The reminder of the reason for their impromptu flight sent a chill through Hazel. She did not believe in fear—a woman in her profession could not afford to dwell on it—but she did know something of shock. She felt it now, making her mouth dry, making her hands tremble. Making her go cold and numb. She had felt this extreme possession only once previously, when Adam had been murdered before her, and she had held his lifeless body in her arms.
“I still cannot approve of the manner in which Strathmore stole your sister from us, hauling her out of Lark House with a blade fashioned from a dinner plate held to her throat. The finest china, and that miscreant turned it into a weapon. Thank heavens the servants did not spread tales. Only imagine how the gossips would sink their talons into such a monstrosity,” Lady Beaufort grumbled.
“We do not speak of it now,” Lucien said tightly. “I was in err for persecuting Strathmore unjustly. The mistake was mine, and I am thankful Lettie and Strathmore were able to prove me wrong.”
Lady Beaufort fixed Hazel with a threatening stare. “You will not repeat a word of what I just said beyond this carriage, Miss Montgomery.”
“I trust Miss Montgomery implicitly, my lady,” Lucien defended Hazel before she could say a word, his voice sharp.
“Yes, and did you not also trust Mr. Swift?” Lady Beaufort demanded, a harsh note of censure in her voice, which was no doubt the product of her fear.
“How do you dare, madam?” Lucien went pale, his jaw going rigid, and Hazel was left to surmise Mr. Swift was the man who had betrayed his trust. “You will not place Miss Montgomery and that treasonous scoundrel in the same thought again, my lady.”
“Enough,” Hazel bit out. “I will not be spoken of as if I am not present in this carriage. Lady Beaufort, as I assured you earlier today, I hold your family in highest esteem. I would never dream of besmirching their name or carrying unbecoming tales about them. Furthermore, it is most ungenerous of you to fling Arden’s past mistakes at him, when he has already paid for them mightily. And Lucien, cease growling at your aunt. I can fend for myself well enough.”
Silence descended upon the carriage, and she became aware of two pairs of eyes staring at her in shock. Belatedly, she realized she had referred to Lucien by his Christian name, rather than his title.
“Oh, hell,” she muttered to herself, before she could hold her tongue.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Montgomery!” said Lady Beaufort, her tone scandalized.
Hazel was not certain which of her gaffes had just offended Lucien’s aunt the most: chastising her for holding Lucien’s past errors in judgment against him, referring to him as Lucien, or saying an epithet and being overheard. Ordinarily, she cursed aloud solely when she was certain she was alone. She could only blame her lack of caution upon the events of the evening.
After all, it was not every day she discovered a bomb hidden beneath her bed.
“Forgive me,” she said at last, rather lamely. “I meant no insult.”
“There is no insult,” Lucien assured her. “Tonight has been deeply troubling for all of us.”
“One does not refer to a duke by his given name, Miss Montgomery,” Lady Beaufort rebuked. “And neither does a lady issue oaths.”
“Nor,” Hazel could not help but add dryly, “does a lady have a box of dynamite laid beneath her bed, I would wager.”
Lucien mumbled something beneath his breath which sounded rather like an epithet himself. But the carriage had gone mercifully still.
“We have reached our destination,” he announced. “I sent word ahead to Strathmore and Lettie. They are expecting us, despite the lateness of the hour.”
At long last, Hazel was going to meet Lucien’s sister and brother-in-law. Curiosity mingled with nervousness. She had already proven herself hopelessly inept at wrangling English manners and customs. To make matters worse, she was arriving at their home, an unwanted guest, after being chased by a bomb from her previous lodgings.
Lucien leapt down from the carriage first and was now offering gentle assistance to his aunt, who clearly experienced some degree of difficulty maneuvering the carriage step as she alighted. He offered her his hand next, and she took it, grateful for the warmth of him burning through the layers of their gloves. For a whimsical moment, she wished she could throw herself into his arms and embrace him, but she recognized the foolishness of such a gesture.
His green gaze searched hers. “You are well?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, careful to keep her voice low. “Lady Beaufort is another matter, however. This has upset her, quite understandably, and you must be patient with her.”
“The arthritis has affected my joints, not my ears, you insolent girl,” the lady in question snapped from just ahead of them on the promenade.
Hazel and Lucien exchanged another look, before he rushed to offer his aunt his arm. Hazel followed in their wake, deciding Lady Beaufort’s quip was a good sign her spirit was returning, dispelling the fear. Hazel took in the impressive exterior of the townhome as they approached—which was in a neighborhood that looked similar to Lucien’s home, and was every bit as equally formidable. An implacable butler greeted them at the door, as though late-night visits in the wake of Fenian bombs was a common occurrence.
They were escorted into a sumptuous entry hall, then into a salon, where a handsome dark-haired man and an equally lovely raven-tressed woman awaited. The butler announced them, standing upon ceremony, despite the alarming circumstances surrounding their arrival.
Hazel noted the resemblance between the Duchess of Strathmore and Lucien. She also saw instantly the love burning brightly between the duke and duchess. It was there in the protective manner in which he stood at her side, the loving glance he exchanged with her, before turning his stare to settle upon Lucien. The tense set of his expression and the rigidity of his jaw suggested he had not yet forgotten Lucien’s mistaken pursuit of him.
The duchess rushed forward, even before full introductions were made, and embraced Lady Beaufort and Lucien, then stopped in front of Hazel. Feeling foolish, Hazel’s cheeks went hot, for reasons she could not define. She dipped into a curtsy, grateful she had chosen to wear a gown for her excursion to Madame Tussaud’s, a gay frivolity, which seemed as if it had happened a lifetime ago by this wretched hour of the evening.
It was not as if Lucien’s sister could look upon her and know she had been intimate with Lucien, but somehow, Hazel felt as if her vivid green gaze, so like her brother’s, saw far more than Hazel wanted it to.
“You must be Miss Montgomery,” the duchess said with a welcoming smile. “I am so pleased to finally make your acquaintance, though I must admit, I do wish it was under far more cheerful circumstances. Both Arden and Aunt Hortense have sent notes to me hailing your many virtues.”
The color on Hazel’s cheeks deepened. This was news to her. Indeed, she was certain Lady Beaufort would be more inclined to bemoan her deplorable American manners, her scandalous penchant for wearing divided skirts, and working alongside men. As for Lucien? Initially, his notes would have been much the same, she had no doubt. But now, she could not be so certain. Either way, she did not dare risk a glance at Lucien or Lady Beaufort, for fear her ears would turn red as well.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” she told the duchess. “I cannot think of any virtues they may have extolled concerning me, but I thank you for saying so, just the same.”
“Nonsense! Arden in particular has written a veritable novel’s worth.” The Duchess of Strathmore sent a pointed look in Lucien’s direction.
Hazel was fascinated to discover he too was flushing. But he hastily clasped his hands behind his back in a forbidding stance, and forced his countenance into one of severity. “You need not tell all my secrets, Lettie,” he cautioned his sister quietly.
But there was such tenderness, such love in his voice, that it was unmistakable. So too the manner in which the duchess smiled at Lucien. Brother and sister loved each other very muc
h. Hazel recalled his sadness when he had spoken of their rift, of hoping their differences could be mended.
The duchess hummed noncommittally and turned her attention toward her handsome husband. “May I present my husband, the Duke of Strathmore?”
The duke bowed formally, but when he rose, he was grinning. Hazel did not know what she had expected, but it had not been precisely this rakish, dashing duke with a teasing air. After all, had Lady Beaufort not mentioned something about him turning the family porcelain into a dagger?
“Formerly known as the Duke of Duplicity, according to Lady Beaufort,” he added with an affable air, having the daring to wink at the lady in question. “Or may I call you Aunt Hortense too, now that we are family?”
“No.” Lady Beaufort sniffed. “You may not.”
“Some things never change.” Strathmore pinned Lucien with an arch look. “Speaking of which, forgive me for reveling in the day the mighty Duke of Arden has sought me out for assistance. I regret that it involves dynamite, and I am heartily relieved the bomb was discovered in time and no one was injured, but I must admit to a certain satisfaction in the irony.”
A muscle twitched in Lucien’s jaw. “I still do not like you, Strathmore. The only reason I sought you out was for the sake of Miss Montgomery and Aunt Hortense.”
“I am aware.” Strathmore grinned. “It is a pleasure to watch you squirm.”
“My love.” The duchess shot her husband a quelling look. “Now is not the time for gloating.”
“Forgive me, Vi,” Strathmore said instantly, his tone penitential.
Odder still to see how much the duke was in his duchess’s thrall, Hazel thought. But she was beginning to gain a clearer idea of the family dynamics at play. She knew why Lucien and Strathmore would mix as well as tea and tar. Lucien was controlled and rigid, while Strathmore was brazen and irreverent.
“Whilst this dialogue is most engrossing,” Lady Beaufort interrupted acidly, “I am old, and I am tired. These ancient bones have been roused from sleep and paraded about half of London. Where might I find my chamber, Violet darling?”
“I will see you and Miss Montgomery settled,” the duchess said instantly. “Do forgive me, Aunt Hortense. Come, you must be weary.”
Only Lady Beaufort could insult her hostess, then be instantly shepherded to her bed for the evening, with sympathy no less, Hazel thought wryly. She had developed a keen sense of respect and admiration for Lucien’s aunt, however. They had a great deal more in common than Hazel would have supposed, and she knew the tenderness which lay just beneath her wizened, reserved façade. Beneath the older woman’s cool hauteur, beat a broken heart.
Hazel glanced to Lucien, wondering when the two of them would reconnoiter.
“You need your rest,” he told her. “Go.”
“But we need to dig into the investigation,” she protested, partly because for so much of her life, her work had been her life’s blood, and partly because she needed to bring the men responsible for the railway bombings and the bomb beneath her bed to justice.
He came to her, not daring to touch her before mixed company, but the emotion in his eyes felt like a caress. “Miss Montgomery,” he said, his formality feeling so unutterably wrong, “please. Go with my sister. I will make certain the perimeter of this house is safe. We have guards stationed, and we took great care to make certain no one followed us here. You have suffered a shock, and after everything you have endured, what you need most is to sleep. The investigation will wait for tomorrow and the sunrise.”
“Are you going to rest as well?” she countered. While she was grateful he cared enough to want to see to her well-being and safety, she could not shake the feeling he was treating her now as if she were a defenseless woman. As if he were her protector.
She had not been defenseless from the moment she had first learned to shoot a pistol, and she had no intention of becoming defenseless now. Nor would she simply trail in Lady Beaufort’s wake like a lost puppy who had been ordered to her bed.
Lucien sighed, then compressed his lips, staring at her. “I need to speak with Strathmore. Alone. And then I too will seek my rest for the evening, back at Lark House, after I finish questioning my staff. We will be sharper, our investigation far more clear-headed, if we attempt to get some sleep. If we wear ourselves ragged, those villains will outsmart us, and we cannot afford to allow that to happen.”
She studied his handsome face, wondering when it had become so beloved, and decided he was right. Though she wanted to protest his returning to Lark House after what had occurred, she had no claim upon him, and she knew it.
Likely, he wished to address what had happened with Strathmore and lay it to rest once and for all. And she knew better than anyone, conducting an investigation on little sleep was a poor plan indeed. The night before Adam’s murder, she and Adam had stayed up until dawn analyzing evidence. They had separated for no more than four hours of sleep each, and she had always known that lack of proper rest had left her weary and under-prepared for the depth of evil she would face later that day.
If she had been prepared, Adam may still be alive.
But if Adam were still alive, she would be his wife, and she very much doubted the Duke of Arden would be looking down at her now, with such intense concentration, as if she were the focus of his entire world. Nor would she want him to.
The knowledge was bittersweet, because she was beginning to realize what she had found with Lucien—however fleeting—was every bit as valid and necessary as what had happened so long ago between herself and Adam.
Because she loved Lucien too. It was a different love than the one she had possessed for Adam. She was older now, changed. Wiser. Harder. But as she stood in the gilt-bedecked salon of the Duke of Strathmore, she knew it without a doubt.
She had lost her heart to the man standing before her.
For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was going to do what a man had asked her to do, and it was because she respected him enough to do it. Not because she was deferring to him.
She nodded. “You are right, Arden. Every investigation is best served by acuity. I will bid you good evening.”
He inclined his head, then offered her a slight, gentlemanly bow, as if they were strangers. “Please rest knowing you are safe here, Miss Montgomery.”
She would have to accept Lucien’s decision and trust his judgment.
“I bid you good evening as well, Your Grace.” She turned to the Duchess of Strathmore with a smile. “Thank you so much for your hospitality this evening. Please do not allow my poor American manners to hold us here any longer. Lady Beaufort is in need of her chamber, and I find I am quite weary as well.”
“Of course, Miss Montgomery,” said the duchess, her eyes traveling from Lucien to Hazel, then back again. “Follow me, if you please.”
There had been a question in Lucien’s sister’s eyes, but Hazel had no intention of answering it. Blindly, she swept away from Lucien, and followed his sister and aunt.
He had bungled matters with Hazel, and he knew it. But as Lucien watched the women retreat from the salon, leaving him alone with Strathmore, he did not see any other way he could have proceeded. Hazel was not the sort of lady who appreciated being dismissed or lumped together with her fellow sex. He knew better than anyone she prided herself upon being a man’s equal, upon performing a job most considered wholly in the male sphere.
She had fought hard for the reputation she had earned. She was an incomparable. And she was an excellent investigator, as capable as any man, and then some. He knew leaving had been difficult for her, but he hoped she could see the impending interview had everything to do with the situation between himself and Lettie’s husband, and nothing to do with Hazel herself.
“I never thought I would see the day the great Duke of Arden was brought to his knees.”
Strathmore’s voice, part-victorious, part-amused, interrupted his tumultuous thoughts. He faced his brother-in-law as a prize fig
hter would, chest to chest, the stance of a man about to go to battle. Though he had no intention of sparring this evening, Lucien had no notion of what to expect from the duke.
“Laugh about it as you will, Strathmore,” he quipped grimly, “but there is precious little levity in a bomb being laid beneath an innocent woman’s bed. Miss Montgomery was the victim of a potentially deadly attack, and I will thank you to show some concern.”
“On that, we are in accord, Arden,” Strathmore acknowledged grimly. “I do not find bombs, dynamite, or murderous intentions humorous in the slightest. What I do find entertaining, however, is you requiring my aid.”
Lucien gritted his teeth. He had wronged his brother-in-law badly, and he knew it. But that did not make swallowing his pride any more palatable. It went down as easily as a mouth full of wriggling worms would. He had apologized profusely in the aftermath of The Incident, but he knew as well as anyone, apologies could not ameliorate some wounds. Words could oft be inadequate.
“Undoubtedly,” he allowed, “and I do not blame you for holding me in contempt. But I did not drag two ladies here in the midst of the night so that you could laugh at me, however tempting the prospect may be to you.”
“I have forgiven you for what happened,” his brother-in-law said then, his tone easy. An absolution. There was no bitterness, no anger.
“You have?” he asked, startled by Strathmore’s calm acceptance.
After all, his suspicions and his merciless determination had nearly landed Strathmore in prison. He could have been hanged, by God. And all because Lucien had been blinded to the maneuverings and manipulations of his most trusted man. A man who had turned out to be an insidious devil.
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