“I’m well aware of that,” her father said. “And Selbourne is merely trying to ascertain the facts of the situation.”
“But this has nothing to do with him.” She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist.
“Lucia,” Francesca chided.
“I asked my brother to help,” Ethan said. “Alex has lived on the Continent off and on and has extensive contacts. Your father agreed that his experience might prove helpful.”
Lucia huffed. Right. If the rake wasn’t distracted by the low cut of some trollop’s gown first. “Very well,” Lucia conceded reluctantly. “Where on the Continent should we start searching?”
Selbourne frowned at her. “I am going to start the search here in London.”
Ethan nodded, but Francesca and her father erupted into a barrage of questions. Lucia gaped at Selbourne. Had the man’s wits been warped by too much exposure to women’s perfume?
Selbourne spoke over the protests. “It’s been established that Dashing isn’t in Greece. He may have decided to start his tour elsewhere in Europe.”
Lucia nodded. Now he was making sense.
“On the other hand, he may not have gone to the Continent at all. It’s suspicious that, with a war on, Mr. Dashing would choose now to tour Europe. You yourself, sir”—he looked to her father—“as well as Ethan, told me you attempted to discourage Mr. Dashing.”
“Stubborn as a rock,” Ethan commented. “Family trait,” he added under his breath.
Selbourne raised an eyebrow at Lucia, and she glowered back. She wasn’t stubborn. Just persistent.
“So,” Francesca said, and Lucia was glad at least someone in the room was as concerned as she, “if you agree John was so intent on touring the Continent, why don’t you believe he did so?”
Selbourne crossed his arms over his chest. His broad, muscular chest, Lucia noted unwillingly.
“Dashing’s young,” Selbourne said. “He may have wanted privacy to pursue various…activities in Town.” He shifted, glanced at Lucia. “Is there a…particular lady you don’t approve of, Lord Brigham?”
Lucia frowned. Now what was the daft man talking about? She heard Francesca cough, but her father lowered his pipe, considering.
“No, ah, ladies that I know of, but I concede you have a point, Selbourne. There are any number of amusements in London to keep a boy of twenty occupied during the Season.”
“Yes, but feminine diversions or trying one’s luck at the tables or races cost money,” Ethan surmised, “and John hasn’t withdrawn any additional funds.”
“Selbourne,” Lucia said, “you may know the Continent, but I know my brother. We share everything, and he had every intention of sailing for Greece. If he had a mistress or some other vice, I would know.” The room fell deathly silent, and she felt the weight of four pairs of eyes on her. Too late, Lucia saw Francesca close her eyes and almost groaned at the shock on her father’s face.
“You must excuse my daughter, gentlemen. She’s somewhat distraught and has forgotten herself.”
Lucia threw her arms out in exasperation. “I am not distraught and have not forgotten myself, Father. I’m sorry to speak so plainly, but how can I help if I can’t be frank? I’m not a child! I know something about the world.” She almost stamped her foot but stopped herself just in time.
“Help?” Selbourne choked. “I don’t need your help, madam, or your naïve thoughts on men. If your brother is in London, I’ll find him. If not, that’s my concern as well.”
Her father pointed his pipe at her. “Listen to him, Lucy. I’ll not have you gallivanting about making a fool of yourself, following another of your wild ideas. You have a wedding in a few months, and it’s best you keep your mind on your fiancé and not give in to silly adventurous fancies.” He looked beseechingly at his son-in-law. “It’s that blasted Mrs. Radcliffe. Keep those books away from Franny, Ethan, or you’ll see the inevitable result.”
“Oh, Father,” Francesca said, looking tired and worried. “Lucia is naturally spirited. She means no harm.”
“Naturally spirited!” Lucia lost all patience. “I’m the only one here speaking any sense, and all you four can do is blanch because I uttered the word mistress.”
“By God, I hope Dandridge can leash some of that natural spirit or we’ll be the talk of the Season.” Lord Brigham shot out of his seat. “Lucy, I forbid you from becoming involved in this matter, and that’s the end of it!”
Lucia balled her fists as embarrassment turned to fury. She straightened in her chair, back rigid, head high, jaw tight, and looked out the window in silence.
Her father grumbled something under his breath, and Lucia caught “going to be the death of me,” before he turned to Selbourne again. “What are your plans, sir? What assistance may we provide?”
“I’ll question Mr. Dashing’s friends today and tomorrow. I’ll need their names, as well as his tailors, bootmakers, and other creditors.”
Her father settled in his chair and lifted his pipe. “Very good, sir. I’d anticipated as much.” He rose. “Lucy, you say you want to help. Here is your opportunity. Since you know so much of John’s personal life, stay here and assist Selbourne with the information he requires.” He walked around the desk and stood before her. “And, by God, remember to keep that temper of yours in check. We don’t need any more drama.”
Lucia watched as he motioned to Ethan and Francesca. Francesca gave Lucia a helpless glance over her shoulder before their father shooed her forward, leaving Lucia alone with Selbourne.
Lucia didn’t bother to look at Selbourne. She tapped her fingers on her arms. So now he needed her. Well, let the arrogant man do the asking for once.
But he didn’t ask, didn’t move, and she had to force her eyes to remain fixed on the window, though she registered nothing of the view. She could feel—feel—his gaze on her—hot, heavy, and hard.
And she didn’t need to look at him to see him. The image of him—leaning against the breakfast room door, lounging against the mantel—burned in her mind. Handsome as he’d been the night before, today he wore a charcoal gray coat, red waistcoat, and gray trousers, with shining black boots. And in the morning light she’d noticed the tawny highlights in his wavy hair. She remembered them from their first meeting so many years ago, but had been unable to see them in last night’s darkness. A lock of that thick hair fell boyishly over his forehead.
The gray eyes were the same. Under those dark slanted brows, his gaze was piercing, impossibly clear, giving her the impression he was looking right through her. But every time she felt a shudder of nervousness at his intensity, they seemed to warm in invitation. She clasped her hands together tightly. No wonder Selbourne had all the ladies in love with him. He could turn a simple glance into a seduction.
Finally he moved, crossing to sit in the armchair beside her. He seemed tired and—as usual—displeased. What was it about him that so attracted her? Oh, why couldn’t she have these feelings for Reginald? Why Selbourne—a rake and a scoundrel?
She hefted her chin a notch. She would just have to overcome her adverse response to Reginald. Forget all about the arrogant Selbourne. These things could be accomplished.
“Let’s be clear, Miss Dashing. I’ll handle this matter.” The seductive timbre of his voice was ruined by his words. “You are not to become involved.”
Lucia stared at the window. “Why should I be surprised that you take his side? Apparently arrogant men do all think alike.” She shot him a brief glance, then wished she hadn’t when she saw the scowl on his face. But she squashed her anger, determined not to play into his misinformed notion of females. “I’m well aware that men like you and my father consider women little more than ornaments without any sense. I’ve found that the best way to contradict that belief is by proving them wrong, so I intend to provide you the information concerning my brother in a calm, rational manner.” With a toss of her head, she rose and went to her father’s desk. Once seated behind it, she felt dwarfed by its consi
derable size, but she tried to imagine she looked more dignified than she felt.
Pulling out a sheet of her father’s personal stationery, she began to detail the information Selbourne wanted. She kept her eyes on paper and pen, trying to ignore the heat Selbourne’s gaze continued to generate in her belly. And toes. And thighs. And…
She pressed the pen harder into the paper. That her father thought her a hysterical, overly bold female was no surprise. But that one of his motives in marrying her to Dandridge was to keep her under control hurt. She knew she had a temper and had more than once unleashed it at the wrong time, but she had never caused any sort of scandal or blemished the Dashing family name or the Brigham title. Her father needn’t worry that she’d ruin his chance at the position of Paymaster of the Forces. She would toe the line.
But now her brother had disappeared to God-knew-where, and her father treated it as a minor indiscretion—a misunderstanding. If she’d so much as fluttered her fan the wrong way, her father would have scolded her for a week. But not John. Not Francesca. Her siblings could do no wrong. She felt less than charitable toward her brother at the moment, but she would not allow that to prevent her from helping to find him. She loved John, and she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t do everything she could to find him. And let her father or Selbourne just try to stand in her way.
She finished writing, tapped her temple thoughtfully, added one more name, then, sanding the paper to dry the ink, handed it across the desk to Selbourne.
“I’m sure a capable man like you doesn’t need my assistance,” she said, tossing a wayward curl over her shoulder. “But Mrs. Seaton is giving a ball tonight, and while it will not be all the crack, most of my brother’s friends will be in attendance.”
There. She’d done her duty and then some. Assuming an imperial manner, she stood, marched around the desk, and brushed by Selbourne, nose three inches in the air. Just as she made it to the door, her exit perfect, the feather like touch of his hand on her arm stopped her. She didn’t turn, but the feel of his warm lips moving against her earlobe paralyzed her.
“I’d never consider you merely an ornament, sweetheart.”
The temperature of Lucia’s blood rose instantly. A bead of perspiration trickled from the base of her neck to the center of her back, and she shivered, imagining his touch would feel as tantalizing.
“You’re much too passionate for that title,” he whispered. “In fact, I worry for any ornaments in your presence. With that temper, you’re likely to smash them.”
She spun around, the heat of arousal replaced by the fire of fury. If only she had something more lethal than her shawl to hit him with. “If I had an ornament in my hand right now, you, sir, can be confident I would know what to do with it!”
Lucia shook off his hand and threw open the door, but his laughter taunted her as she stomped upstairs.
Ornament! Ornament indeed. She’d show him how much of an ornament she was.
Chapter 6
Once in her room, Lucia flopped onto her bed, feeling the sharp sting of tears just behind her eyelids. She buried her head in the pillow, heaved a loud sigh, and waited for the flood.
And waited.
Oh, why couldn’t she be like other girls and cry or faint over every trifle? Much easier to be weak and pampered than strong and scolded. Resigned, she turned her head and rested her cheek on the soft pink pillowcase. Pink walls, pink curtains, and a dressing table draped in pink silk stared back at her. If Selbourne didn’t make her cry, her bedroom just might.
She hated pink.
Her mother loved it.
Lucia had repeatedly asked to have the room redecorated. She’d suggested a quiet mint green, then a primrose yellow, next a muted lilac. All to no avail—until this Season. Her mother had informed her upon leaving Tanglewilde for London that, as a surprise, she’d had Lucia’s room redecorated. The short trip from Hampshire to Town had been an eternity.
When they’d arrived, she’d rushed upstairs, flung open the door to her room, and found it exactly the same. She’d stared, speechless.
Her mother came up behind her and said, “Well, dolce, what do you think?”
“It’s pink,” was all she could think to say.
“No, cara.” Her mother patted her shoulder indulgently. “The color is called dusky rose. Que bello!”
“Bello,” Lucia muttered.
“Sí, bello. Roseo!”
Now, in her misery, the tonsil-colored walls stared back at her. She shut her eyes, contemplating just how many thousands of shades of rose her mother could find to torment her. Lord! Her walls were the least of her worries. Lately it seemed nothing in her life went right. First Dandridge. Now John…
There was a light knock at the door, and she sat up as Francesca entered, holding Gatto, the family cat.
“No tears?”
“Not for lack of trying. What are you still doing here? I thought you and Winterbourne had gone.”
“Ethan left, but I thought you might need a friend.”
“Oh, Francesca!” Lucia leaped to her knees. “Do you really think something happened to poor John?”
“I don’t know.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Ethan says not to worry, that it’s all just a misunderstanding.” She placed the cat gently on the armchair and sat on the bed beside Lucia. “He says young men need to sow their oats or some such nonsense, but what do you think, Lucia? You know John better than anyone. The two of you are peas in a pod.”
Lucia sat back on her heels. “Not lately. Oh, Cesca, we haven’t talked—really talked—in so long. I thought it was just John’s way of dealing with my engagement—our separation.” She bit her lip, holding back her own tears now. “But now I wonder if it wasn’t something more.” The last came out in a whisper, and Francesca took her hand. Lucia squeezed back, grateful for the offer of comfort. But she knew she would never be at peace until she was certain her brother and closest friend was well.
She and John had been inseparable as children, Lucia acquiring most of her bad habits from her brother. Their close bond hadn’t diminished with age or even when John went away to school. More often than not, they finished each other’s sentences and spent long hours in conversation. Lucia realized now that she couldn’t remember the last time they’d had one of their soul-searching talks or exchanged confidences.
“All our worrying isn’t going to help John,” Francesca said. “And I feel better knowing that Alex is looking into it. If there has been some mishap, Selbourne will find it out and make it right.”
Lucia snorted. “You’re giving Selbourne more credit than he deserves.”
“I know him better than you, dear. He’s a capable man.”
“Still,” Lucia said, tapping a finger against her chin. “We can’t leave this matter entirely in his hands.”
Francesca raised a brow. “We can’t?”
“Of course not!” Lucia frowned at her. “He doesn’t even have a good plan—”
“Oh, no, Lucia!” Francesca grasped both of Lucia’s hands and gave her a stern look. “You heard what Daddy said. You’re not to get involved. These schemes you concoct never work.”
Lucia shook free, indignant. “Schemes? I’m not scheming! I just thought that Dandridge and I might make an appearance at the Seatons’ ball tonight. While we’re there, I’ll make a few inquiries as to whether William Seaton has seen or heard from John recently.”
The whole affair would be absurdly simple. Almost too easy. She’d pull Seaton aside and tease information from him. He’d think she was flirting, nothing more. In fact, if she could arrange things so that he promised her a dance, they’d be together for almost half an hour. That would be more than enough time to flirt her way into any knowledge he had of John’s whereabouts.
Francesca shook her head at her. “This sounds suspiciously like a scheme, Lucia. In light of past experiences, I insist you reconsider.”
Lucia glanced out of her pink-draped window. “I’m sure I don’
t know what you mean.”
“I know you, Lucia, so wipe the innocent expression off your face.”
Lucia opened her mouth to protest, but Francesca silenced her with a wave of her hand. “Let me see, there was the time you and John decided that Mamma would be pleased if you dyed poor Il Cane pink for Daddy’s very important political dinner party. Poor Daddy almost had a seizure when the dog came racing into the dining room, pink and dripping wet, then shook himself dry, water flying all over those stuffy lords from Parliament.”
“You needn’t remind me. Il Cane was pink for a month, and John and I had a lecture from Father every time he saw the dog, which was far too frequently. But that was a long time ago,” she assured Francesca. “And it’s nothing like this plan.”
Francesca arched a brow. “Oh, really? What about last month when you were caring for little Sarah and Colin?”
Lucia dropped her jaw. Even Hamlet hadn’t had to suffer so many slings and arrows. “They wouldn’t go to bed, Francesca! What was I supposed to do?”
“Well, whatever you do, I can assure you that a three- and four-year-old will not be coaxed into bed after stories of ghosts and monsters. They still talk about the monster under the bed that will eat them up if they don’t go right to sleep.”
“I admit that was a miscalculation on my part—”
“Miscalculation!” Francesca threw her arms wide. “Last year at the masque when you thought the Prince of Wales was John and you tore off his disguise screaming ‘Aha!’ in the middle of the Duke of Essex’s ballroom—that was a miscalculation. You’re lucky Prinny found it amusing. Oh, and that scheme at Almack’s—”
Lucia’s head was pounding. “All right. All right. I’ve made a mess of things in the past, but I assure you I won’t make a muddle of the affair at the Seatons’. It’s too simple to go wrong. Simplicity: that’s the beauty of the plan, Francesca.” Lucia felt a familiar prickle of excitement creep through her limbs, making the little hairs on her arms stand up. She knew her idea would work. It had to.
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