

  “What about the spotted ones?”

  “The one with the bigger spots is Patches, and the mostly white one is Freckles.”

  “Oh, because it looks as though he has freckles!” said Christabel delightedly. “Just as you do, Cherry, though yours are not so dark. I’ll remember now!” Frederica resisted the urge to go to her mirror at once to examine her false freckles. She had touched them up upon arising, as she did every morning, but she always worried that she would forget, or that she would accidentally rub them off during the course of the day. Wearing a disguise all the time, so exciting at first, was becoming a bit of a trial. The glasses chafed her nose and her scalp frequently itched under the heavy wig.

  “Would you like to take one of them out of the cage?” she asked Christabel. “Which is your favorite?”

  “Freckles,” she answered impishly, wrinkling her nose. “I wish I had some, too.”

  They played with the mice until suppertime, when Frederica firmly insisted on having them back in their cage in the corner before Lucy appeared. “Some people aren’t as fond of mice as you and I,” she explained to Christabel, suppressing a smile as she recalled Miss Sheehan’s reaction to them yesterday. She was burning with curiosity to know what had happen
ed between her and the Earl later, but doubted that she would ever find out.

  After supper where, as had become customary, Molly Dolly received a cake of her own (which always disappeared mysteriously when Frederica turned her back), they tidied the nursery together and Frederica put Christabel to bed. At long last she was able to retire to her room to give some thought to her latest plan.

  Even if a marriage had taken place between Christabel’s parents, it might be difficult to prove at this late date, Frederica realized. She had very little to go on—only Amity’s apparent belief that she had been Peter Browning’s legal wife, a belief that Lord Seabrooke did not share. Suddenly Frederica remembered the bundle of letters she had secreted in her bottom drawer, when she had believed them to be written by the Earl. Might they have been from Captain Browning instead? Eagerly, she went to retrieve them.

  Frederica hesitated a moment before untying the riband that held the stack of letters together. Should she perhaps ask Lord Seabrooke’s permission before reading them? It was not as though she had any real right to the information they might contain. Carrying the bundle closer to the candle, she looked carefully at the folded sheet on top. With a surge of disappointment, she realized that the handwriting was in fact the Earl’s, which she now recognized after her search through his desk that afternoon. This letter, at least, would tell her nothing.

  Carefully, still not untying the riband, she went through the rest of the stack. No, some of those farther down were addressed in a different hand—they were not all from Lord Seabrooke. She stood, irresolute, then came to a sudden decision. This matter concerned the Earl far more than it did her. It was only fair that he should be involved. Besides, it would be extremely difficult to explain to him why she had taken it upon herself to read the letters if she discovered what she hoped to. Pausing to check her reflection in the mirror, she satisfied herself that her disguise was as effective as ever before turning to go downstairs.