“You can never be too careful!” Aunt Ursula beckoned Anthea forwards. Glancing about for fear of further hidden weaponry, Anthea followed her to the dressing table where an ornate silver jewellery box contained Ursula’s greatest treasures.
Aunt Ursula opened the box with great ceremony. Layers of pearls glowed within it. Neat rows of earrings shone with every colour precious stones could offer: ruby, sapphire, pink topaz, black opal.
A small, red velvet box was nestled in a heap of gold chains. Aunt Ursula took it out and opened it, turning it to Anthea so that she could see what lay within.
It was the diamond flower brooch she had just worn to the ball.
“How can that be?” Anthea looked towards the bookcase, where the book with its hidden compartment lay undisturbed. “You can’t have met two enamoured maharajas with the same taste in jewellery.”
Aunt Ursula snapped the box shut with a wheezy laugh. “One was quite enough! No, my dear. This is not the brooch that was given to me in India. It is an exact copy.”
Anthea was beginning to wonder whether Aunt Ursula was feeling quite well.
“The moment I suspected something was amiss, I went to the jeweller’s on Church Street,” Aunt Ursula explained, closing the silver jewellery box. “That brooch is the most valuable item I own. Oh, don’t make a fuss! It looked very well on you. It has always brought me luck.” She narrowed her eyes. “If you chanced to meet any gentlemen yesterday evening, I should take care that they do not fall in love with you.”
Anthea swallowed, thinking of George. “I wouldn’t worry about that!”
“Well, I went to the jeweller’s and had those clever men make an exact replica of my brooch. If there is a thief, this will be the first thing they go for! And they won’t have any luck selling it, oh no!” Aunt Ursula tapped the top of the jewellery box triumphantly. “Cut glass and gold paint! Nothing more!”
“You are clever,” said Anthea, half-admiringly, half wondering whether she should summon a doctor. Aunt Ursula had always been eccentric, but this was something else.
“Clever’s not the half of it, my girl! Not the half of it!” Aunt Ursula leaned forwards and tapped her nose again. “Not a word of it to the others. This is between you and me.”
Anthea considered the wisdom of making such a promise – what would Ursula seek to replicate and hide away next? Her silk dresses? Her spectacles? – but she nodded all the same.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and Aunt Ursula gave a great jump as though they had been doing something quite illicit.
“Quick!” she hissed. “Sit back down – take up that book – pretend you have been reading to me!”
She hustled Anthea back to the chaise longue, plopped herself back onto the armchair, and arranged herself in what she must have imagined was a casual pose. “Come in!”
Isobel pushed the door open. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw Anthea on the chaise longue, book in hand, but she smiled. “You have lost track of time, Anthea. Daisy sent me up to find you. You must get dressed!”
Nerves fluttered in Anthea’s chest. She felt the way she had always done when their governess asked them to recite the times tables. “Has someone called for me?”
George had kept his word. Anthea was amazed to find herself picturing him standing, hat in one hand, a bunch of hothouse flowers in the other, making anxious small talk with her sisters as his gaze returned every so often to the drawing room door in anticipation of her arrival.
“Someone has,” said Isobel. “Three someones, rather.” She counted them off on her fingers as she spoke. “Lord Shrewsbury, Lord Wetherton, and Lord Streatham.” She gave Anthea a reproachful look. “You know. The one you insisted on calling George after you had known him for five minutes.”
“Oh.” Anthea pressed a hand to her throat, which had grown rather dry. “That one.”
“And the two others,” Isobel reminded her. It was not like her to tease, but Anthea could have sworn she was hiding a smile.
“It’s that brooch,” sighed Aunt Ursula, shaking her head. “I should have warned you sooner!”
Anthea rose to her feet. Her mind whirled through every possible combination of dresses and bonnets in her wardrobe. A simple day dress would not do. She had no idea what to wear, and a very short time to decide in. “Please tell the gentlemen I will be down directly,” she said, and took a deep breath.
“There’s no need to hurry,” said Isobel, now smiling openly. “I daresay they can amuse themselves.”
Now Anthea was really in a rush. The idea of George, Shrewsbury and Wetherton all stuffed into the same drawing room was quite horrifying.
Isobel’s laughter followed her into the corridor as she ran to her room.
6
George was alarmed, to say the least, to find Lord Wetherton already waiting in the Balfour family’s drawing room.
He derived some small comfort from the fact that he was not nearly as horrified to see Wetherton as Wetherton was to see him. The man’s eyebrows very nearly took flight at the sight of George, hat in hand and smile rapidly departing.
At least George could now explain away this visit to Julian as an extra hour of work on their case. He appreciated his partner deeply, but Julian’s workhorse tendencies sometimes made life a struggle.
Shrewsbury’s presence, on the other hand, was sadly predictable. For all his bragging to the contrary, George now knew that the man was desperate for money. George somehow doubted that Shrewsbury minded which of the Balfour ladies he married, as long as he snagged one of them.
Lady Edith Balfour was at that very moment desperately trying to avoid his breath as she explained to him what exactly she was embroidering onto a cushion cover, and why.
“Such accomplished young ladies!” Shrewsbury remarked, to the delight of nobody. “So busy! Charming. Charming.”
“How is your mother, Lord Shrewsbury?” asked Edith, glancing about for help. None was forthcoming from the duchess, a bright-eyed girl who looked too young for the title and too lively for the sombre Duke of Loxwell. She had wisely retreated to the pianoforte as soon as the gentlemen were settled, leaving her unmarried sister-in-law to entertain them as she chose.
“Charming, charming,” Shrewsbury repeated, too pleased with his own comment to listen to Edith.
“Did you enjoy the ball, Lady Edith?” George interjected. Shrewsbury shot him a look of injured innocence, as though to say, do you mean to take this one from me, too?
“Oh,” gasped Edith, dropping her embroidery into her lap, “it was wonderful! There’s nothing like a ball, is there, my lord? I did not sit down for a single dance!”
“I am pleased to hear it. Dancing never fails to raise my spirits.” George made himself comfortable in an armchair and watched Wetherton strutting straight-backed around the room. He could not help but suspect that Wetherton had an ulterior motive for being there.
It was almost an insult to Anthea to assume that Wetherton’s interest was not genuine, and yet all George’s finely-honed senses were tingling as he watched Wetherton run his narrow eyes over the ornaments on the mantelpiece.
Perhaps his profession was to blame. Spies lived in a world of intrigue and were wont to imagine secrets everywhere. Why could George not accept that Wetherton, too, had noticed Anthea’s charms? Was it jealousy that led him to suspect his fellow earl, or were his instincts for hunting down villainy paying off?
“How did you like the ball, Lord Wetherton?” he asked.
“Very much,” said Wetherton, in tones that suggested the opposite.
“I hope you also got everything you wanted from the evening.”
Wetherton fixed him with an icy glare. “It was a ball, Streatham. There was nothing I wanted.”
George nodded towards the large portrait of the five Balfour siblings which hung on the opposite wall. Anthea’s lovely face glowed at its centre. “Except a certain lady’s company, perhaps?”
Wetherton’s lip curled. If Edith ha
d not been watching, wide-eyed, George was certain that he would have responded more rudely than the question warranted.
As it was, any unpleasantness was forestalled by the arrival of the lady herself.
Anthea was wearing a pale yellow muslin dress, her golden hair pinned up modestly beneath a white bonnet. Her cheeks were pleasantly pink. George suspected that the dress had been flung on rather rapidly in order to meet the unexpected crowd of gentlemen.
The idea of Anthea rushing about her bedroom in a nightgown was particularly appealing.
The three earls bowed low, moving in accidental unison. Behind them, George heard Edith stifle a giggle.
“What a pleasant surprise,” said Anthea. George gave her a quizzical glance. He was fairly certain that not all of her guests were either surprising or pleasant. “Did you all come together?”
“It was a happy coincidence.” Wetherton’s demeanour had completely changed. His cold, standoffish pacing had been replaced by an easy stance and an oily charm. He strode forwards, took Anthea’s hand, and kissed it.
She met George’s eyes over the top of Wetherton’s head and quickly glanced away, not quite hiding her smile.
“I cannot stay long,” said Wetherton, oblivious to the fact that his overtures had been poorly received. “I merely came to ask you to accompany me to the poetry reading at Lady Norton’s house tomorrow afternoon.”
Anthea hesitated. “Well, I –”
“I will be mortified if you do not come. I have already told Lady Norton to expect you.”
Anthea raised a cool eyebrow, and George cheered inwardly. If Wetherton thought the best way to win this lady was to tell her what to do, he had made a serious misstep.
“What a pity, Wetherton,” he interjected, meeting Anthea’s eyes. “Lady Anthea has agreed to let me take her for a drive tomorrow afternoon. One of us must now be disappointed.” She had agreed to no such thing, of course, but George was willing to gamble a little pride on the notion that she preferred his company to Wetherton’s. “Though I will not hold you to it, my lady, if you no longer wish to join me.”
“Nonsense! I cannot break a prior arrangement.” Anthea shook her head sadly at Wetherton. “I am sorry, my lord. Do pass on my apologies to Lady Norton.”
“I will,” said Wetherton, smiling through gritted teeth.
“And what about me?” demanded Lord Shrewsbury. Everybody turned to him in surprise.
“What about you?” snapped Wetherton.
Anthea sighed and extended her hand to the petulant earl, permitting him to shake it with a charitable air. “Lord Shrewsbury, you have not yet invited me anywhere. I cannot very well agree to let you drive me through Hyde Park if you have not actually asked me.”
There was logic in this that even Shrewsbury could not deny. Red-faced, he drew in a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. “My mother would like to invite you to dinner this Wednesday. Your sisters and brother, too. She said…” His forehead creased with the effort of remembering. “She said I was to say that it will be an intimate little gathering for our families to get to know each other better.”
“That sounds delightful,” said Anthea.
“Does it?” whispered Edith. George was sure that he was not supposed to have heard that. The piano music ceased for an instant, long enough for the duchess to give a delicate warning cough. Anthea silenced her sister with a sharp look and turned to the duchess.
“Daisy, may we go?”
The duchess gave Shrewsbury a smile his manners did not warrant. “Of course we shall go. I do so enjoy your mother’s company, Lord Shrewsbury.”
George suspected this last was a barefaced lie. It was not so long ago that there had been a great deal of unpleasant gossip about the Duke of Loxwell’s courtship of Daisy Morton, and most of it could be traced back to Lady Shrewsbury.
“Jolly good.” Shrewsbury’s capacity for conversation was exhausted. Wetherton, however, was glaring at him with a most meaningful expression.
“Shrewsbury,” he said, when his rapier-sharp stare made no impression, “haven’t you anything else to say?”
Light dawned behind Shrewsbury’s piggy eyes. He stared back at Wetherton woefully. “Oh, of course you must come too, Wetherton. Mother will be so pleased.” In an unexpected fit of good manners, he turned and nodded to George. “You too, Streatham.”
Another evening spent with Wetherton and Shrewsbury meant another chance to discover more details about Wetherton’s blackmail plot. “I would be delighted.”
“How charming,” said the duchess, rising to stand at Anthea’s side. “We will see you all at Lady Shrewsbury’s house on Wednesday night.”
Dismissed! George had to admire the duchess’s expertise. Only a brave man – or a desperate one – would dare to court a Balfour girl without her permission. Shrewsbury, of course, was desperate. George himself was brave. He wondered which category Wetherton fell into.
He dawdled behind as Wetherton and Shrewsbury made their goodbyes and left the room. He bid a fond farewell to Edith, a respectful one to the duchess, and risked a wink at Anthea as he made to follow them.
“George,” said Anthea, summoning him back into the room. She was standing beside the armchair he had recently occupied, holding his hat. “You have left something behind.”
“Have I? My goodness.” He took the hat from her and sat back down again. Anthea remained standing, arms folded.
“You don’t strike me as the forgetful type.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” He glanced at the chair beside him. Anthea bit down a grin and sat down.
“Anyone would think you wanted to speak to me without Lords Wetherton and Shrewsbury butting in.” She narrowed her eyes. “I hope you have something very interesting to say.”
The duchess was glaring at him pointedly from the other side of the room but refrained from making another attempt to usher him away. George leaned in so that only Anthea could hear what he was saying.
“Don’t be taken in by Shrewsbury. He’s a fortune hunter, nothing more.”
“Exactly what I would imagine his rival to say.”
George feigned surprise. “Rival? Me? What an assumption!”
Anthea was not taken in. “I suppose you only asked me to go for a drive out of charity.”
“You are exactly right. I was charitable enough to give you an escape from a dreary afternoon with Lord Wetherton.”
She laughed. “And now it is Wetherton whose attentions I should ignore! You have a low opinion of your fellow gentlemen.”
“Only when it comes to their suitability as matches for people I esteem.”
Anthea shook her head. “I have done nothing to win your esteem. Not unless you are as shallow as the rest of them. You will have to do better than that, George.”
He smiled. “When will you allow me to esteem you, then? Have you any great deeds in mind? Or does it merely depend on the length of our acquaintance?”
“I would be astonished if you ever heard of my great deeds, such as they are.” Anthea paused a moment, glancing towards Edith and the duchess to check they were not listening. “You are wrong about Lord Shrewsbury, by the way. Everyone knows he is rich.”
“And I know that his mother holds the purse strings. Shrewsbury’s own finances are in a dreadful state. You would do best to avoid him.”
“Avoid him? Ha! If only these things were as simple as you gentlemen all seem to believe.”
George frowned, detecting a note of true frustration in her voice. “There must be forces at play here that I am not subtle enough to catch.” Which was unusual, considering how often he deployed subtlety in his missions. “Why should you be forced to keep company with any man when you do not enjoy it?”
“When his mother is one of the most powerful women in the ton,” said Anthea. “Offending Lord Shrewsbury means offending her, and that means bringing the wrath of every society matron on my head. You are a gentleman – more than a gentleman, a lord – a
nd I cannot expect you to understand the pressures we women face.”
“Tell me about them, then. Educate me.”
“Lord Streatham,” said the duchess, evidently deeming that their private conversation had gone on long enough. “Will you be making calls on anyone else today?”
He rose and bowed. “May I convey a message to someone for you, Your Grace?”
The duchess ran her sharp eyes over him. George felt as though every part of him, from his mop of curly hair to his nattily embroidered waistcoat, was being pulled apart and held under a magnifying glass for scientific inspection.
He hoped he would pass muster.
“If you happen to call on Mrs. Anderson, I would be grateful if you asked her for the name of her florist. The flowers last night were so lovely.” She nodded once, a smile brightening her features. “You may pass the name on to Anthea tomorrow when you take her for a drive.”
So he had been deemed satisfactory. He would not press his luck any further. “Tomorrow, then,” he said, bowing to Anthea. “I look forward to it.”
She smiled, those merry eyes dancing. “As do I.”
As he made his way back to his carriage, George considered the possibility that Anthea was treating him to the same performance that she gave Wetherton and Shrewsbury. She knew how to be charming when she was not charmed. She was perfectly capable of assuming a warm smile while her heart remained indifferent.
And yet something stirring in his own heart told him that was not the case. He was not simply the best of a bad bunch. Anthea had accepted his invitation because she wanted to. He had no tyrannical mother to threaten her, after all. She had no motive for deceiving him.
She liked him. If he had not liked her so much, he would have been sure of it. As it was, he was in a pleasant state of hope.
These happy reflections were rudely interrupted by a rhythmic grunting noise that intruded slowly on George’s ears until it could not be ignored. He stopped halfway down the garden path and glanced towards the side of the building, from where the grunting emanated. He took a few careful steps across the neatly tended lawn until he could peer around the corner.
The Last Earl Standing Page 4
