by Joyce Alec
“Look,” Miss Grey insisted, sounding amused that he was so repulsed by the handkerchief. “It has a name sewn into it, here. ‘Wilson’.”
“Wilson?” Peter repeated, leaning forward to see where Miss Grey was pointing. “I know no one by that name.”
Lord Blackridge nodded, looking at the handkerchief also. “It is not a name I am familiar with either.”
“But it must belong to someone connected to all of this, “Miss Grey insisted, frowning slightly that they had not been as excited as she was over this. “The name must mean something.”
Frowning, Peter nodded slowly, whilst not taking his eyes off of the handkerchief and the carefully embroidered name. The cloth itself was not particularly fine, which meant that it was probably not one that belonged to a titled gentleman. Most likely, it would belong to one of the staff—the valet or butler, mayhap. Looking up at Miss Grey, he saw her sagging back against the squabs, her disappointment evident.
“Thank you, Miss Grey,” he said earnestly, not wanting her to think that she had failed in any way, nor that he was not grateful for what she had discovered. “This has been most helpful. I am glad that you were able to discover the truth from Marks, for I fear that should I have continued to question him, he would have remained entirely silent.”
Miss Smallwood put one hand on Miss Grey’s arm and smiled encouragingly at her, making Peter wish that he, himself, was free to do exactly the same.
“You did very well, Ophelia,” Miss Smallwood said gently. “The way you convinced Marks to speak was quite wonderful to watch. I do wish that I had your ability to converse in such a firm and decisive manner.”
Miss Grey looked a little embarrassed and shrugged, although her lips were beginning to curve into a smile. “That is kind of you both to say. I am just sorry we could not find anything more.”
“This is enough,” he said firmly. “And with the box that Lord Blackridge discovered, we have more clues than before.” Seeing curiosity jump into her features, he spread his hands. “I will speak to you both of it once we have returned to the house. You will see, Miss Grey, that we are not without hope. We will discover the truth in the end, I have no doubt of it.”
Miss Grey looked back at him, doubt flickering in her green eyes, and Peter found himself almost desperate to have her believe that he was speaking the truth, that she had no need to fear that they would not succeed. His heart jumped quietly in his chest when she nodded, and he reached forward to touch his hand with hers for just a moment.
“Thank you, Lord Marchmont,” she replied, squeezing his fingers gently. “More than anything, I wish to see this burden removed from you, to see it taken from you entirely. That is all I wish for. To see you free.”
Her hand let go of his as she sat back. Peter swallowed hard, trying to find something to say in response but finding that his whole being had suddenly flared with heat and that his heart was thumping furiously within him. Choosing not to stumble or stammer over his words, he looked out of the hackney window, feeling truly grateful for Miss Grey. To have his ‘freedom’, as she had put it, would be to leave Miss Grey behind, to free her from their courtship again and to set himself apart from her. Initially, he had been filled with determination over that particular matter, but now, as the hackney drove through London and Peter sat across from Miss Grey, he found that desire to be parted from her slowly beginning to fade, leaving him greatly confused.
How foolish it would be to find himself holding some sort of affection for the one lady he had been trying to separate himself from. Surely it could not be that his heart was beginning to soften towards her. No, he could not allow that to occur.
And yet, as he glanced across the carriage and took in her countenance for a moment, Peter knew that he was not as unaffected by her as he wanted to believe. There was more than admiration in his heart for Miss Grey. It had come upon him rather swiftly and now that he was aware of it, Peter did not know what he was to do.
It was most disconcerting indeed.
10
Ophelia looked at her reflection in the mirror, tilting her head slightly so that she might see the way her curls ran down to her shoulders from where they had been pinned in place. Her maid had spent a good deal of time on such an arrangement and Ophelia was more than pleased with the result. Seed pearls had been pressed into her hair, catching the light whenever she moved. All in all, it was both an elegant and a beautiful presentation.
“You have done very well,” Ophelia murmured, getting to her feet and turning around to smile at her maid. “I thank you. Now for my gown and then I believe I shall be quite prepared.”
The maid blushed a little and hurried to get Ophelia the gown she had chosen for this evening. It was a delicate shade of turquoise, not overly dark, with a cream satin ribbon tied at her waist. Her feet were already encased in soft slippers and she would take her shawl with her so that the cool night air would not nip at her arms. Stepping into the gown, she waited until the maid had finished tying it before she allowed herself a look in the full-length mirror. One or two final touches—perhaps a necklace and earbobs—and she would be quite prepared.
She hoped Lord Marchmont would appreciate it.
The thought brought her up short, her eyes flaring with sudden shock. Had she truly just been considering Lord Marchmont? Had her thoughts just turned towards him as though he were the sole object of her intentions? Her cheeks flushed with color as she closed her eyes tightly, as though in doing so, all thoughts of him would rush from her. Instead, they only intensified.
Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Ophelia opened her eyes and let out her breath slowly, trying to calm herself somewhat. Her acquaintance with Lord Marchmont was growing, yes, but that did not mean that she ought to feel anything other than friendship towards him. To have any more than that was certain to bring about a good deal of difficulty.
“Are you quite all right, my lady?”
Ophelia turned swiftly and nodded to her maid, knowing that her color remained heightened. “I am perfectly well, I thank you,” she lied. “You may retire for the night. I do not intend to return home early and can quite easily retire without your help.”
The maid beamed at this, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried from the room just as Lady Sharrow approached. Her eyes ran over Ophelia’s new gown and she smiled her approval as she lingered in the doorway.
“I was just about to come in search of you,” Lady Sharrow said with a warm expression. “You look quite lovely, Ophelia. Are you prepared? Lord Marchmont has not yet arrived but I would not wish to be tardy.”
Just as she said this, there came the sound of hurrying feet and Lady Sharrow looked over her shoulder. Murmuring something to the servant that had approached, she then looked back at Ophelia.
“Lord Marchmont has just arrived,” she said, her tone now a little urgent. “Do come quickly, Ophelia. You are prepared, are you not?”
Ophelia nodded, hating the streak of nerves that ran up her spine as she hurried from the room after her aunt. She had no need to feel like this, no need to be anxious about Lord Marchmont’s arrival, and yet she felt as though her stomach were filled with butterflies, all beating their wings at a frantic pace.
“Oh!”
Lady Sharrow stopped dead, making Ophelia come to a stumbling stop.
“I quite forgot that I wished to wear my pearls this evening,” Lady Sharrow said, one hand pressed against her throat as though they might be there. “I shall only be a few minutes, Ophelia. Do go and greet Lord Marchmont.”
A frown dug into Ophelia’s brow, seeing the gleam in her aunt’s eye and wondering if this had been done deliberately. “I do not think that would be proper, Aunt.”
“Nonsense!” Lady Sharrow protested, gesturing for Ophelia to continue towards the drawing room alone. “As I said, I shall be but a few minutes.”
Ophelia was about to protest that she should not greet Lord Marchmont alone, only for Lady Sharrow’s expression to grow a little ha
rd, her brow furrowing. Seeing that it was pointless to argue, Ophelia sighed heavily, turned on her heel, and began to progress along the hallway towards the drawing room where Lord Marchmont was waiting.
“Lord Marchmont.”
Opening the door, Ophelia attempted to sail in with as much grace and poise as she could, hating that her heart was thumping so loudly that she was certain that he could hear it.
“Good evening, Miss Grey,” he replied, looking quite resplendent in his formal attire. “Thank you for permitting me to accompany you to the theatre this evening.”
Ophelia smiled and nodded, suddenly wondering what it would be like to sit in the darkness in such close proximity to this gentleman. A flush began to rise up her neck and into her cheeks as she let this thought take hold, feeling a sense of excitement.
“You are looking forward to this evening, I hope?” Lord Marchmont asked, coming a little closer to her, his hands held loosely behind his back. “I confess that I am not often enamored with Shakespeare, but this evening, I may find that the company increases my enjoyment of such a thing.”
This was a compliment indeed and Ophelia managed to accept it with a warm smile. “I look forward to being in your company also, Lord Marchmont,” she replied, a trifle thickly as she struggled to know what to say. His nearness was having a profound effect on her, one she could not quite understand. “It will be a relief for us both, I think, to have an evening without focusing on the current predicament we find ourselves in.”
Lord Marchmont grinned, his brown eyes alight as he stood only a couple of steps away from her. “I am glad you think so, Miss Grey. It has been a very interesting few days, has it not?”
It had been two days now since they had been at the boarding house. Ophelia had been glad that they had discovered as much as they did and had been greatly excited to find the handkerchief and then to be shown the box with the initials carved into it. However, she had left both items with Lord Marchmont, knowing that she could not be of much help to him given that none of her acquaintances had either the name ‘Wilson’ or the initials ‘R.H’.
“Have you discovered anything new?”
Lord Marchmont’s smile faded and he shook his head. “No, unfortunately not. I confess that I was hugely pleased that we had found not one but two items, and that Marks had been willing to speak to you about what had occurred that night. However, now it seems that the task of finding who created the box and who the handkerchief belongs to is much more difficult than even I had anticipated.” He gave a small shake of his head. “I thought this evening to take my mind from it entirely and simply enjoy being in your company, Miss Grey.”
“I would have thought that you would prefer not to be in my company, Lord Marchmont, given that I am much too brash and far too outspoken.”
Ophelia did not know where the words came from, surprising both herself and Lord Marchmont, it seemed. She closed her eyes and cringed inwardly, wondering why she had spoken so indelicately. Was it because she was afraid that he would end their courtship the moment they discovered the truth? Why would she be afraid of that when it was what she wanted also?
“Miss Grey, I know that we find ourselves in a very awkward situation,” Lord Marchmont began, sounding a trifle hesitant. “I am aware that we must keep up appearances in order to prove to whoever is watching us that we are—that I am—doing as he has asked, but I would not have you believe that I find your company something that I must endure.”
Swallowing quickly, Ophelia settled her shoulders and tried to think about what she wanted to say before she said it. Lord Marchmont was looking at her with concern and worry in his expression, as though he were the one at fault for making her believe something that was not at all true.
“Forgive me, Lord Marchmont,” she stammered, spreading her hands in front of her. “I do not know what possessed me to speak to you in such a manner.”
He did not smile nor did he look to be angry. “There is nothing to forgive, Miss Grey.”
A small groan escaped her mouth and she shook her head, turning away from Lord Marchmont so that she might wander to the window and attempt to gather her fragmented thoughts. Embarrassed, she was glad that he could no longer see her red cheeks, hating that she had not been careful in what she said.
“You do believe me, do you not, Miss Grey?”
His voice was nearer than she had expected and Ophelia jumped, turning around to see Lord Marchmont moving closer to her again, as if he could not bear to be separated from her. “What do you mean, Lord Marchmont?” she asked, aware of the fluttering in her chest and attempting to settle her composure.
He cleared his throat, now standing so very close to her that she could feel his breath brush across her cheek. She could move away, could step back from him, but it was as though she were tied to him and he was pulling the cord so that she had to move even closer.
“I must know that you are assured that I truly do find your company most engaging,” Lord Marchmont said, his voice and expression somewhat tender. “I know that when I first brought our courtship to an end, I told you that I did not think we suited each other particularly well. I am rather quiet and fairly dull, whereas you sparkle with life and vivacity.” He shrugged, a sad smile creeping across his face. “We are very different, you and I, and yet I find now that I truly do look forward to being in your company.”
She did not know what to say at this, seeing the fervency in his eyes and wanting to understand it. They were, as he said, so very different and yet she, too, had found herself growing increasingly comfortable in his presence. Over the last fortnight, she had learned to watch what she said before she said it, to speak with consideration and understanding, and not to act brashly. That was entirely because of Lord Marchmont’s influence, from her desire not to embarrass him in any way. Part of her had wanted him to enjoy her company, had wanted him to find a quiet contentment in their acquaintance. She should be delighted that he was speaking to her so, but instead, all she felt was nervousness building up through her.
“Miss Grey?”
Lord Marchmont reached out and before she could say anything, pushed back a curl from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. She shivered at his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she pressed one hand to her stomach in an attempt to steady her breathing.
“Forgive me.” Lord Marchmont’s voice was low, his hand falling to his side. “I did not mean—”
“Please.” Ophelia opened her eyes, speaking urgently so that he could not continue to express regret. “Please, Lord Marchmont, you need not apologize. It is quite all right.”
He looked down at her with something in his eyes she could not quite make out.
“I—I find that I also look forward to being in your company, Lord Marchmont,” she admitted, the words tumbling from her mouth as if she were suddenly desperate to have them said aloud. “I know that I have insulted and offended you prior to this, when I called you dull and the like, but I can only apologize for such a thing now.” She held his gaze, her heart thudding in her chest. “You are not at all the gentleman I thought you were. I find myself looking forward to being in your company. I do hope you can forgive me for my past wrongs.”
He smiled at her and took a small step closer, making Ophelia’s heart thump all the more quickly. Her whole being was aware of him, focused entirely on him, finding that a strange desire was building up within her, urging her on. She did not know precisely what it was she wanted, feeling this strange new affection and desire for Lord Marchmont grow within her with such force that it took her breath away. When he reached out and brushed his fingers lightly down her cheek, it was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms about his neck and pulling his head down to hers. To behave in such a wanton fashion was not at all acceptable and she knew she could never give in to such a desire without fully considering the implications that would follow.
“Miss Grey, you are quite extraordinary.”
Lord Marchmont’s
voice was low and soft, one hand settling on her waist whilst she found herself putting one hand gently on his chest, feeling the wild beat of his heart under her fingers. Astonished, she looked up into his face and saw him smile at her in a self-conscious manner.
“You can see what effect your nearness has on me, Miss Grey,” he whispered, his head beginning to lower. “I do not know what this means, but—”
The sound of footsteps brought Ophelia to her senses all at once and she dropped her hands to her side and then turned so that she could hurry towards the window, in order to look out of it. Her eyes saw nothing, her breathing coming quick and fast as she tried to find her composure all over again, not wanting her aunt to be aware of what had almost occurred.
“Lord Marchmont!” Lady Sharrow’s words were filled with welcome and, as Ophelia turned, she saw the hopeful gleam in her aunt’s eye although she appeared to be disappointed that Ophelia and Lord Marchmont were standing on opposite sides of the room. “How good to see you. Thank you for your kind offer of accompanying us to the theatre this evening.”
“But of course.” Lord Marchmont’s voice was calm and steady, and he gave Lady Sharrow a small bow as Ophelia smoothed her skirts and then walked towards them both. “I do hope this will be an enjoyable evening.” He glanced towards Ophelia as he said this, a smile playing about his mouth that had Ophelia blushing all over again.
This did not go unnoticed by Lady Sharrow, who practically grinned with delight as she gestured for them both to quit the room.
“Shall we depart?” she asked, moving to stand by the door. “I do not want to be late.”
“Of course, Aunt,” Ophelia murmured, hurrying forward first and thinking that the sooner they got in the carriage and made their way to the theatre, the better. She would no longer feel such a heat rushing through her once she was in the company of her aunt as well as Lord Marchmont. There was nothing she needed to worry about. This strange awareness of his presence would flee from her soon.