A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  He shook his head—and kept his lips firm until she’d slipped out. Then he had to let the smile come, just for a second. He let himself imagine, just for a second, that he could tease and jest and flirt like he used to do. Then he shut his eyes and leaned against the wall. She was too bright, too sunny, too good. Too undeserving of all the heartache that he would inevitably bring.

  He would help her figure out how to handle Rush, how to escape this business that had found her. How to keep the Staffords and Nottinghams out of it. Then . . . Then he would bid her adieu. Finish the painting underway in the garret. And let her image on his canvas—and a clear conscience—be enough.

  It would have to be. If he held her in any esteem at all, then he must do the right thing and keep himself and the misery he was sure to bring far from her smile. The last thing he wanted to do was dim it with his shadows.

  Kira pressed herself to the wall, out of the way, ready to slip back through the door the moment the duchess’s eyelids fluttered open. Which they would do soon, she was sure. So far as Kira had been able to determine, there was nothing really wrong with her that rest wouldn’t fix. But of course Brook’s husband and father weren’t willing to take her word for it. She suspected they wouldn’t take the physician’s word for it either, though the older man was saying many of the same things she had said.

  The doctor now closed his black bag and straightened, patting the duchess’s hand. Her breathing hitched, her head moved slowly from side to side. Sure signs that she was rousing. The doctor looked to the duke. “You must see that she rests, Your Grace. Challenging as I know it will be, she should stay abed for a few days, at the least.”

  The duke nodded, nostrils flaring. He had barely glanced at Kira as she pressed gently against his wife’s abdomen, seeking evidence of a pregnancy gone awry. He barely glanced at the doctor now—his gaze stayed locked on his wife’s face. “She was scarcely even sick last time.”

  “Each pregnancy is different. With this one, she will simply have to take it easy. At least through these first weeks.”

  The duchess let out a long breath. “How am I to do that with a toddler running about?” Her voice sounded faint, sleepy.

  Lord Whitby took the chair the doctor had been in, lifted her hand. “He has a whole team of nursemaids. Lady Ella is here, she can help. And Stafford and I can keep the little imp entertained when he escapes from them. Now. I believe I strictly forbade you from ever scaring me like this again after your last bout of unconsciousness.”

  She turned her head toward her father—toward Kira—but still didn’t really open her eyes. “I am only tired. I was dreaming . . . of the ballet. In Monaco.”

  Kira’s cue to beat a hasty exit. She did so with a quick curtsy that no one even looked up to notice, her pulse quickening as she slid out into the hall.

  She nearly collided with the redhead—Lady Ella—who laughed and steadied her. “I seem to be running into everyone of late. How is she?”

  Kira looked over her shoulder. From here she could only see the housekeeper wringing her hands, not the duchess. “Coming to. Excuse my clumsiness, my lady. But I had better get back to my mistress.”

  Lady Ella tilted her head. “You must be Lady Pratt’s maid—the midwife?”

  “Daughter of one, but da.” She dipped another quick curtsy. “Sophie Lareau.”

  The lady’s brow creased. “Did Lady Pratt hear why you were being called to assist the duchess? Is she all right?”

  Kira pulled out a small smile and fastened it into place. Given Lady Pratt’s mutters after she returned to her chamber, the two women were certainly not friends. But Lady Ella’s concern looked genuine—and appropriate. “She did not hear, thankfully. But I daresay she will be distressed when she does.”

  “I guessed as much. I understand she always compared herself to her cousin, so to see her not only with a healthy son but to know another child is on the way . . .” The lady shook her head and focused her gaze on the doorframe. Then she reached out to touch a hand briefly to Kira’s wrist and leaned close. “Ask her . . . She will refuse, but if you would ask her to join me for tea in the village tomorrow. I’ll come to call at two, if she wants to join me.”

  Kira bobbed her head. “I will tell her. Although . . .”

  “I know.” With a sigh, Lady Ella stepped away again. “She has never liked me and is not likely to begin now. But I do appreciate you giving her the invitation, Lareau. Thank you.”

  Kira offered a tight-lipped smile, another dip of her knees, and sped away while the lady entered. She needed to get herself—and her voice—far away from the duchess before the woman realized it was more than a dream of the ballet, that it was memory.

  When she’d left Lady Pratt fifteen minutes earlier, the lady had already climbed into bed, claiming exhaustion from the travel. But a bar of light seeped out from beneath her chamber door, and voices came from within. Kira paused outside it and listened for a moment.

  Lord Rushworth. His voice was hushed, but she caught a few words. “Certain . . .” and “. . . jewels.”

  Her pulse picked up. This was the first she had heard anything promising drop from their lips. Perhaps she could—

  “Lareau, if that’s you hovering outside the door, just come in.”

  She straightened and made mental note of the lord’s powers of observation. She would have to be careful indeed. For now, she entered with her head down and a polite curtsy ready. “Pardon me. I only thought to check on Lady Pratt.”

  She was still in her bed, sitting up against her pillows with a scowl aimed at her brother, who had taken the chair by the window. “I was quite well until Cris decided to wake me up.”

  Rushworth scowled right back. “You were wallowing, not sleeping.”

  “And you are irritating, not helping me.” The lady flicked a gaze to Kira. “I don’t need anything. You can go away, and you can take my brother with you.”

  Something went hard in Lord Rushworth’s eyes. He leaned back in his chair, hooked an ankle casually over the opposite knee, but there was nothing relaxed about his expression. “Before I share our cousin’s happy news?”

  Kira took a step forward before she could think not to, a hand up. As if she had any power to object—but she could not help herself. “My lord, please. Lady Pratt does not need to hear that right now.”

  “Lady Pratt needs to learn that life goes on.”

  The lady looked from her to Lord Rushworth, suspicion making her eyes even greener. “What? Is she . . . is she with child again?”

  The curl of Rushworth’s lips sent a shiver up Kira’s spine. He made a noise that was caught halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “If it helps, she’s so unwell from it that she just passed out.”

  “How in the world would that help?” The lady pulled her blanket higher. “Go away. Both of you.”

  Her brother didn’t budge. “Life goes on, Kitty. If you would look beyond your pain for half a moment, you would see that. Remarry. Have other children. Put Pratt and his son behind you.”

  Gripping the blanket until her knuckles went white, Lady Pratt ground out, “His son was my son. Your nephew. How can you speak this way? How can you . . . how . . . how?”

  “The better question is how you can be ready to give up on life. After all we have been through, all we suffered, what is this but one more obstacle? We can overcome it, Kitty. We can—if you but determine to try. Get out of bed, out of your room, and do something now and again.”

  Lady Pratt tugged the blanket up to her chin. “What am I to do? I have no real friends. No one who understands. No one who even wants to spend time with me. Everyone I once knew has gone on with their lives while I . . . I am adrift.”

  Kira cleared her throat. “Lady Ella has just invited you to join her for tea in the village tomorrow, my lady. She says she knows you will hesitate to accept, but she truly hopes you will.”

  Though Lady Pratt looked ready to snarl, Rushworth put both feet on the floor and sat forward
, his eyes brighter than Kira had ever seen them. “She’ll go.”

  His sister sighed. “Crispin—”

  “Please, Kitty.” That particular tone in Rushworth’s voice was new, and interesting. A form of pleading Kira had never heard from him, but which sounded . . . vulnerable. “I have never asked you to befriend a young lady for my sake. But I’m asking now.”

  Lady Pratt stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t know what you see in that insipid hoyden.”

  He winced, no doubt at her choice of words—insipid hoyden. Though Kira was unfamiliar with their meaning, the idea came through clearly enough. Lord Rushworth shook his head. “I do not really know what it is about her that intrigues me—but I would like the opportunity to find out. And that is far more likely to happen if you can convince her that you’re not the villainess that her brother and our cousin would have told her you are.”

  “A tall order, brother.” And one she didn’t look up to handling. She slid lower into her bed and turned her back on Rushworth. “Have it your way. I’ll go to tea. But beyond that, I make no promises.”

  Rushworth looked about to say more, but then he glanced at Kira. He nodded, stood. “It is a start. Good night, Kitty. Lareau.”

  Kira stepped aside to let him slip out the door, but she didn’t immediately follow. She hovered there a moment, wishing she knew what to say to ease this woman’s pain. Wishing she could do even a bit of the good Lord Rushworth seemed to think she could. Wishing, too, she could just find the information Andrei needed and get back to Paris, leaving this broken family to their own woes.

  She had plenty of her own to contend with.

  Lady Pratt pushed back onto her elbow and focused her gaze on Kira. “When did you see Lady Ella?”

  “Outside the room where they took the duchess. I mentioned to one of the maids here that my mother trained me in midwifery, so . . .” And why did she feel as though she should apologize?

  “Is the duchess all right?”

  It was the first time Kira had heard the woman ask about anyone else. Odd, given that all evidence pointed to her not getting along with Brook. She edged closer to the bed. “She will have to stay abed for a few days, at least.”

  Lady Pratt breathed what might have been a laugh. “She’ll hate that.”

  “Da.” When she’d known her in Monaco, the girl had been always racing from one thing to another—from the ballet to the palace, escaping her guards, taming wild horses. Not that Kira could admit to knowing that. “That is what her father and the duke said.”

  The lady sighed. “And Lady Ella. How did she seem when she issued this bizarre invitation?”

  That Kira could answer with no hesitation. “Concerned for you, my lady. And genuine.”

  Lady Pratt rolled onto her back, her gaze on the ceiling. “She is either out for information or . . . or actually interested in Crispin. Which would be odd, given her brother’s opinion of us. Unless she is the rebellious type, I suppose. Is she, do you think?”

  Kira spread her hands, shrugged. “I saw her for but a few seconds. Spoke but those few words.”

  “Well, I suppose I shall find out tomorrow, shan’t I.”

  “Indeed.” And Kira could be alone in Lady Pratt’s room, able to poke through all her things, as she hadn’t had time to do tonight. Able to find whatever information on the diamonds she might have. She smiled. “Indeed you shall.”

  Twelve

  Ella slid into a chair at the small table draped in white linen, telling herself to look around her rather than at her companion. The tea room wasn’t nearly as grand as the ones in London to which she was permitted to slip away unchaperoned—no orchestra, no dancing, no high-arching windows. But it was lovely, all fair, bright colors and copious amounts of light, and Brook had assured her when she first arrived that the food was delicious and the establishment well-respected.

  And so, Brook hadn’t batted an eye from her chaise when Ella had said she would take tea here this afternoon. Brook never thought to wonder at someone wanting a taste of independence. Whitby, on the other hand, had narrowed his eyes at her and had been about to ask more questions when little Abingdon had saved the day by squealing his way into the room, having escaped from his nurse. Again.

  And now, across the table from her, Catherine released a sigh that begged to have attention paid to it, so ripe was it with incredulity. She looked around with what seemed to be a critical eye. “I have not been to a tea room in a year or more. I used to love the Corner House in London.”

  Ella smiled. “We always favored the one at Fenchurch.”

  “Of course you did.”

  It was, at least, the Catherine she’d expected to see. Caustic, cold, calculating—and slightly less disturbing than the broken one she’d seen last night. Though Ella did have to wonder why she had accepted the invitation when she clearly didn’t want to be here.

  Catherine turned back to their table, her stare going blank again as she took in the cups and plates and silver. “I’m really not hungry.”

  “An excellent excuse to have nothing but tea and cake, then.” When a young woman approached with a smile and a request for their order, Ella took the liberty of ordering for them both. If left to Catherine, she suspected they would have gotten up and gone.

  Once the waitress breezed away, Ella looked at her companion until Catherine actually glanced up from her napkin and met her gaze. “Why did you agree to come?”

  “Foregoing niceties, are we?” Catherine leaned back against her chair and studied her with pursed lips. “My brother begged. He likes you.”

  Ella shook her head. “Why?”

  A hint of a smile touched the corner of Catherine’s mouth. “That’s what I asked him. I never would have thought he’d fall for someone like . . . you.”

  Perhaps she would have taken offense, had she not completely agreed. “I daresay it isn’t me he likes. He no doubt thinks I can get him the diamonds.” There—her cards on the table.

  Catherine didn’t so much as blink out of turn. “You would think so. But no. Perhaps he likes your good humor, annoying as some of us find it. He certainly never saw much of such a thing in our home.” She tilted her head in a way Ella had seen her do before. Previously it had struck her as a cat studying a mouse. Today it looked like but an imitation. “But is that why you invited me? To talk about the jewels?”

  “No.” Ella unfolded her napkin from its seashell shape and smoothed it over her lap. “I know I cannot understand your loss. And that I’m not a likely friend in any case. But you’re hurting. And I thought . . .” What had she thought? She’d lain awake half the night wondering. Convincing herself it wouldn’t matter, that Catherine wouldn’t even come. Yet here they were, and the question still had no answer. She could only breathe a prayer and see what words slipped out. “I thought perhaps it would help to get out for an afternoon. To be distracted with thoughts of how much you dislike me.”

  The woman’s laugh sounded like a minor victory—even if it was at her own expense. “Thoughtful of you.”

  “You’ll find I’m as thoughtful as I am annoying.”

  Catherine watched her for a long moment, amusement still playing around the corners of her mouth. Then she shook her head. “Perhaps you’re not quite as vacuous as I thought. Though let’s be honest—he can’t possibly stand a chance with you, can he? Not hating us as your family does.”

  Ella shifted and willed the tea to arrive soon. She could just imagine what Brice would think if he saw her now. Or Brook and Stafford and Whitby, for that matter. “Honestly, my lady, I scarcely know him.”

  “I suppose you know Cayton much better, then.”

  Ella froze, not so much as lifting her brows. “Pardon?”

  Catherine’s chin tilted up just slightly, and her eyes hardened. Strange as it seemed, it brought a measure of relief. This was the Catherine whom Ella had met before. “You did quite a good job of flirting with our host at dinner. Granted, flirting with Cayton has always
been an easy task, but I was under the impression that he’s closed himself off since Adelaide’s death. I daresay you’re wasting your time there.”

  Ella grinned. “Not if my goal is merely to torment him with it. He has been so deliberately rude to me that I must flirt just to offset it.”

  Catherine shook her head. “As good a reason as any, I suppose. Though personally, I always preferred to do it because it irritated Stafford.”

  The waitress headed their way, wheeled cart before her and a casual smile upon her lips. Conversation halted while the girl set out their teapot and sugar and cream, the tiered tray filled to bursting with sweets. She left again with a promise to check on them in a few minutes.

  Ella selected a scone and pulled close the pot of clotted cream. “Shall you pour or shall I?”

  With a sigh, Catherine reached for the teapot. “Strong or weak?”

  “Strong. Thank you. Biscuit?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  Silence could be a pleasant thing, when one shared it easily with someone. This one was taut and unwieldy, and Catherine showed no signs of being inclined to break it. Ella took a nibble from her scone, waited for her cup of tea, and then set it down silently upon her saucer after she’d tested a sip. “Why does he lie?”

  Now it was Catherine who froze, her fingers resting gracefully upon the lid of the pot. She could have been a still life painted upon Cayton’s canvas. “Pardon?”

  “Your brother.” Ella trailed a finger along the gold-leafed rim of her cup. “He stood in the drawing room last night and told us he only wants the jewels to save you from the buyer who had already made a payment to your husband. We all know that’s a lie, given the lengths to which the two of you went last year, before he supposedly learned of this. When you took advantage of Stella, called upon a monster from my sister-in-law’s past, and nearly caused the deaths of two people who matter more to me than anyone.” She delivered it coolly, evenly. She gave herself kudos for that, when it all raged inside as so much more than words.