A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  He hadn’t felt so much the outsider at Anlic in over a year. But he was quite clearly the newcomer today. The only one who didn’t know how everyone in town was related and how long they’d known Stew and Felicity and what their opinions had been on his disappearance. Cayton had spent most of his childhood in this neighborhood, but not among the crowd now coming through the servants’ entrances.

  Adelaide would have known them all. Adelaide would have stationed herself right beside her oldest friend, their hands knit together, and made things better. Or at least sufferable. Adelaide had been so ill through most of her life that this village had been her whole world—she’d never had the strength to wander from it.

  All Cayton could do was assure Mrs. Higgins that everyone could take as much time as they needed and that the manor was open to any who wished to stop in.

  Having no other reason to linger in the study, he stood. Addie was down for her morning nap, otherwise he would fetch her and take her outside. Watch her crawl through the gardens on hands and feet, bottom pointed straight up. Hear her delighted squeal every time a bird or butterfly flew by. Feel that warmth of her perfect smile as she looked at him with perfect trust.

  His paints would have to do, for now. Perhaps he’d sketch Ella with a frown on her face, just to memorialize the rarity. Maybe if he sketched it enough, he’d stop seeing her smile every time he closed his eyes.

  He turned toward the doorway.

  Rushworth filled it. Just hovered there, not coming in but blocking the way out. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just looked like his natural state—a blank mask.

  The very thought of this man paying court to Ella made invisible spiders crawl up his spine. The same way they would have, he assured himself, had he heard Rush was fond of any female for whom Cayton had some small esteem. He cleared his throat. “Do you need something, Rush?”

  This was usually where the man would draw out a smile mask and put it on, just so, over his empty countenance. He didn’t bother with it today. Instead he moved a step into the room without looking as if he’d moved at all. Hands clasped behind his back. Posture perfect.

  Invisible. Or he would have been in a crowd, anyway. “A moment or two of your time, if it’s not too much bother.”

  Perfectly polite. Invisible. Cayton leaned onto his desk. “Of course.”

  Rush, never one to rush, took his time perusing the room. He glanced over the titles on the shelf—all remnants of the late Mr. Rosten, as Cayton made it a point never to leave his favorite tomes out for the world to see. He studied the ancient landscape on the wall, bearing the same signature as the one in the sitting room upstairs—Cayton had a better one drying at Azerly Hall that he would frame and bring with him on his next trip. Rushworth ended up by the window, looking out at the late-morning beauty that the Cotswolds wore so well.

  Just when the silence began to itch, Rushworth said, “Lady Ella has the Fire Eyes.”

  Cayton wished for the silence back. And decided to play stupid. “I thought you said Brook had them—why would she give them to Ella?” Lady Ella, he should have said.

  Rushworth caught the slip. Of course. Half a glance over his shoulder proved it. “I was mistaken. Apparently Nottingham and his wife played us for fools deliberately.” He didn’t twitch, didn’t sneer, didn’t move a muscle beyond what his mask-face required for speaking.

  So how could Cayton feel the anger pulsing from him? He would have to write to Nottingham after Rushworth left the room. Warn him.

  “He had them made into the Nottingham ruby set. Rather brilliant, really.” Rushworth turned from the window, though the only things left in the small room to study were the obsolete sconces on the wall. He studied them. “Lady Ella was wearing them the other night.”

  Cayton swallowed. Folded his arms over his chest. “How can you be certain?”

  Rushworth sent him a glare as sharp as an arrow. “Do give me a bit of credit, Cayton. This is my life’s work.”

  “So.”

  “So.” He turned his whole body to face Cayton. “I had her room checked. They weren’t there.”

  Cayton had already known that. It shouldn’t have made the fury and fear bubble in his veins like this. But it did. Cayton tilted his head. “She probably had Stafford put them in the safe.” It was logical—Rushworth would have thought of it already.

  He obviously had, given the dip of his head. “You can get them for us.”

  Cayton let slip a bark of a laugh. Straightened. “No I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. You all but lived at that castle.”

  “Ah.” It was easy to dredge up the old resentment, just so he could put it on display. “But I was never to be the duke. And so the duke carefully kept from me anything that only the duke should know. Like the combination to the safe.”

  “Combination.” Rushworth half-turned away. “A key would have been simpler to lift.”

  “Hence why it’s a combination. Three of them, actually. Grandfather had the thing remade just before his death, and he was a bit paranoid about theft, given that his stewards abroad had been pilfering from him. You can be sure that my cousin is the only one who can get into it.” And probably Brook. But he would do his best to direct any attention solely at Stafford—it was what his cousin would want. Especially now.

  Rushworth’s fingers curled into his palm. “So we must convince Stafford to open it. Or Lady Ella to give them to us.”

  Convince had never sounded like so ugly a word before. Cayton’s throat went dry. “I won’t be party to hurting them. To hurting anyone.”

  The smile mask reappeared. “Of course not. I’m no monster, Cay.”

  Cayton lifted his brows, Ella’s quote of Catherine’s words ringing in his ears. “Unleash the monster.” They’d have to make sure he didn’t. “What then?”

  Rushworth’s fist tightened. “You must court her.”

  “What?”

  Placid-faced Rushworth looked no more pleased about it than Cayton felt. “I saw how she looked at you the other night. How she ran into your arms yesterday. She is wary of me, too wary—but you could gain her trust. Convince her to let you hide them better, if she knows she has them. Convince her to wear them again, if she doesn’t know. Once they’re out of the safe . . .”

  They would never, so long as Rushworth was in the area, come out of the safe again. The castle could crumble around it and that thing would remain impenetrable. The diamonds untouchable.

  Cayton shook his head. “No. She is a sweet girl, Rush, I won’t do that to her. And you can’t want me to do so—I saw how you looked at her too.”

  The fist went loose, his face slack. “And hopefully she will call on Kitty again, and I will have a chance to get to know her better. To convince her I am not what Brook and her brother have told her.”

  Except that he was. Just as Cayton was everything they would warn her against.

  “She will naturally contrast us. Pick a favorite. Trust the favorite.”

  Cayton shook his head again, more emphatically this time. “No. She’ll not trust either of us—for all the stories she’s heard about you, Brook has probably told her even more about me. About how I courted Lady Melissa and then tossed her over for Adelaide. The duchess despises me, and she’ll never let me be alone with her guest.”

  “Oh, but her guest wanders off so very frequently. Be there.” Leaning in just a little, Rushworth blinked. And suddenly his eyes were filled with all the things Cayton never wanted to see in them. Hatred. Greed. And a yawning black nothingness that looked ready to swallow the world. “Be there, Cayton. And I’ll be here, and between the two of us, we’ll get them from her.”

  “No.” He was probably sounding far too little like old Cayton. But he couldn’t help it. “And again, no. And what’s more, no. Besides which—how can you? Or do you simply want the diamonds more than you could ever want her?”

  Rushworth’s eyes, usually a placid blue-green, simmered. “In a perfect world, I’d h
ave both. She would fall in love with me, give me the diamonds, and then we’d run away together. I would give her the world, and she’d give me her heart. But I know well how imperfect this world is—and if I cannot have both, I will at least have one.”

  Cayton clenched his jaw until he felt the muscle twitch.

  Rushworth smirked. “We both know she would choose you over me at this point. But we also both know you can’t get close to a lady without hurting her. So you’ll hurt her. And perhaps . . . perhaps I’ll get to pick up the pieces.”

  Though it felt redundant, Cayton shook his head. Again. And knew he’d never be able to hide the tightness of his throat when he croaked out, “I won’t do it. I already have two broken hearts on my conscience, I cannot live with another.” Because Rushworth was right—he would hurt her. Of course he would. If he got close enough. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  Rushworth turned away, making a tsking sound like Cayton’s tutors used to do when he mangled a translation or equation. “Cayton, Cayton. I am disappointed in you. I thought you were made of sterner stuff than this.”

  His arm hurt. Cayton realized only then that he had been digging his fingers into his biceps. He didn’t bother loosening his grip. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Not as sorry as I. I hate to stoop to this, but you leave me little choice.” He turned again. The mask firmly secured over his eyes again. “You will do as I ask. If you’ll not do it for the fortune I would give you, then you will do it because I know the name of the hotel where your mother and Lady Abingdon are staying in France. You will do it because cars hurtle so easily off cliffs on those Riviera roads. You will do it”—he took a step nearer, eyes as unblinking as a snake’s—“because your daughter is still so young. And babes so easily stop breathing in their sleep.”

  Everything inside him—every single thing—turned to ice, slicked over with terror. “You wouldn’t.”

  But he would. He saw that he would, and it took every last ounce of control he had to keep from reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out the revolver that old Mr. Rosten had kept there, from aiming it at Rushworth’s chest, and from composing his excuse for the authorities: “He observed that babies die in their sleep.”

  Cayton would go to prison. Addie would be an orphan, raised on a trust and the charity of his cousin.

  His fingers bit harder into his arm.

  “Don’t force me to it, Cayton. I would rather not see another adorable little cherub succumb to the crib death.” He stepped closer, close enough that Cayton had little choice but to look into the dead depths of his eyes. “I’ll do what I must. And I’ll know if you don’t do what you must. Remember that—I have eyes everywhere.”

  He left. Just pivoted, unhurried, and took his usual calm, easy steps from the room.

  Cayton held himself utterly still until the footsteps retreated down the hall, until he heard a door open to the outside, until it closed again. Then he exploded. Out the door, down the hall, up the stairs, and into the nursery.

  Tabby surged from her chair when he burst into the room, her eyes wide. “Milord! What is it?”

  Addie slept. Just sleeping, perfectly at peace, as she always did. He could see from here that her side rose and fell, that her parted lips pretended to suck, even though her thumb had slipped out of her mouth. But it wasn’t enough. He had to lean over the side of the crib, set a light hand on her side, brush back that one dark curl that circled her ear.

  She was well and perfect and beautiful and happy. But she was fragile, so fragile. A wisp of a thing in this terrible, enormous world full of poisons and violent men who could speak of murder without even blinking.

  “Milord?”

  He traced Addie’s petal-soft cheek, and her sleeping lips grinned at him. Love surged so strong it nearly knocked him back a step. So many things he had done wrong in this life, but if ever he needed proof that God could forgive him, there it was. A gift beyond any other. He eased away and turned to face Tabby.

  Fear echoed the swell of love. “You mustn’t let her out of your sight, not unless she’s with me. Or Ella or Brook.” “I have eyes everywhere . . . I had someone search her room.” He swallowed. “Whether here or at Ralin.”

  Tabby nodded, but her brows had drawn in. “What is it, milord?”

  “I have found a few of the servants at Ralin Castle willing to feed me information.” That was his way, it seemed, as it had been Pratt’s. Buy off servants.

  Cayton forced a swallow. “I know she is not your babe. I know that your love for her cannot compare to the love for the child you had to leave behind to care for her.” He had wondered, at first, how she could even do it—leave her own daughter in the care of a sister before she was weaned so that she could nurse Addie. He had wondered, but he had been too numb with grief to really care. And too desperate. “But you are family, you and Evans. You know that, right?”

  He could see in her worried eyes that she wanted to question him more, but instead she nodded. “I know. We know. You’ve always been most kind, milord—caring for us and our mum, giving us so much time off when we’re in Yorkshire so we can visit her. Letting my husband work at Azerly. And this position will provide for my little Millie for years to come. Addie might not be my own, but she’s as close as she could be. I’d protect her at any cost, milord. I would.”

  Unless, perhaps, someone threatened her child, or her mum, or Evans, or the husband she hadn’t seen in a month—because of Cayton. He backed up a step, his blood too high to let him remain still for long. “If he comes to you—Lord Rushworth, or Lady Pratt, or anyone else. If they come to you and threaten you or try to bribe you, come to me immediately. Will you do that? Because I promise you that we will neutralize any threat, and their bribery isn’t worth much. It’s all based on what he might get if he steals something. If he sells it. But he won’t.”

  “Milord, I would never, never betray you!” Now just enough anger colored her tone that he believed her. “My mum raised me better than that.”

  “I know. I just . . . Addie.” He looked to the crib again, where their conversation hadn’t disturbed his daughter at all. “If anything happened to her, I would . . .”

  “I know.” And because she did, a bit of the terror eased back. “But it won’t happen. Not on my watch. You take care of this threat, milord. I’ll take care of her.”

  “I’d hate to lose another adorable little cherub to the crib death.” Cayton blinked, turned to the door. By another, had he meant . . . ? “Thank you, Tabby. Now I must . . .”

  He didn’t know what he must do, but it started with him flying from the room and ended with him at the door to Catherine’s, ready to bang upon it, though he hadn’t collected any words to toss at her.

  The door opened before his fist could connect with the wood. A maid stepped out, her scowl so fierce that it pushed Cayton back a step. He didn’t know her name and had never looked closely at her, though clearly she was Catherine’s lady’s maid.

  She hissed at him in an undertone laced heavily with . . . Russian? “Quiet! She spent the whole night sobbing after comforting Felicity and is only just now able to sleep!”

  From the looks of her, the maid hadn’t caught a wink either. Her dark curls were frazzled under her cap, blue eyes ringed with shadows, and she’d obviously lost all sense of manners.

  Manners were greatly overrated anyway. He drew her away a few steps with a hand on her elbow that may have been more insistent than he intended. “How long have you served her?”

  “Pardonnez-moi?”

  The French sounded French, like Brook and Stafford’s always did. But the English had definitely been Russian flavored. Cayton pitched his voice lower. “Were you there when her son died?”

  The maid’s face relaxed. She shook her head. “Just since Paris. I am not certain what became of her previous maid, but I was hired in Paris. A week ago.”

  He deflated, but only a moment. Perhaps it was better that she had no attachments to them.
“Do you know—or you can listen, pay attention. Rushworth just said something to me that made me think he . . . he may have had a hand in his nephew’s death.”

  Stated so baldly, it sounded impossible. Who would kill their own blood kin? The beloved son of his beloved sister?

  But the maid didn’t erupt with a quick denial of the possibility. She pressed her lips together and looked at something over his shoulder. “That would be . . . That would destroy her. Completely. How did the boy die?”

  “Crib death.”

  Her scowl returned, directed now at the wall rather than at him. “Are there drugs, do you know, that could . . . that could . . . What is the word? Imiter.”

  “Imitate—mimic.”

  She rolled her eyes. “A cognate, of course. Forgive me. I am not usually so . . . I have not slept.”

  “Understandable. And I don’t know . . . but I daresay there are. Drugs. There are drugs for everything these days, it seems. Opiates and narcotics and . . .” He waved a hand. His grandfather had labeled the lot of them either hokum or poison, which meant that Cayton had grown up without any exposure to even medicinal drugs. He’d never considered rebelling against it.

  The maid let out another hissing breath. “I will listen, da? To him. To her. What did he say?”

  Cayton repeated it, wondering how weak it sounded to this stranger’s ears, even though it contained a threat against his daughter.

  Apparently not so weak that she dismissed it. Her eyes darkened. “If it is true, if he did this thing . . . she will never forgive him. Never.”

  If it was true, if he did this thing . . . then Rushworth was more than a thief and a liar and a briber. He was a murderer. And none of them were safe from him. He rubbed at his eyes. “Listen, yes, please. But don’t ask any questions. Don’t . . . don’t put yourself in any danger. Any more than you’re in by mere proximity, I mean.”

  The maid nodded. At which point Cayton realized that she wasn’t just the maid.