“Still at the Pools’. You see—I mean—Lord Selbourne—” Lucia took another deep breath.
“Yes?” Francesca leaned forward, impatient. “Lord Selbourne must have offered to escort you home,” she surmised, narrowing her eyes. “Why? What happened to Lord Dandridge? Or should I say with Lord Dandridge?”
Lucia pulled harder at her lip, squirmed. “Reginald had a bit too much of the Pools’ champagne, and Selbourne didn’t approve.” She’d been uncomfortable a moment before, but recalling the whole incident was making her angry all over again. “Your brother-in-law is altogether too meddlesome. I had the situation under perfect control until he—he—interfered!”
“Oh, good Lord!” Francesca slammed her palm on the table. “Are you telling me Dandridge was trying to take advantage of you?”
Lucia shifted, squirmed again.
“That’s it! Lord, I was never in favor of this engagement, and now I’m going to have Ethan call Dandridge out—”
“Francesca! No!” Lucia reached across the table and grasped Francesca’s fist. “You know how much this means to Father, and it was nothing. Really! I had everything under control until Selbourne, insufferable man, insisted upon seeing me home.” She released Francesca and sat back, crossing her arms. “You really should speak to your brother-in-law about his manners. I can’t go traipsing about with a man like him or people will start to talk.”
Francesca laughed, and Lucia pursed her lips at the look of forbearance on her older sister’s face.
“Lucia, he’s practically your brother-in-law, too—though you seem determined to disown him today. No one will comment if he escorts you home on occasion.”
Lucia’s jaw dropped at this betrayal. “And you claim to be my sister?”
“I’m still your sister,” Francesca said, “and I agree that Selbourne isn’t a man to be seen with in Society often, but really, he’s harmless. Ethan assures me that all the stories about his rakish ways are quite exaggerated.”
“Ethan would say that. The gossip surrounding his days as a rake—before he met you, of course—are just as bad. But neither of you was in the carriage or in the garden, and I can assure you that all the gossip about Selbourne—and then some—is true.” Too late, Lucia blushed and clamped her mouth shut.
“Is it?” Francesca narrowed her eyes and grasped Lucia’s hand before she could tuck it safely away. “What happened in Selbourne’s carriage?”
“I assisted Miss Dashing with her hair,” a deep male voice answered.
Lucia started, her heart jumping into her throat while her gaze flew to the door where Selbourne stood, one shoulder propped against the frame. Blood rushed to her face.
Pushing away from the doorway, Selbourne strode to the sideboard and investigated the breakfast dishes. “Lord Dandridge had made quite a mess of it. Naturally, Miss Dashing wanted to avoid the servants’ notice, so I offered my assistance.” He picked up a serving spoon, set it down again. “I think I made a tolerable job of it. Don’t you agree, Miss Dashing?” He glanced at her, dark eyebrows arched, gray eyes laden with mischief.
Lucia squeezed her eyes shut. She imagined even her eyelids were pink with embarrassment.
“Hmm. Now that I’m thinking about it—” His voice was a low rumble. “My attempt was better than tolerable.”
Lucia tensed. Why did he sound so close?
“Certainly much neater than all of these loose tendrils.” His hand stroked her neck.
“Oh!” Lucia’s eyes shot open, and she jerked around in her chair. He was standing behind her, one hand tracing the hot skin of her neck. His fingers wrapped around a curl.
“All of these tendrils”—his fingers skated along the curve of her jaw, down to the junction of her shoulder—“brushing against your skin.”
Lucia shivered, and when she looked into his face, her breath hitched. His gray eyes were impossibly intense, dark with something she’d not seen before but wanted desperately.
Francesca cleared her throat. “I see. I suppose your meeting isn’t entirely improper being that you are part of the family, Alex. However—”
“My sentiments exactly.” Selbourne dropped his hand and stepped away from Lucia. He popped half a cinnamon tart into his mouth, then winked at her. Lucia blinked. Had she simply imagined the heat that had just passed between them? Hadn’t he felt it, too?
He was at the sideboard again. “Isn’t there any ham? I’m hungry.”
Ham? Ham? Was that all he could think about? She felt like stabbing him with her fork. But when he turned around, met her gaze, all the heat of her anger drained, coiling in her belly.
“I’m starving.”
Lucia had no doubt what he was hungry for.
Putting a hand to her stomach to still the fluttering, she watched him. He gave her another of his long, slow perusals, even though he’d promised no more of that last night. Not to mention, Francesca was right there, brow arched, noting everything. But when Lucia’s gaze met his, she forgot all about Francesca, all about her anger. She’d seen appreciation and desire many times in the eyes of other men, but Alex—Selbourne—had never before looked at her with anything more than polite interest.
Until last night. Until now.
Francesca cleared her throat again, and Lucia, mortified, looked away.
Her hands were trembling, and she’d barely managed to steady them when her mother burst through the doorway, holding her bonnet in place over her short blond curls. “Oh, mia cuore!” Her hand flew to her bosom. “Lord Selbourne! You startled me! I had no idea you would be calling this morning. Pray excuse me.” She gave a quick curtsy.
Selbourne inclined his head. “Certainly, madam.”
Lady Brigham stilled and stiffened.
“Oh, no,” Lucia moaned, while Francesca shook her head violently.
Signora, Lucia mouthed, hoping Selbourne would see her.
“Scusi?” Lady Brigham said, her voice deceptively sweet.
Alex frowned, then seemed to notice Francesca’s agitated movements. He glanced at Lucia, and she mouthed signora again. He stared for a moment, then scowled. With a look that said he’d exhausted his small portion of patience for the day, he turned back to her mother and said, “Scusi, Lady Brigham, I meant signora.”
Lady Brigham arched a brow but, perhaps reminded of time, turned to her two daughters. “I must be off or I shall be late.” She gave her bonnet one last pat. “Lady Castlereagh has become quite the thing. The connection cannot help but to benefit you girls, especially you, Lucia. I just hope I shall make it through without incident. Your father has insisted I do not speak Italian in young Lady Castlereagh’s presence, and I do not know how I will curb such a natural inclination! Fammi respirare! Apparently Lady Castlereagh does not favor Italian. She thinks it unfashionable.” There was a note of wonder in her voice. “That certainly doesn’t speak highly of her character,” she said with a pointed look at Lord Selbourne.
Lucia hid her smile with her hand.
“But we do what we must.” Lady Brigham sighed, heavy with her motherly duties. “Lucia—”
Lucia straightened, hand back at her side.
“Do not go out this evening without speaking to me first about your attire.” She pointed a white-gloved finger at Lucia. “I have a scarlet shawl with Indian fringe that I know will be just the thing to smarten up your new white satin gown with the square neck.” Then to Francesca, “Arrivederci, cara. Ti voglio bene.”
“Arrivederci, Mamma.”
Her mother kissed Francesca on both cheeks, eyed Lucia sternly, then, snatching her reticule from her waiting maid, flew out the door.
Hands in his pockets, Selbourne said, “I get the feeling your mother doesn’t approve of me.”
Lucia snorted and sank back into her chair, hoping she was out of Selbourne’s notice as well.
“Don’t concern yourself, Alex.” Francesca patted his arm. “Mamma doesn’t approve of any landed man over twenty-five who hasn’t yet surrendered to
the bonds of matrimony. Duty to the members of the fairer sex and all that.”
“She can keep her duty,” he said, eating another tart and picking up a third. “Marriage.” He shuddered before taking a bite. “I always thought it was my bad Italian.”
“Don’t start with your lifelong bachelor nonsense, Alex.”
Lucia smiled as Francesca, a good foot shorter than Selbourne, began to lecture him. “You’ll change your mind when you fall in love.”
The horrified look on Selbourne’s face turned Lucia’s smile into a frown. Vexing man! Why was it even the mention of matrimony sent some men into spasms of fear? What were men—rakes—like Selbourne so afraid of? Thank goodness she had Reginald. He couldn’t wait to marry her, and she—
Lucia bit her lip and looked back at Selbourne. She didn’t want to think about it right now.
“Oh, Alex, you’re hopeless,” Francesca finally said with a laugh.
“What is this?” Ethan Caxton, the Marquis of Winterbourne, strolled into the breakfast room. “Entertaining the ladies, eh, brother? I should have known.” He flashed a grin at Francesca, and her face lit up. “Lucia,” Ethan said with a bow. “A pleasure as always. You look well.”
“Thank you.”
He gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
Lucia hadn’t seen the two brothers side by side since the wedding, and she couldn’t help but notice how alike they were in appearance. As they didn’t share the same father, Lucia imagined the brothers favored their late mother. If her sons were any indication, the woman who had been first Marchioness of Winterbourne and then Countess of Selbourne must have been a striking woman. Both her sons were tall, muscular, both needed a trim. Of the two, Lucia thought Selbourne more foreboding. His hard gray eyes had none of the softness of Ethan’s brown ones, now focused on his pretty wife. Lucia lowered her lashes, feeling like an intruder. Even after five years of marriage, Ethan and Francesca’s happiness was obvious.
“Unfortunately,” Ethan said, “I can’t allow my brother to charm you two any longer. Brigham’s waiting in the library.”
The finger of unease poked Lucia. “He does want to see all of us, doesn’t he?” Her father said she was too young and impetuous and used that as an excuse to exclude her from anything remotely interesting.
“Don’t worry, Lucia.” Ethan grinned. “You’re expected with the rest of us.”
Chapter 5
Ethan opened the door, and the dark, sober library shattered the sunny mood lingering from the breakfast room. Suddenly everything seemed so serious, so ominous, and Lucia missed her mother’s silliness. She knew why her father had waited until after her mother’s departure to call everyone to the library. He’d wanted to avoid her show of histrionics.
Though Lucia knew her father dearly loved his wife, her flair for the dramatic was a constant trial. The only thing worse was her grand passion—Italy and all things Italian. Lord Brigham had taken his new bride to Rome and Venice on their honeymoon and, Lucia suspected, regretted it ever since.
Her mother had fallen in love with Italy—or at least her romanticized view of it—and became a woman possessed. The family bore her mother’s obsession as well as could be expected, especially considering Lady Brigham’s scant knowledge but frequent use of the language, but Lucia had long ago come to the conclusion that her mother was a woman to be humored whenever possible.
Unfortunately, her own vivaciousness—reckless impulsivity, her father called it—had garnered her unfavorable comparisons to her mother on several levels. And Lucia had to admit that, in the past, she’d been immature and overly dramatic…on occasion. She might have even perpetrated a few—a very few—reckless acts. But that was in the past. She was an adult now. An engaged woman.
She’d changed, only no one took any notice.
Nevertheless, the library intimidated Lucia. A luxurious burgundy velvet couch resided near the fireplace, flanked by rosewood side tables, one littered with papers and journals and the other covered with decanters of sherry, Madeira, brandy, and claret. The Aubusson carpet was a plush pattern of dark blues and reds, matched by the heavy maroon draperies cascading from the large windows. Her father’s massive highly polished mahogany desk squatted in front of French doors that opened to the terrace and gardens.
Lord Brigham sat behind the desk now, smoking his pipe and looking through a sheaf of papers. He looked up as they entered, his expression grim. As always, his attire was flawless, except that this morning his cravat was askew, a sure sign he’d been worrying over something.
“Winterbourne.” He nodded. “Franny, dear, how are my grandchildren?”
“Just fine, Daddy.” Francesca kissed his cheek before sitting next to Ethan on the velvet couch.
Lucia sat down as unobtrusively as possible in a chair against the wall. Selbourne stood sentinel, leaning an elbow against the marble fireplace mantel across from her.
Her father nodded stiffly at Selbourne, but the cool greeting didn’t surprise her. Selbourne’s reputation for debauchery did not play well with Lord Brigham’s political ambitions, and she knew he had no wish to further the connection with the earl.
“I’ve called this meeting,” her father said, looking at each of them in turn, “because I feel the time has come to acquaint you with a matter of some concern.” He raised a hand. “Now, there is no need to become agitated or worried.” He glanced at Francesca and then at Lucia. “Everything will be sorted out in time, so please refrain from any show of theatrics.” He continued to stare at Lucia and tugged at his cravat.
Lucia sighed. Would she not even be given a chance to prove she’d changed?
On the couch, Francesca sat forward. “What is it, Daddy? Ethan says you’ve asked him to look into this matter.”
Lord Brigham nodded and picked up his pipe, still eyeing Lucia dubiously. “I asked Winterbourne to make discreet inquiries. I’m sure I do not need to remind you that this difficulty stays within the family. We will employ an investigator only if all else fails. You are not to breathe a word of our discussion to anyone.”
Which meant Lord Brigham didn’t want whatever was the matter to hurt his political ambitions. Lucia tapped her foot impatiently, wishing her father would go on. All his caveats and ho-humming frustrated her. Why didn’t he just get to the point?
He took another puff of his pipe and, after an eternity, said, “I am concerned”—he looked at Lucia—“mildly concerned about John.”
Lucia’s head shot up, and she bit her cheek to keep from exclaiming. Her father eyed her narrowly. “The details are not important, but approximately a fortnight ago, it was brought to my attention that, though he has been gone for almost two months, the boy hasn’t made a withdrawal from his bank account, and that’s not at all like him.”
Lucia felt a frozen finger of fear glide along each bump and ridge of her spinal column. “John?” she blurted out, forgetting her intention to stay quiet. “He hasn’t withdrawn any money in two months? Father, do you think something’s happened to him?”
John had left for the Grand Tour in March, and though she hadn’t received any letters from him, her brother was such a bad correspondent that she’d not been concerned. Until now.
“Calm down, Lucy. I know you two are close, but there is a reasonable explanation. It just needs looking into.”
Lucia almost rolled her eyes. He sounded as though he were giving one of his speeches in the House of Lords. “I’m not upset, just concerned.” She kept her voice level. “When did you last hear from John?”
Her father cleared his throat and loosened his crooked cravat again. “I haven’t.”
“You haven’t?” Lucia stared at her father. “Why haven’t you said anything sooner?”
“Lucy—” The warning in her father’s voice was unmistakable. She sat back, clamping her lips shut, but now her heart was racing.
Ethan spoke up. “Your father asked me to make inquiries, Lucia. I contacted several friends in Greece, and the inf
ormation I received indicates that Mr. Dashing never arrived.”
Francesca clutched his arm, and Ethan gave her a reassuring look. “He has not been seen in Athens or any of the other major cities, and there are no records of him at any of the hotels.”
Lucia’s mind was racing. “Perhaps he decided to start his trip in one of the smaller villages or”—she waved a hand, trying to focus her thoughts—“he might have stopped at one of the islands.”
Ethan shook his head. “I considered that, and when I investigated further I learned that John never even booked passage to Greece.”
“What do you mean?” Lucia sat forward.
“It means that wherever your brother is,” Selbourne said from his station at the fireplace, “he’s not in Greece. Lord Brigham—” He turned his attention to her father. “Ethan told me that before Dashing left he withdrew two hundred pounds from his account with the intent of withdrawing more once he reached the Continent. When exactly did he leave?”
“The end of March,” Ethan answered. “Right after you returned to England.”
Her father nodded, smoking his pipe. Lucia dug her toes into the carpet. She felt like screaming at his casual attitude. She had a hundred questions. Why did they need to plow through what they already knew?
“So as far as you know, Dashing hasn’t withdrawn any additional funds since March?” Selbourne asked.
“We’ve gone over this already,” Lucia interrupted. “Have you—”
Her father frowned at her, and she had to bite her tongue to hold it. They were wasting time!
“It’s unlikely that a man of Mr. Dashing’s habits could meet his needs for any extended period of time with a mere two hundred pounds.”
“Yes, this is all very informative,” Lucia interrupted, unable to stop herself. “But I think we should—”
“Franny, take your sister upstairs. She’s become far too agitated,” her father ordered.
“Father, I’m not agitated.” Lucia tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. “And I’m not going upstairs. This is John we’re discussing—John, my twin brother.”
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