by Cara Elliott
From behind the library doors came a lilt of laughter.
Ciara stopped short. “Oh, I do not wish to interrupt if Sir Henry has other guests—”
The butler, however, had already knocked.
“Come in, come in,” came Henry’s voice.
She entered the room and was about to voice an apology when two silvery heads looked up in unison from the display table.
“Lady Sheffield! What a delightful surprise,” exclaimed Henry.
Surprise was an apt choice of words. Ciara was momentarily speechless.
“We were just studying the stamens and pistils of these poppies,” said Ariel, her blush matching the exact shade of pink tinting the colored engraving. “Sir Henry has such a fascinating portfolio of prints. And he has been kind enough to share his expertise on the subject with me.”
“It has been my pleasure,” said the baron.
Ciara shifted her case. “Don’t let me interrupt. I shall stop by another time—”
“No, no, I was just leaving.” Ariel rose hastily and shook out her skirts. “I must be getting home.”
“You must promise to return soon,” said Henry. “We’ve not yet looked at the collection of species from Afghanistan.”
“Thank you, I—I shall.”
Ciara bit back a smile as her friend fumbled with her reticule. Ariel appeared embarrassed, which was rather endearing. Was something blooming in the room besides exotic species of Papaver somniferum?
Henry cleared his throat. “Er, have you made any headway on the code, Lady Sheffield?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” she replied. “Lady Giamatti had made a breakthrough in decoding the middle part. All that is left to figure out is the last section.”
His face lit up. “Ah, what wonderful news! I knew I could count on you to solve the mystery.”
“We still have a long way to go, sir.”
Henry dismissed her words with a wave. “I have every confidence in your ability to come up with the answer.”
Ariel voiced her agreement. “As well you should, Sir Henry. Ciara has one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever encountered.”
Then why couldn’t she cut through her doubts and fears?
“Actually, I’m feeling a little dull-witted at the moment,” admitted Ciara. “I thought perhaps a fresh pair of eyes might see whatever it is that I am missing.”
Henry maneuvered his chair to make room at the table. “Are you sure you won’t stay, Lady Ariel?”
“I am sorry, but I promised Mrs. Taft I would drop off a tisane for her sore throat before the supper hour.”
Interesting. So the two of them were spending time together. However, Ciara forced herself to remain focused on the main conundrum.
She handed Henry the notes from Alessandra. “Perhaps you would care to read through this while I lay out the manuscript’s last section. I have brought along a special magnifying glass in case you care to examine the nuances of the pen strokes.” She made a wry face. “I confess, I have studied the writing from every possible angle and can see nothing that sparks a flash of inspiration.”
Henry pursed his lips. “Let me see what I learn here before I have a look. But I am not sure I shall be of much help.”
As he pored over the papers, Ciara walked Ariel to the door. “Thank goodness our next meeting of the Circle is tomorrow, for the three of us need to have a… council of war.”
“Have the Sheffields been rattling their sabers?” whispered her friend.
“They have fired the first shot, so to speak,” answered Ciara. “I think they are gathering their forces for a new attack. But I will tell you all the details later.”
“Hmmph.” Ariel’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry, my dear. They will soon discover that they have underestimated their enemy.”
“I’m not surprised that your eyesight is fading, Ciara.” Lucas saw her frown at the use of her given name as he entered the library and approached the worktable. “Do you never take a break from your studies?” he added.
She set down the large magnifying lens. “I rarely idle away the hours, Lord Hadley. I am happiest when I am expanding my mind.”
“And I,” he added softly, “am happiest when I am expanding a very different section of my anatomy.”
“Lucas,” chided his uncle. “Remember your manners.”
“I’m not sure I ever knew them to begin with.” He wasn’t quite certain why he was going out of his way to be provoking. The morning had left him in a brooding mood. Ciara and her son were so vulnerable to attack. It was impossible to anticipate how their enemies might strike next.
“Is the swelling around your ribs any better today?” she asked softly, ignoring his risqué innuendo.
“The area is still a bit black and blue, despite your tender ministrations.”
“You ought to be in bed,” she murmured
“I could be convinced, if you would come tuck me in.”
“Lucas…” Henry’s voice turned sharper.
“It is quite all right, Sir Henry. I have grown used to your nephew’s rakish teasing.” Ciara jotted down something in her notebook before applying the glass to another section of yellowed parchment.
Curious in spite of himself, Lucas edged closer to the table. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for clues,” she said without glancing up.
“To what?” he persisted, leaning down. The scent of her perfume—a beguiling blend of exotic spices—tickled at his nostrils. Cinnamon, cloves… he could barely refrain from licking his lips.
“Patterns,” she replied tersely.
Lucas stared at the squiggles.
“The manuscript is written in a series of codes,” explained his uncle. “Each section is increasingly complex. Lady Sheffield has solved all but this last one, which spells out the exact secret hidden by the ancient scholar.” He turned to her. “By the by, I think we should send a progress report to Lord Lynsley. If what we suspect is true, and this really does reveal the secret of a new medicine for healing wounds, then the discovery will be of great interest to the government and the military.”
“Yes, by all means, if you think he would wish to hear of it.” Ciara nodded absently as she moved her magnifying glass across the page.
Lucas studied her for a moment longer before asking, “Are you looking for the frequency of certain forms?”
“How did you know?” She sounded surprised.
“I am a gambler, remember? And any gambler worth his salt learns to count cards. That way, one has a better chance of predicting the odds of what will turn up next.”
Henry looked thoughtful.
“I imagine you are trying to determine how often a symbol appears,” Lucas went on. “Then, based on the most common usage of vowels and consonants, you make an educated guess as to which letter is which.”
“It takes patience and a devilishly clever mind,”
said Henry. “And even then, it’s a process of trial and error.”
“Hmm.” Intrigued, he held out his hand for the magnifying glass. “May I?”
Ciara passed it over without comment.
“Part of the trouble is that we don’t know what language it’s based on,” explained Henry. “Lud, there are so many arcane dialects from the Arab world at that time.”
Lucas continued his study. “Have you tried classical Greek? The fellow was, after all, copying a treatise by that fellow Hippo… Hippo…”
“Hippocrates,” murmured Ciara.
Henry tapped his pen to his chin. “Sometimes the correct solution is the simplest one.”
Ciara slowly traced a finger along the lines of writing. “You are not merely guessing. You do see a pattern, don’t you? It makes sense, given your artistic eye, and the fact that you had to study your letterforms far more closely than the other boys.”
Lucas stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Lord James mentioned your difficulty in the schoolroom,” she replied softly.
&n
bsp; “Jack is an arse,” snapped Lucas. “He has taken a minor childhood incident and blown it all out of proportion.”
“There is nothing to be ashamed of, Lord Hadley. I have heard that a good many children suffer through the same problem.”
“What problem?” asked Henry, his face wreathed in concern.
“Your nephew had trouble reading and writing on account of seeing the alphabet reversed.”
“Is that why you never wrote to me?” asked Henry softly.
“Damnation, no,” he growled. “I didn’t write because I was too busy raising hell.” Dropping the magnifying glass, as if it were a burning coal, he turned on his heel and stalked to the door. “Speaking of which, you will have to excuse me. I’m late for a game of vingt-un at White’s.”
Lucas was still seething as he entered the club. Jack was about to have his beak bloodied. How dare he reveal such private, painful secrets to the lady?
“Why, look! It’s the besotted bridegroom!” Peering over the back of his armchair, Ingalls raised a bottle of brandy in mock toast and started to hum a wedding march.
Greeley joined in, whistling the melody slightly off-key.
“You two are idiots,” muttered Lucas.
“You know why he’s dressed in such somber shades of black and charcoal?” sniggered Farnam. “He’s in mourning for his sex life.”
“Speaking of black, what happened to your phiz?” asked Ingalls. He squinted at the bruise on Lucas’s cheekbone. “Looks like you went a few rounds in the boxing ring.”
“I got hit,” replied Lucas. “By a horse.”
“Damned clumsy of you, man,” remarked Greeley. “Were you drunk?”
“I’ll bet he was bewitched by his intended,” said Farnam in a dramatic whisper. “A potent love potion that had him stumbling like a mooncalf through the streets.”
The other two chortled.
In no mood for teasing, Lucas summoned a scowl. “Freddie, another insulting word about the widow and you will find your cods roasting over the fire.”
“Cool down, Lucas. What’s happened to your sense of humor?” groused Ingalls.
“It seems to have evaporated after his latest splash in the newspapers,” muttered Farnam.
“I haven’t changed,” he said defensively. “It’s just that…” Damn, it was unfair that Ciara was the butt of nasty jokes. She deserved respect rather than cruel innuendos on account of her intellect. Perching a hip on the back of the long leather sofa facing the hearth, he motioned for his friends to draw in a bit closer.
“I do have a secret, but you must promise not to tell anyone.”
His friends solemnly crossed their hearts.
“Lady Sheffield is engaged in a very important scientific project…” Lucas recalled that Henry had said Lord Lynsley was following Ciara’s work on the manuscript with great interest. After all, the discovery might be of great medical value to the military.
“For the Marquess of Lynsley,” he continued. “Who is heading up a special military research committee for Whitehall.”
“Whitehall?” echoed Farnam.
“Yes, the lady’s intellect is held in the highest regard by the government.” Lucas dropped his voice a notch, forcing his friends to edge closer. “It’s all very hush-hush, but she’s working on deciphering the secrets of an ancient medical manuscript—and she’s this close to completing the task.” He held his fingers a hairsbreadth apart.
Ingalls pulled a face. “You mean to say she’s about to make a momentous discovery?”
Lucas nodded. “If her hunch is correct, it may be a miracle drug that will save countless lives among our soldiers. Just think—such a medicine would give our military a powerful new weapon.” He saw no reason not to embellish the story. In for a penny, in for a pound. Above all else, men were impressed by money. “And the truth is, the government is willing to pay her a bloody fortune for the patent.”
Farnam let out a low whistle. “Now I understand your interest in the wid—er, that is, the lady.”
“Not that you need to marry money,” added Ingalls.
“No,” agreed Lucas. “I don’t.”
Greeley fixed him with a strange stare. The bottle rose again, this time in a more serious salute. “Er, well, good luck to the lady. Especially as she is working for God and country.”
Lucas allowed a grim smile. The Sheffield family would soon discover that two could play the game of rumor and innuendo. Oh, his friends would keep their word, but there would be plenty of winks and hints that the Wicked Widow was not so evil after all. Word would spread through the drawing rooms of Mayfair, countering the latest sordid lies being spread about Ciara.
“Have any of you seen Jack?” he asked, recalling his original mission.
“In the card room,” answered Ingalls. “Getting foxed.”
“Good.” Lucas straightened and flexed a fist. “Then he won’t feel much pain when I punch out his deadlights.”
“Oh, this should be entertaining,” sniggered Greeley. “Maybe Mad, Bad Had-ley is not beyond redemption, after all.”
Farnam signaled the others to follow along.
As the four men strolled from the room, not one of them noticed Arthur Battersham sit up on the sofa and slink away through the side portal.
Chapter Seventeen
Chin up. Ciara reminded herself to smile and appear carefree as Lucas guided her through the figures of the gavotte. By Alessandra’s decree, she had ordered a few new gowns, all of which were a shade bolder in cut and color than her usual style. The one she was wearing tonight was her friend’s favorite—a smoky sapphire blue with a neckline that revealed a goodly amount of cleavage.
Ciara wasn’t so sure of the changes…
But the strategy seemed to be working. Her dance card had only a few blank slots, and she had just received an invitation to an afternoon poetry reading from the Duchess of Devinhill.
“You have changed your modiste,” remarked Lucas from out of the blue.
“You don’t approve?” she asked hesitantly, a little embarrassed that she cared what he thought.
“On the contrary.” His eyes lingered on her bosom.
“Jewel tones accentuate every facet of your fair coloring.”
“A very pretty speech,” she said dryly.
“A very pretty partner.”
A very pretty dilemma. She should not be finding his company so pleasurable. And yet…
Despite knowing that his flirtations meant nothing, Ciara felt a small thrill steal through her. Don’t be blinded by folly, she chided herself. The glitter in his gaze was fool’s gold, a mere wink of light from the gilded candelabras.
Still, it was nice to be admired, even if the sentiment was not serious.
As the dance came to an end, Lucas suggested that they walk out to the terrace. Several other couples were admiring the grouping of Greek marbles in the sculpture garden, while a quartet of men were gathered by the stairs, smoking and discussing the latest war news from Russia.
“Let’s get away from the crowd for a moment, shall we?” After taking up two glasses of champagne, he slowly led the way to the far end of the railing.
The night breeze ruffled the garden greenery, and the shadowed whisper of the leaves was redolent with roses and the lush perfumes wafting out from the ballroom. From the darkened walkways came the sound of muted laughter and the crunch of gravel underfoot. Torches swayed in time to the music, smoke and flame flickering in the moonlight.
Ciara inhaled deeply, savoring the coolness on her cheeks.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
Was it that obvious?
“Yes,” she admitted. “Though I should not be taking pleasure in such frivolous entertainment.”
Lucas cocked his head. “Why not?”
“How can you ask that?” She couldn’t hold back a sigh. “There are so many daunting problems to confront, so many serious matters that I must resolve.”
“All the more reason to relax
and allow yourself an occasional respite from worry, Ciara.”
The sound of her name, soft as the stroking of a feather, stirred a pebbling of gooseflesh on her bare arms. “Really, sir,” she reminded him. “You must not be so personal in public.”
“Because it implies an intimacy between us?”
“Y-yes.” The tiny bubbles prickled her tongue as she took a sip of wine.
“But you can’t deny that a certain closeness has formed between us, sweetheart.”
Ciara felt a jolt of heat as his thigh brushed against hers. “The connection is… purely a practical one, Lord Hadley.”
“Speak for yourself, Ciara,” he replied. “And my name is Lucas, in case you have forgotten.”
She swallowed in confusion.
“No one can hear us here, so feel free to use it.”
“Th-that wouldn’t be proper.”
“Mmmm.” His fingertips touched the nape of her neck. “Then I imagine you don’t think I ought to be doing this.” He started to toy with a tendril of hair.
She tried to edge away, but the wall of Portland stone was against her back.
His laugh was low and lush. “Caught between a rake and rock, my dear?”
Ciara sucked in her breath, only to find the musky scent of his maleness sent a shiver down her spine.
“No one can see us, sweetheart. It’s dark, and the flower urn is blocking the view.”
“You must stop this, sir,” she whispered, trying not to allow his smile to curl her toes. Toes. Oh, Lud, she must not think about his intimate kisses in the carriage.
Lucas ignored her warning. “You know, instead of returning to the ballroom for our waltz, I would much rather dance you into my bed.” His breath tickled her ear. “The first thing I would do is unfasten those pretty little pearl buttons on your bodice…” He brushed a fingertip lightly over her breasts. “Then I would ease the silk down to the swell of your hips…”
Her flesh began to prickle.
“And let it fall to the floor, leaving you clad in only your corset and shift.” A glint of moonlight sparked in his eyes. “But not for long.”
Ciara was shocked, yet fascinated. Suddenly it was not merely her toes that were responding to his murmurs. She felt her body clench and react in the strangest way. “Wh—what are you doing, sir?” she demanded.
