by Adele Clee
“Fitzroy wrote to say he expects me to attend a function he’s hosting upon his return to town.” Sophia led him across the dew-soaked grass towards the summerhouse with the cathedral roof. “Since things became difficult here, I’ve ignored all correspondence and rarely venture to town. Perhaps that’s why he sought me out, though heaven knows how he discovered I own this house.”
“When is this function?”
“I cannot recall. There’s a soiree after the performance of Presumption at the English Opera House. It’s a play about the fate of Dr Frankenstein. Mrs Shelley is to attend.”
She hated his foppish friends, and Fitzroy enjoyed making her feel uncomfortable. But she had promised William she would support the young lord until he found a bride. It was a promise she had come to regret.
Finlay stopped walking. “But that’s two days hence.”
“Is it? No wonder Fitzroy is out on the hunt.” And he could only have learnt about Blackborne from one of two people: Dr Goodwin, or her solicitor, Mr Meadows.
She might have considered the matter further had the door to the summerhouse not swung open. Jessica appeared wearing nothing but her white nightdress, a plaid shawl draped around her shoulders. She wore boots—thank goodness—clutched a book in one hand, a lit lantern in the other.
“Jessica!” Sophia was about to charge forward when Finlay gripped her arm.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Do not make her feel as if she has done something wrong. Remain calm. Let me speak to her.”
Sophia nodded. She pasted a smile and waved at her beloved sibling.
Jessica raised the lantern aloft and peered through the gloom. “Sophia?” She crossed the damp grass to meet them, a light spring in her step. “Mr Cole.” A mischievous smile brightened her eyes. “One might ask what the two of you are doing out here in the dead of night.”
What were they doing out here?
Finlay tapped his finger to his lips. “It’s a secret. Promise you won’t tell.”
“Certainly not, sir. I always keep my word. Ask Mr Archer.”
Sophia bit her tongue, knowing she was not supposed to correct her sister’s distorted sense of reality. “Mr Archer knows you almost as well as I do.”
“Not as well as Blent does.”
“Blent?” Finlay kept his tone even though his mind must have exploded with questions. “You cannot spend five years working closely with someone and not know them well.”
“Precisely. Do you know he wanted to be a landscape architect like Lancelot Brown? But they threw his father into debtors’ prison, which put paid to all Blent’s plans.”
Sophia knew of Blent’s history, but not of his lost aspirations. “Blent designed the yew house.” She motioned to the topiary structure large enough for four people to fit inside. “He spends all his spare time in the garden.”
Jessica laughed. “The yew house is the perfect place should a couple wish to kiss in secret.”
“Indeed,” Finlay said. “We will bear that in mind, won’t we, Sophia?”
“Yes.” She was already conjuring images of midnight romps and illicit encounters, already imagining gripping hard muscle while she trembled for release. “We most certainly shall.” The need to discover Jessica’s accomplice encouraged her to say, “I didn’t hear you pass my room on your way out.”
Jessica tapped her finger to her lips and gave a sly smile. She leant closer to Finlay. “I have a key to the servants’ staircase, but don’t tell Sophia.”
“No. I promise to keep your secret.” Finlay cleared his throat. “Let me take the lantern. It looks heavy.”
“It is, though I cannot read in the dark.” Jessica sighed with relief upon handing Finlay the lantern.
“Is that what draws you out here?” Finlay said casually. “The need to read in peace? It must be an excellent book. Might I have heard of it?”
Jessica looked to the gold lettering on the spine. “Castle Rackrent.”
“Maria Edgeworth,” he said. “The narrative explores the argument between rational thinking and sentimentality.”
Jessica nodded. “As Miss Edgeworth says, we cannot judge the feelings or the character of men with perfect accuracy.”
Sophia thought it a rather apt quote, considering Jessica’s experience with Mr Archer. “Did Dr Goodwin lend you the book?” She had no recollection of seeing it in the library.
“Blent gave it to me. It belonged to his mother. He said people aren’t always as they appear, and one should educate oneself on how to detect liars and cheats.”
Finlay hummed with approval. “Wise words indeed.”
“Well, I shall leave you to your nighttime adventure.” Jessica pulled the shawl firmly around her shoulders. “Keep the lantern. I can find my way back in the dark.”
“We shan’t be far behind you,” Sophia said, fearing Jessica might wander off into the woods. “I shall come and say good night before I retire.”
Jessica made to leave, but Finlay called after her. “When educating yourself on how to detect liars and cheats, did you have someone specific in mind?”
She shrugged. “A lady should be certain about the man she means to marry.”
“You speak of Mr Archer?”
“I know it’s natural to have doubts. Sophia cried every night for a month before she married Lord Adair.”
Cried? She had sobbed until her ribs ached, until there were no more tears left to shed.
“Good night, Mr Cole.” And with that, Jessica strolled back to the house.
Sophia watched Jessica until she reached the herb garden, but Finlay’s gaze was fixed on her, not the woman whose fragile mind proved a constant worry.
“Do you trust me, Sophia?” Finlay suddenly said.
With my life!
She swallowed deeply. “I wouldn’t have asked for your help otherwise.”
“Then I will find Dr Goodwin and Blent and inform them Jessica has arrived back safely. I shall insist the doctor stays the night.”
“Yes, and then what will you do?” She feared he meant to remove to London.
“I shall saddle two horses and return to collect you and Jessica.” His tone held an undercurrent of alarm. “You will not pack any clothes or belongings. You will tell Anne that you will sleep with Jessica tonight. Then you will write a note to Mrs Friswell explaining that you have gone away for a few days.”
The impulse to protest held her rigid.
Removing to London would bring nothing but trouble.
“Convince me it’s the right thing to do.” Her heart fluttered to her throat at the thought of taking Jessica away from Blackborne. London was a vast place. A dangerous metropolis. Vulnerable women disappeared by the dozens.
“I am beginning to suspect there is nothing wrong with Jessica’s mind.”
“Nothing wrong?” Sophia jerked her head back, astounded. He had not heard the strange cries at night. Had not looked into eyes lost and empty. “Finlay, you haven’t seen her when—”
“She could match the theme of Miss Edgeworth’s novel to a specific quote. Everything she said tonight made perfect sense.”
Sophia snorted. “But she spoke about marrying Mr Archer.”
“Dr Goodwin is manipulating her memories, clouding her mind with medication. It might be for ethical reasons. He might have devious intentions. And Jessica spoke about Blent as if he were more than the hired help. A man does not give a woman a treasured possession without feeling some affection.”
Heavens. He had already aired his suspicions about the doctor, but surely he didn’t suspect Blent of treachery. The man was accommodating on every level.
“That is not all,” Finlay continued. “Mrs Friswell is up to something. And it occurs to me that there’s a striking likeness between Mr Archer and Fitzroy Adair.”
Sophia hadn’t seen Mr Archer for years, but she supposed they were of a similar height and build. Both had blonde hair and an arrogant swagger. Fitzroy was a selfish devil, and Mr Archer was equally self-a
bsorbed.
“What if Jessica stumbled upon the lord in the woods and mistook him for Mr Archer? What if Adair is playing an evil game? What if he knows exactly why you bought this house, knows your secret?”
Sophia’s heart sank to uncharted depths.
Each new theory left her floundering.
“Let’s suppose you’re right. As an investigator, you will want to focus on one suspect. Narrow down all possibilities.”
“Hence the reason I want to get Jessica away from this house.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “You mean to investigate Fitzroy?”
“His soiree affords an opportunity to pry into his affairs.”
The thought of spending time in Fitzroy’s company filled her with dread. The suggestion that Finlay might accompany her to a gathering sent her joyful heart leaping.
“Us? Surely you cannot mean to play escort. You hate the theatre.”
“I hate the rank stench of the Thames foreshore but have spent many a night there stalking criminals.” He anticipated her next question before a word left her lips. “Evan Sloane owns a large dwelling near Little Chelsea. It’s quiet and secluded but within easy travelling distance of Mayfair. We shall stay there. Sloane and D’Angelo will take care of Jessica while we conduct our investigation.”
While every imaginable doubt surfaced, the thought of escaping Blackborne for a few days was too tempting to resist. And from what she had heard, Finlay’s colleagues were adept at protecting the innocent.
“Are you sure Mr Sloane won’t mind?”
Finlay snorted with mild amusement. “Trust me. He will welcome the distraction. The man suffers from bouts of boredom between cases.”
“I’m not surprised he gets restless. There’s a whisper he has buccaneer’s blood in his veins.” The grandson of a seafaring man must long for adventure.
“One shouldn’t listen to gossip. But rest assured, he’s the perfect person to care for Jessica. Sloane would rather die than have someone steal his bounty.”
Chapter 8
Keel Hall stood amid the sprawling fields beyond Little Chelsea. Those who knew nothing of Evan Sloane’s heritage would consider it a conventional house name. Those who knew Sloane’s grandfather was a buccaneer who commanded the high seas, a man who punished traitors using a tactic known as keelhauling, knew the name reflected the owner’s ironic sense of humour.
The first rays of dawn approached, stroking the dark shadows of the landscape with a soft golden hue. The sight brought a glimmer of hope. They’d left a house steeped in secrets, journeyed through the night to reach a place of salvation.
The ride from Blackborne was not without its hardships. Jessica had been reluctant to leave, fearing what would happen to Blent in her absence. She had ridden with Sophia through the eerie wood, talking incessantly about her volatile feelings for Mr Archer.
“When I think back, I wonder if I ever loved Mr Archer,” Jessica had declared. “He was so different then, always so irritable.”
Different then? And now?
The comment strengthened Finlay’s suspicion that Fitzroy Adair was responsible for the confusion. Had the scoundrel constructed an elaborate deception? Had he met her in the woods, taken advantage of the woman’s muddled mind to wreak some sort of vengeance?
“I think Mr Archer had a mean streak. Dr Goodwin insists we were very much in love.”
Yes, because the good doctor liked meddling with people’s memories. And without the strict regime of tonics and tinctures, Jessica appeared a little less disturbed. Her mind flitted back and forth between the past and present, but there was some logic to her statements.
“Love doesn’t live in the mind,” Finlay had said. “It doesn’t matter what Dr Goodwin tells you. You’ll feel the truth in your heart.”
Sophia had stared at Finlay for the longest time. He couldn’t look at her without remembering the warmth of her body or the love flowing from her lips. Kissing her had only added to his torment. He had betrayed Hannah. He had married one woman while still deeply in love with another. It didn’t matter that Hannah knew the truth. It didn’t matter that he had tried to be a good husband. Nothing could rid him of the rotten feeling in his core.
“I cannot imagine Mr Sloane being receptive to visitors at this early hour,” Sophia said, dragging Finlay from his reverie.
“Sloane doesn’t fall into bed until dawn.”
Finlay nudged Corvus up the long drive flanked by conical topiary trees, and Sophia followed. As they passed the ornamental water feature of two mermaids lounging in a giant shell, he couldn’t help but smile. Sloane hoped he would wake one night to find the creatures frolicking in the fountain. A romantic encounter with a sea nymph was his greatest fantasy.
“Still, we should have stayed at an inn and sent word before arriving unexpectedly. What if he has company?”
Finlay’s lips curled in amusement once again. “Sloane always has company. He hates being alone in the house.” Perhaps because his ancestor lived in close quarters with fifty men. Sloane deviated from tradition. He preferred women raising his rigging. “But he takes his responsibility to the Order seriously and will abandon all leisurely pursuits.”
It was evident Sloane had company the moment they entered the grand hall and heard the raucous laughter above stairs.
Fitchett, Sloane’s impeccably dressed butler whose weathered complexion could mark him as a dockside worker, glanced at the marble staircase and winced before turning to Finlay. “I shall inform the master of your arrival, sir. Perhaps the ladies would prefer to wait in the drawing room.”
“What happened to your eye?” Jessica asked, peering curiously at Fitchett’s black patch.
Fitchett cleared his throat. “An accident, miss.”
“Were you attacked aboard a vessel? Is that why you have that nasty scar?”
“Not exactly, miss.”
A sudden commotion drew their gazes to the marble staircase. The pad of footsteps darting across the landing preceded the arrival of two women dressed in silk pantaloons and short corsets, but minus their shifts. They giggled, frantically wrestled with numerous handles only to find the doors locked.
Sloane came sauntering behind wearing nothing but low-slung breeches, his golden-brown hair flowing down his back. “So, there’s mutiny afoot.”
The women squealed, oblivious to their audience.
“Make no mistake,” Sloane said, closing in on his captives, “when I seize you devils, there’ll be a price to pay.”
One woman begged for mercy. She dropped to her knees and caressed Sloane’s solid thighs. Finlay considered covering Jessica’s eyes, but the lady seemed to appreciate the performance.
“Bravo!” Jessica clapped.
“What the blazes?” Sloane swung around so quickly he almost lost his balance and toppled down the stairs.
Cole inclined his head. “Good morning. Is it not a little early in the day to play pirates?”
It took Sloane a moment to compose himself. “Cole, what an unexpected pleasure. I shall be with you momentarily.” He ordered his guests back to his bedchamber, then turned to his butler. “Fitchett, take their outdoor apparel. Make our guests comfortable and arrange refreshments.”
“Yes, sir.”
They were shown into the drawing room, a masculine space with burnt sienna walls, a warm oak floor and a sumptuous red Persian rug. Jessica couldn’t sit still and took to wandering the room, examining the portraits in ornate gilt frames.
“This man has a devilish twinkle in his eye,” Jessica said, studying the image of a bearded gentleman situated to the left of the marble fireplace.
“Perhaps because he was the most mischievous scoundrel you’d ever wish to meet,” Sloane said, striding into the room. He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue tailcoat and black trousers. As always, he’d tied his hair in a queue. “A canny old devil was Livingston Sloane.”
“Forgive the intrusion.” Finlay came to his feet and crossed the room. He
lowered his voice. “I could think of no other place where Miss Draper would be safe.”
“You should have sent word,” Sloane whispered through gritted teeth while still maintaining his smile. “Violet was about to wrap her plump lips around my—”
“And who is this pretty lady, sir?” Jessica asked.
Sloane craned his neck. “My great-grandmother. Lady Jane Boscobel. Now you see from whom I inherited my dashing good looks.”
“Oh, is there a portrait of your mother?”
Sloane’s feigned smile slipped. “I’m afraid not.”
In the awkward silence that followed, one could almost hear a child’s mournful cries. To never know one’s mother left lasting scars. Sloane never mentioned it, of course. There was nothing more revolting to society than a man expounding human frailty.
The sound of giggling in the hall preceded the crunch of carriage wheels on the drive.
“Pay them no mind,” Sloane said. “My guests are leaving.”
Sophia threw Finlay a covert glare. “We should have rested the horses and arrived at a more respectable time.”
“When a gentleman lives alone, no hour is respectable,” Sloane teased.
“There is much to explain,” Finlay said, hoping his friend would realise it was impossible to speak in front of Jessica. “But we would like to remain here for a few days.”
Sloane inclined his head. He strode over to the bell pull and yanked twice.
“Do you believe in mermaids, Miss Draper?” Sloane said in the honey-smooth voice that usually left women drooling. “Are they a creature of myth and fable, do you suppose? Or can you imagine a world like ours deep beneath the sea where one needs fins, not lower limbs?”
Jessica’s blue eyes flashed with excitement. “I believe there is much about the world we don’t know. One would be unwise to rule out the possibility.”
It was a logical reply, not that of a woman who struggled to define the past from the present, fantasy from reality.
“My grandfather claimed to have seen one once. The statues in the garden depict sea gods as mermen. There’s something about them I find captivating. Perhaps you might make a study of their form so we may discuss the matter at length.”