A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  Silence held for a long moment, a silence full of rain drumming on her umbrella and tree limbs swaying with water and wind. A silence full enough to wash away the pretense.

  Cayton sighed. “I had a letter from your brother yesterday.”

  “You what?” She came to a halt, tugging him to one too. Brice always did have an uncanny way of sensing things, but really. How would he know from hundreds of miles away the very moment she found a man who made her like him despite herself? And why would he have written to him about it rather than her?

  Cayton looked down at her, his gaze now empty of all the put-on distemper. And of the rain-induced real temper. Empty of . . . everything, it seemed. Which left him looking hollow and lonely.

  “We’ve been corresponding since Adelaide died.”

  Now Ella frowned. She hadn’t been aware that Brice knew Cayton, other than in passing. But he knew him well enough to write to him regularly?

  And yet had never once mentioned him?

  Cayton pulled her back into motion. Because he wanted to get out of the rain, or to avoid meeting her eye again? “We were both at Whitby Park one day last year—I believe the rest of you were at Lady Pratt’s house party.”

  Ella’s stomach turned at the mere mention. “The day that maid was attacked at Delmore. Brice arrived back there shortly after the constable.”

  “Right.” He dragged in a ragged breath. “His return was delayed because he was praying with me.”

  That certainly sounded like Brice. Though she failed to see Cayton’s point in bringing it up now. “Then you got a taste of his unusual ability to pray for what he ought not to know.”

  His next snort of laughter sounded actually amused. “And since then, his ability to write with advice far too apropos.”

  Apropos how? “So in his letter yesterday he must have reminded you not to act like a complete idiot just because you don’t trust yourself to be better than you once were.”

  “If only it were so simple. No, my lady, in his letter yesterday he wrote that he had a bad feeling that trouble was on its way, and he asked that I keep him apprised if I heard anything from certain sectors.”

  Trouble—the Fire Eyes. That was the only trouble that Brice would be concerned with just now, and the trouble he certainly didn’t need to worry with. But that only made her frown again. And stop again, this time at the edge of a puddle that soaked through her shoes. “Lord Rushworth? But why would Brice think . . . ?”

  Cayton had turned to face her, meeting her gaze straight on. “You know more than your brother thinks you do, don’t you.”

  She couldn’t quite manage a grin. “Of course I do—because I’m not naïve, Lord Cayton—much as everyone wishes I were. I know my brother is far too involved in the business over which Brook was kidnapped. And I know . . .” What was that flicker in his eyes? “What?”

  He swallowed and looked away, off into the rain-silvered forest. “Your brother is right that trouble is coming. You should go home to Sussex.”

  “And what makes you or him think said trouble isn’t headed to Sussex? That’s where it was last—”

  “Because Rush will be seeking me out, and when he doesn’t find me in Yorkshire, he’ll know just where to come.” Not meeting her gaze again, Cayton pivoted and opened his stride to eat up the muddy trail.

  Ella stood stock-still for a moment, letting the rain pound her, before she darted forward to keep up. “Wait just a dashed moment. Why would Rushworth seek out you?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Cayton’s fingers were nearly white around the handle of the umbrella. “We have been friends all our lives. Rush, Pratt, and Cayton. The three young lords of North Yorkshire.”

  And did he think that she had forgotten so quickly the horror that she had overheard in his voice last week, when Melissa had said she’d wondered if he were like Pratt? “And he thinks you still are?”

  He halted again. “You may know more than your brother would like, Lady Ella, but you know far less than you think you do.” Even now, his eyes were empty. Not angry, not determined, just hollow. “I know Rushworth better than anyone but his sister, now that Pratt is dead. I knew their resentment for Brook long before she realized it . . . but I said nothing. I knew Pratt had grown impatient and was going to go to drastic measures to get something from her—though I didn’t know what at the time—and I said nothing. In his eyes, I have never betrayed his trust before . . . so why should I start now?”

  Because the hollowness bespoke pain too deep to show. Because the very fact that he said such things to her meant he was aware of his prior failings and hated himself for them. Perhaps she wasn’t the best judge of people, but there was no mistaking that. There couldn’t be.

  And yet—he’d known? He’d known Pratt was going to hurt, to kidnap one of Ella’s dearest friends, and he did nothing? She had never understood people who chose silence when evil men were at work. She never had, and she never would.

  Perhaps her thoughts were reflected in her eyes, for there was a flash of something in his—pain, regret?—before he nodded and turned once more.

  Not walking now. Not striding. Trudging.

  Ella drew in a long breath, let the rain wash that away too, and then darted after him. “You are different now.”

  “A happy assumption. Untested and untried.”

  The mud sucked at her shoes. A rivulet of water dripped from the umbrella’s edge onto her shoulder. She would have to move closer to Cayton to be fully under its protection, but could he make it any clearer that he didn’t want her there, by his side? She ought to obey good sense and his silent demand and steer far clear of him.

  She couldn’t. Not seeing that pain within him. “You are different. You said so to Lady Melissa—that the things that once held allure do no longer. I am sorry you suffered the loss you did, my lord, but it has made you stronger. Better.”

  “You know nothing about me. Why are you so determined to believe in me?”

  An excellent question. And try as she might to find answers other than the cliché attraction, only one made itself clear. She sighed and folded her arms over her chest. “Someone has to.”

  The hitch in his gait bespoke some emotion catching him unawares, though Ella couldn’t be entirely sure which one. “And why would that someone need to be you?”

  The edge of the wood came into view, with the manicured lawns of Ralin Castle beyond it—and the familiar form of the Duke of Stafford striding their way. An umbrella in hand, proving he had better sense than this misanthropic cousin of his. “I haven’t the foggiest notion, Lord Cayton. I suppose we’ll have to figure that out.”

  He looked at her as if she were daft—and maybe she was. The more sensible, logical thing would be to shrug off all thoughts of this man who wanted nothing to do with her and focus on the real issue that had brought her to Ralin.

  She straightened her shoulders. Once she was dry and warm again, she would settle into the library with every book the duke had on Indian lore. Perhaps somewhere she would find mention of these supposedly cursed diamonds . . . or at least a better understanding of the culture from whence they had come. Surely thousands of pages of history would suffice to take her mind off one bad-tempered earl.

  Stafford looked to be tamping down a grin when they met on the lawn a few yards from the wood’s edge. “Found her, I see.”

  Cayton grunted. “You could have warned me that she’s wont to wander off all the way to the river.”

  Making an impressed face, Stafford nodded at her. “You must have been walking at quite a clip. Let’s find Whit and let him know you’re accounted for. He headed south.”

  Lord Whitby was out searching for her too? Suddenly Ella felt more flushed than cold. “Oh, you were all out? I am so sorry, Duke—but Brook knew I was walking and that I always find my way back. Why did she send you after me? Please tell me the staff hasn’t been inconvenienced as well.”

  “Only the three of us.” Stafford chuckled, though Ella couldn
’t be sure whether it was over her getting lost or at his sopping cousin. “And Brook said she hadn’t realized how chilly it was when she let you wander about on your own. But none of us mind braving the rain to find you. Right, Cay?”

  With another grumble that didn’t, so far as Ella could tell, contain any discernable words, Cayton shoved the umbrella back into her hands. “I’m going home now, if it’s all right by you, Duke. Perhaps with diligence I may actually dry out before I see you tonight.”

  Ella’s fingers curled around the handle—still warm from his touch—as her brows lifted. “Are you joining us for supper this evening, my lord?”

  “No.”

  When he offered no more, Ella looked to Stafford, who was most definitely amused at his cousin’s expense. “I’ll be dining at Anlic tonight. The invitation was, of course, for us all, but with Brook feeling as poorly as she does . . .”

  She had glimpsed Anlic Manor, a mere mile away, when they’d gone into the village, and it looked properly charming. She would have liked to see the interior, had she not apparently just been uninvited. “Perhaps another time.”

  “Perhaps.” Stafford led them across the lawn, toward the carriage house, where Cayton’s automobile would be parked. “Actually, Ella, I was thinking . . . if Brook holds true to form, she will be out of sorts for the next month or two and eager for distractions. I was thinking the two of you could go on a short holiday together. To Bath, perhaps, or even to Midwynd, so she could enjoy the beach for a while before the Season begins. You know how she loves the ocean.”

  She also knew that it was not coincidence that within the space of ten minutes both Stafford and Cayton had suggested she leave—though one with far more charm. An incredulous laugh slipped out. “Do you really think me such a fool, Stafford? You have not been a day away from your wife’s side since you wed. Do you really mean to tell me you wish to send her casually away for a few weeks for no reason but for a distraction? And she in her condition?”

  To his credit, Stafford held his grin in place. “Well, she does get rather testy in these early days when the sickness is on her.”

  Ella narrowed her eyes, first at the duke and then his wetter-than-ever cousin. “You two are conspiring to get us ladies out of the way, aren’t you. And tell me, sir, what do you think your wife will say when she realizes what you’re about?”

  Stafford sighed. “That’s why I was hoping you would assist me, if I begged enough. I can’t have her at risk, Ella. Especially not now. Rushworth and Lady Pratt are on their way back from France, and—”

  “And we all know Brook will not leave your side, if that’s the case.”

  Wiping the rain from his face—a vain pursuit—Cayton said, “I told you begging wouldn’t work.”

  Ella breathed a laugh. “Nor did your method of irritating me away. Has it never occurred to either of you that perhaps Brook and I can help? Help finish this business once and for all?”

  Their lack of answer was answer enough. She’d half a mind to stomp in a puddle just to splash them with mud. “Rubbish. If we all want to take a trip to Sussex to discuss next steps with my brother, then fine. But you shan’t go sending the poor, fragile ladies away while you burly, surly men try to be heroes in our absence.”

  Stafford snorted a laugh. “Well, no question which of us is surly . . . though I never thought of myself as burly. . . .”

  Ella stopped, letting the men walk on ahead of her. They could laugh, beg, or insult all day long, but she knew there was only one sure way to win this fight.

  Stafford paused, turned to look at her.

  She smiled. “You go on ahead, gentlemen, I’ll see myself to the house. Even I can’t get lost between here and there.”

  The duke narrowed his eyes. “This conversation isn’t over, Ella.”

  “Oh, I know.” It was only just beginning. And she intended to have reinforcements when it commenced again. If anything could win Brook over to Ella’s side, it was this. They’d just see what the duchess said when she learned her husband wanted to get her out of the way.

  Eight

  Cayton knew the moment he turned up the drive of Anlic Manor that something was wrong—well, something more than the fact that he was sitting in soaking wet clothes and fighting off an internal itch that said he shouldn’t behave like such a bore with Lady Ella, even if it was for her own good.

  An unfamiliar carriage sat outside the stable, the driver flipping through something in his hand and then mounting onto the box. A hired coach, apparently. An empty hired coach, so whoever had arrived in it was now in his home.

  “Please be Mother and Aunt Caro. Please be Mother and Aunt Caro,” he muttered. They were the only people he knew who would arrive at Anlic without a word. And it was possible. They weren’t due back from the Riviera for another month, but he wouldn’t put it past them to have missed Addie and Abingdon and decided to cut their holiday short.

  The other option set his teeth on edge and made him press the accelerator a bit more than he usually would up this final stretch. He parked with a screech and jumped out, tossing the keys to Gregory as the old man approached.

  Cayton’s eyes were on the house. “Who is it? My mother and aunt?” It couldn’t be Rushworth already, could it? He would have returned home to Yorkshire. He would have had to go there first to realize Cayton wasn’t at Azerly Hall.

  Cayton should have had another three or four days to plan a meeting. To figure out a way to handle Rushworth. That was in large part what he and Stafford were to discuss tonight.

  Gregory caught the key but frowned. “No, milord. Not Lady Cayton—folks I’ve never seen before, though they sure put Mrs. Higgins in a tizzy when they showed up saying they were expected. She weren’t expecting them, clear as day. A gentleman and his sister. Rushford, was it?”

  “Rushworth.” Cold stole into his very bones, and he couldn’t blame it on the rain soaking him through. “Blast. They are earlier than I expected.”

  Gregory’s face eased a bit, at that expected. “Mrs. Higgins showed them in, of course, and is getting them settled.”

  “Very well.” Nothing to be done about it just now. He nodded to the groom and headed out of the carriage house, back into the rain for the brief span between it and the rear door of the house. Hopefully Rush and Catherine were still being settled in the parlor and he could slip up the back stairs to his bedroom, change out of these sodden clothes.

  Mrs. Higgins was entering the kitchen from the hall even as he entered it from the outside, and she descended on him with blazing eyes. “My lord.”

  Holding up a hand, he hoped she read apology in his eyes. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Higgins. I thought they’d be another week before they arrived.”

  Her expression softened. A bit. “And what on earth happened to you? Did you fall in the lake?”

  “I might as well have done. Forgive me if I drip on the floor.” He looked over her head, toward the hallway. “You haven’t shown them to rooms yet, have you?”

  The housekeeper fluttered a hand at him, shooing him toward the back stairs. “Their servants are seeing to their trunks up there, is all. Go and change, my lord—and how long are they to be here?”

  “I wish I knew.” He should get a note off to Stafford posthaste. As soon, that is, as he was dry. With a nod to Mrs. Higgins, he dashed out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Through this hallway, where the family rooms joined with the one where the guest bedrooms were located, he saw no one else.

  Evans awaited him in his room, the worry in his eyes turning to sharp amusement when Cayton stalked in. “Did your car get stuck in the mud again, my lord? Have to walk home?”

  Cayton turned his back on his valet so the man could help him peel off the jacket determined to cling to his shoulders. “I very nearly did, at that, when Stafford asked me to find Lady Ella on her promenade. Apparently the young lady is an expert at getting lost.”

  Humming his acknowledgment of that, Evans managed to rid Cayton of the jacket a
nd went to put it somewhere or another while Cayton unbuttoned his equally wet shirt. When his valet returned, he had apparently had enough of small talk, given the look on his face. “How did they know to come here?”

  Cayton could only shake his head. “Perhaps they simply left earlier than his letter indicated they would.”

  “No, I thought of that and asked his valet when they left Paris. Dorsey said they didn’t go to Yorkshire first, my lord. They came straight here.”

  His sudden chill had little to do with the temperature of his room. He discarded the last of his wet clothes and accepted the towel Evans offered. “He must have been in touch with someone in Yorkshire, someone who mentioned I hadn’t been in residence.”

  The question was, was it someone who had just mentioned it in passing . . . or someone deliberately keeping an eye on him for Rushworth?

  The second idea lit a fire in his veins as he hurried into a dry suit of clothes. “Rest assured I’ll get answers.”

  Evans smoothed the dry jacket over Cayton’s shoulders, frowning into the mirror. “Be careful, my lord.”

  “I shall.” But there was no point in dallying. He would slip down to his study to jot a note to Stafford and then confront Rushworth.

  Though he had to confess, the continued frown of his valet didn’t exactly inspire confidence. If Evans, who had known him for a decade, had no faith in his ability to confront an old friend now recognized as an enemy, what did that say about Cayton?

  Much. And none of it good. His shoulders slumped a bit as he stepped into the hall. How long before these changes in him were secure enough that people could trust them? That he could trust them, could trust himself not to fall back into old patterns? How long until he could smile at a young lady without regretting it and fearing if she smiled back he’d only hurt her?

  His study was at the base of the front staircase. He would slip down that way, staying out of sight of the parlor. He would—