His Improper Lady--A Historical Romance

by Candace Camp

  “I’m sorry about the scratch. I, um, dropped it,” Desiree said, and Tom knew she didn’t want to tell her brother about the man attempting to steal it from them. “But we managed to pick the lock instead of breaking it.”

  Brock opened it and took out the wrapped jewelry, unfolding the cloth to reveal the sapphire splendor. Brock’s face didn’t change, but Tom heard the hitch of his breath. “I remember these.” He brushed his fingertips across the gems. “She looked like a princess.”

  He rewrapped the jewelry quickly and stuck it back in the box, his movements efficient and businesslike. Opening the pouch, he poured the contents into his palm, picking through them. “These, too. They’re your mother’s.” Brock set the pouch back and held the box toward Desiree. “You should have them, Desiree.”

  “They belong to all of us,” Desiree protested. “But that’s not the important thing. It’s the letters.” She pulled one of them from the stack and held it out to Brock. “Read it. See the signature?”

  He grimaced as his eyes skimmed down the note to the bottom. “It’s an A. Desiree, that’s no proof.” He handed the letter back to her.

  “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.” Desiree plucked the note from his hand. “Of course it’s Alistair—the Moreland ring, the Moreland who left the country at the same time as our mother, the letter A on the letters? It’s plain as can be, but we’re going to find out more. The Morelands are taking us to see an aunt who knew him better.”

  “Why would these people try to help you?” Brock almost growled.

  “Because they are kind and—”

  “You cannot trust the aristocracy,” Brock snapped. “I don’t know what they hope to achieve, but they aren’t trying to help you. They aren’t going to take you into their family like the prodigal son returned home. You don’t know them, Desiree.”

  “I do! I met them. They weren’t like other aristocrats. They’re, well, they’re a bit eccentric, but very open-minded.”

  “They’re known as the Mad Morelands,” Wells offered. Tom glanced at him; he’d almost forgotten the other man was there. Desiree was right; her twin was very good at making himself unnoticed. “I asked around about them. The duchess is some sort of social reformer, and the duke’s a bit dotty.”

  “He’s not dotty,” Desiree protested. “He’s sweet and still madly in love with the duchess. You can see it.”

  Brock rolled his eyes. “What does that have to do with the matter?” He threw a contemptuous hand toward the letters. “Love notes from a lord to his mistress are easy. It would have been more to the point to have provided for you and Wells in some way. To take you with them. As for this exemplary family, where were they all the time you were growing up? Why did they never offer a bit of help or acknowledge you in any way?”

  “They didn’t know about us!” When Brock snorted, Desiree went on. “I know them better than you do. I’ve met them. But you can meet them, too. You can decide for yourself.”

  “I’m not trotting over to the duke’s house, hat in hand.”

  “The duchess invited us to dinner. To meet the family. You can talk to them.”

  “I’m not going to dinner with the Morelands.” Brock’s voice was flat and unbending. “You can mingle with the aristocracy all you want. Wells, too. I’m not going. They’re your family, not mine.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Desiree protested. “The duchess invited you, too. They want you to come.”

  “No.” Brock grabbed his cane and surged to his feet. “I’m not going.” He turned and walked out, leaning on his cane.

  “Brock, wait...” Desiree rose to her feet and started after him.

  “No. Let him go,” Tom said, going to her.

  “But he’s being so stubborn! If he’d just meet them, he’d understand. They’d accept him, too. Wouldn’t they?”

  “I imagine so,” Tom agreed. “It’s not the Morelands, Desiree. It’s your brother. He’s right...they’re not his family.”

  “But—”

  “When you don’t have something, it can hurt more to see what you’re missing than it does to not have it at all.”

  Desiree looked up at him, her eyes widening as she took in his meaning. “Oh. Yes, I see.” She laid a gentle hand on Tom’s arm, looking up at him. “I’m sorry.”

  She might have been talking about her brother, but Tom was certain that she was offering her compassion to him, too, for his own childhood. The look in her eyes warmed him, and he bent a little toward her. When she edged in a little closer, he thought she was about to kiss him, and suddenly his heart started to pound.

  But then she paused and glanced back at Wells. Giving his arm a little squeeze instead, she took a step back. “Thank you.”

  Her brother pushed away from the bookcase he’d been leaning against. “I think he’s right, Dizzy. Brock feels it sometimes, you know. That as much as he loves us, he’s not the same.”

  Desiree’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt him.”

  “You didn’t,” Wells assured her. “It’s not anything to do with us. It’s Brock.”

  “Don’t worry.” Tom smiled at her. “I’m sure he’ll come around. The Morelands will wear him down. No one can hold out against the duchess for long. That’s why government officials flee the moment they see her.”

  “I’m sure they do.” Desiree chuckled and turned toward her brother. “You’ll see.” She added a little anxiously, “You will go to the dinner with me, won’t you, Wells?”

  “Of course. How could I pass up the opportunity to meet this woman? I know an official who’s absolutely terrified of her.” He paused. “Do you really think they’re our family?”

  “I do. It fits, Wells, I promise you.”

  “And it all seems—” he flicked a glance at Tom “—right to you?”

  “You can say it. Tom knows about my intuition,” Desiree said. “And he hasn’t yet told me I’m insane.” She flashed a smile at Tom before going on. “Wells, there’s no way I can tell if all these clues are real. That’s not the way it works. But I don’t think there’s anything false about the Morelands I met yesterday. They are unusual, but then, so are we.”

  A half smile touched Wells’s lips. “That’s true enough.”

  “Read the letters Alistair wrote to our mother,” Desiree urged him. “I think he really loved her. And I felt—I don’t know. It made both of them seem more real to me. As if I knew them a bit.”

  “How are these Morelands you met related to us?”

  “They’re cousins of some sort, I guess. Alistair is the duke’s cousin.” She cast a glance toward Tom for confirmation, and he nodded.

  Wells turned cool gray eyes on Tom. “What exactly is your role in all this?”

  “He’s helping me, Wells, I told you,” Desiree said with some exasperation.

  “I’d like to hear it from him,” Wells said mildly, crossing his arms and continuing to gaze at Tom.

  Tom straightened a little, his eyes turning as flat and cool as those of the man across from him, his jaw setting. The skin along his spine tingled, making him think of a dog’s hair rising up down his back. “I’m looking to find the truth.”

  “Ah. Like Demosthenes. Or was it Diogenes?” His indolent drawl was underlaid by a taunting tone. He employed the upper-crust pose well, Tom thought, using that careless hauteur to intimidate. Tom was certain it was an act, though he wasn’t sure exactly why Wells used it. But he wasn’t about to let the other man think he could be pushed about.

  “I wouldn’t know about any of those Greeks. You’ll have to ask your cousin the duke about them.” Tom’s smile was more a baring of teeth, at odds with the lightness of his tone. “I’m just a man of the streets, myself.” He shrugged. “Of course, I can understand why you’re concerned I might take advantage of Desiree. You want to protect your
sister. Shelter her, keep her safe, what with her not being able to do it herself. I’m sure Desiree understands that, too.”

  Wells’s eyes widened fractionally as he realized what Tom had just done. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom could see Desiree drawing up, her gaze taking on an unholy light, and she said in a viciously sweet tone, “Yes, Wells, why don’t you explain why I need looking after like a child? I’m sure I’d like to hear it.”

  Tom’s eyes danced. Wells shot a rueful glance at him, the ghost of a smile touching his lips, and he murmured, “Well played, Mr. Quick.”

  Tom decided that this was an excellent time to leave. Nodding to Wells and Desiree, he bade them goodbye and started toward the door.

  “Wait.” This time it was Desiree who stopped Tom. “Tomorrow...” She stopped, and Tom suspected the realization had hit her, just as it had that moment occurred to him. “Oh. I don’t suppose there’s anything we need to do tomorrow. I, um, I shall see you when we go to visit Aunt Wilhemina, then?”

  He nodded, disappointed. The next day seemed devoid of interest now. “I—you still should have someone with you when you go to the club. If you’re planning to keep up your games.”

  “Yes, I am. Though I rather think Falk will have received the message after tonight.”

  “Perhaps. Well...” Tom was very aware of her brother still lurking in the background. “I shall see you tomorrow evening, then. Good night.”

  Tom went to the front door and opened it, but couldn’t resist turning and casting a last glance back at her. It was gratifying to see that Desiree had trailed after him and was watching him from the door of the parlor. It was even better to see her smile at him. And that would have to do for this evening.

  He trotted down the steps and started off, casting a quick glance up and down the street for the carriage that had lain in wait for Desiree the other day. There was no sign of it, but that didn’t mean anything. It was very late. And even if Falk had gotten the message tonight, there was the possibility that the man who had stalked them the other day was not working for Falk.

  It was, therefore, perfectly reasonable to escort Desiree to the club and back. It wasn’t merely an excuse to see Desiree again.

  Tom snorted. Who was he trying to fool? It was exactly that. And he’d spend tomorrow just waiting for the moment he could be with her. He was as sure of that as he was of the fact that he’d spend the rest of tonight thinking about her.

  He was in serious trouble.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TOM WAS SITTING at his desk the next morning, trying to find something to do to make the time pass until this evening, when a well-dressed man stepped into the office. The visitor paused for a moment, casting an encompassing look around the office and landing on Tom. His hair was dark and his eyes gray, and his well-modeled face would have been handsome had it been less inexpressive. He stood straight as an arrow, his immaculate clothes clearly tailored to fit his slim figure, his cravat tied in a moderate fashion. Gold glinted discreetly at his cuffs, and a pearl stickpin nestled in the folds of his cravat. He was the picture of a gentleman, well dressed but understated, wealth and privilege in every line.

  Tom took an instant dislike to him. He kept stubbornly to his seat, though normally he would have risen out of politeness; he was sure this fellow was all too accustomed to everyone popping up when he came into a room.

  “Can I help you?” He remembered a second too late that “may” was correct, not “can,” and it bothered him that he’d slipped in front of this man. It also bothered him that it bothered him.

  “I am looking for Lord Moreland. I understood that this was where he could be found.” He glanced back at the door as if he had mistaken the name.

  “Yes, this is Moreland & Quick, but he’s not in yet. Can I help you?” Tom deliberately repeated the mistake.

  “I think not. It’s Constantine to whom I must speak.”

  “You know Con?” Tom asked, a bit surprised that Con was close enough to someone of such perfection that he called him by name—even if it was a name Con never used.

  The man’s expression turned faintly disapproving at what he doubtlessly considered impertinence, but he answered. “Yes, I know him. He is my cousin.”

  Tom’s brows shot up. Cousin? It wasn’t their cousin Albert; Tom had met him. There were others, he knew, but his mind went straight to Gregory, Alistair Moreland’s legitimate son. The man certainly fit the twins’ description of their cousin. Could this man be Desiree’s other half brother? If so, Tom supposed he had to be polite to him. “I see. Well, he’s probably still at the house. I’ll give him a message from you, if you’d like.”

  “No, I’ll just—” At that moment, Alex appeared in the doorway, and the man turned. “Ah. Constantine. There you are.” Obviously, he didn’t know Con well enough to distinguish him from his twin. “Good morning.”

  “I’m Alex,” Alex said, looking at him curiously.

  “Oh. I beg your pardon.” A line of red bloomed on the man’s cheekbones, which did, now that Tom thought about it, have a resemblance to the Morelands’ angular bone structure. “I, um...”

  “Do I know you?” Alex asked, still studying their visitor. “You look familiar.”

  “I am your cousin,” the other man said, irritation threading his voice. “Gregory.”

  “Cousin Gregory!” Alex glanced over at Tom, then back to Gregory. “Then I will beg your pardon,” Alex said with an affable smile. “I should have recognized you. At least you knew it was one of us.”

  “Yes, well, you two are difficult to forget,” Gregory said dryly.

  Alex’s lips twitched. “I’m sure we plagued you when we were younger. We did everyone. I’ll beg your pardon for that, too. We have become more civilized. At least somewhat.”

  “It was no matter.” Gregory waved away the apology, but did not offer up a smile.

  “Con should be here soon,” Alex said. “He was right behind me. He stopped at the apothecary for a moment.”

  “Is he sick?” Tom asked. It seemed unlikely, since Con was one of those annoying sorts who were always hale and hearty.

  “No. No one is sick. Con’s determined to find something to cure Lilah’s morning sickness. I told him it would be gone in a couple of months, but you know Con,” Alex said with all the authority of a man who had just become a father.

  Gregory’s mouth tightened. “Really, Cousin Alexander. Hardly a fit subject for conversation.”

  Tom could practically see Alex’s brain spinning, trying to decide whether to be polite or say what he thought. Fortunately, Con appeared behind his brother, saying, “The blasted man didn’t have anything. Why are you standing in the doorway, Alex?”

  “You have a visitor.” Alex moved aside so Con could enter.

  Con’s eyes went to the man standing in his office. “Hullo.” He, too, frowned in puzzlement, but then he said, “Cousin Gregory?”

  “Yes. I’m surprised you recognized me.”

  “I didn’t,” Alex put in.

  “Told you I had a better memory.” Con added candidly. “It was only because we’d been talking about...” His voice trailed off. “That is to say, what can I do for you, Cousin?”

  “You may give me the papers Blackstock sent you. I would have thought you would have done so already, frankly, since they pertain to my family.”

  “Blackstock?” Tom blurted.

  “Yes,” Gregory said shortly with a surprised glance at Tom before he turned back to Con.

  “You’re the one who’s after that bloody envelope?” Con exclaimed. “You hired her?”

  “Her? Hired who?” Gregory frowned. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about.”

  “Then you and I are in the same boat because I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, either. Who is Blackstock? Why would he send me an envelope? What’s i
n it?” Con retorted.

  Gregory’s frown deepened. “Are you serious or is this one of your silly jokes?”

  “It’s not a joke. I’m not ten years old anymore.” Con folded his arms. “Look. You came to me. You appear to want my help in some way. If so, you’re going to have to be a little less obscure.”

  Gregory’s gaze flickered to Tom once again, then in a tight voice he said to Con, “This is family business.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Con began.

  “Con, I can leave,” Tom offered.

  “No. This is absurd.” Con faced his cousin. “Tom is my partner in this business, which this envelope of yours apparently involves, given that someone broke into our office trying to steal it.”

  “What?” Gregory gaped. “Steal it!”

  “Yes, and since you’re the one who’s so bloody eager to get your hands on it, I can’t help but suspect you are the one who hired the thief.”

  Gregory’s nostrils flared. “Are you mad? Why would I steal my—” He stopped and drew a deep breath, pulling his expression back to its former composure, though a look in his eyes hinted of anger still bubbling below the surface. “Mr. Blackstock was my father’s lawyer. Perhaps you are unaware of it, but my father...” The muscle of his jaw tightened. “My father deserted us many years ago, when I was a child. There has been no word from him since. It’s clear he will not return. We have no way of knowing if he is even alive, but my mother has been reluctant to petition the court to have him declared dead. She has always hoped he would come back to her, though I cannot imagine why she should wish it.” His voice turned bitter. “How she can continue to love a man who humiliated her by running away with his mist—” Gregory stopped, with another glance toward Tom.

  “You knew about Stella! You knew about the children?” Con exclaimed.

  “Stella. Who the devil is Stella? What children?”

  “Never mind that,” Alex said, shooting Con a look. “What does that have to do with this envelope?”