A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

“Hence why it was so cryptic we had to spend half an hour deciphering it, I suppose. I believe the gist was that he had been unable to convince the constable to reopen the case, at first. He only just succeeded.”

  “How’d he manage it?”

  “They found the body of the valet they’d assumed to be the culprit—on Delmore land.”

  “Oh.” She buried her face in Addie’s curls to keep her expression hidden. There was simply no way to look happy when getting that news, and it was all she could do to keep the churning of her stomach from demonstrating itself. “That’s terrible. How did he die? Or do I not want to know?”

  His other hand settled over hers. Perhaps part of the game, except that he moved his thumb over her knuckles in a way too subtle to be seen from a window. A way meant to give comfort. “Whitby’s letter said ‘like that soup you served.’ We take that to mean ‘like Stew.’ Blow to the head, strangling.”

  She had to close her eyes, inhale through her nose, trust Cayton not to let her step in any ruts or puddles.

  Addie’s hands landed on her cheeks, caressed. “Lalala. La.”

  Ella pressed a kiss to the little one’s downy head and forced her eyes open again. “Thank you, sweetling. You always know just what I need.”

  “I’m sorry, Ella.” They reached the corner in the path, so Cayton led her around it. “I shouldn’t have told you so bluntly.”

  “The truth is blunt. I wouldn’t choose to be spared it though.”

  “Still, I could have been more delicate.”

  She gave the image a moment to fade, turning her face out toward the garden until it had. “How is the maid? Felicity?”

  Cayton moved his head from side to side. “Good moments and bad. She had already mourned his disappearance, so perhaps that will help. I don’t know. She’s trying to put on a cheerful face, anyway. She and Mrs. Higgins are planning a birthday celebration for Lareau on Friday.”

  “So I’ve heard. It’s kind of them to make her so welcome.”

  “Mm.” He sent her a smiling glance. So of course, she knew to expect harsher words. “Don’t get any ideas about showing up uninvited—you’d end up dancing with Rushworth.”

  “You know, I have my heart set on a novel Friday night, to distract me from Indian curses. Even the thought of bothering you can’t overcome that.” She could manage conversations with Rushworth without too much difficulty—but the two times he’d found occasion to take her hand or touch a hand to her back, she had nearly jumped away.

  How much blood was on those hands?

  “I thought bothering me was your life’s work.”

  “Work? Hardly.” She gave him her brightest grin. “It’s far too easy to call it that.”

  He chuckled. And even his eyes were smiling. “I really don’t like you, Lady Ella.”

  But he did, or he wouldn’t be trying so hard not to. “I feel exactly the same way, Lord Cayton.”

  “Good.” He faced forward again. “I think I’ll avoid the celebration too.”

  “Catherine said she will be there. Something about playing the piano for them so she can see if Lareau can dance as well as she walks.” Catherine had tried to sound snide when she said it, but it hadn’t quite come out that way. Suspicious, perhaps. But not snide. “She is quite friendly with Felicity, isn’t she? She mentioned her several times this week.”

  “Common ground, I suppose.”

  “Mm. Her brother disapproves. When she spoke of her, he smiled nearly as sweetly as you do when you’re about to insult me.”

  He reached down to pluck two snapdragons, handing one to Addie and tucking the other into Ella’s hair. “There we are. It clashes perfectly with that hair of yours.” He lowered his hand again. “As for Rush—I find that a bit odd. I would have thought he would just be happy she was up and about, taking an interest in something.”

  Cayton looked out toward the pastures, that crease between his brows. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind her taking a bit less of one with my household. When Tabby has Addie outside, Catherine usually ends up there too. I’m not sure what to think about that.”

  “She would never hurt Addie. Or any child.” Of that Ella was absolutely certain. Catherine spoke of children with too much aching, too much longing. “I think Rushworth is right about one thing—what she needs is a husband and more children.”

  Cayton snorted. “Good luck to her. As much a shrew as Kitty is—”

  “She is improving. But . . .” But she needed someone who understood what she’d suffered. Someone, perhaps, who already had children in need of a mother. Someone who knew how to keep her in check, who wouldn’t let her slide back into the nasty woman she’d once been, who would urge her onward in her metamorphosis.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  She blinked. And wished with all that was in her that she wasn’t looking at probably the only man in England who fit that description. “Drat.”

  “What?” His lips twitched, either at the thought of her finding something to complain about or at whatever expression was on her face.

  “You—that’s what.”

  “Me? I wasn’t aware that I had changed my name to Drat, but if you’d like me to answer to it, I suppose I can train myself.”

  She wanted to smile, but the sigh won out. “No. It’s you who is perfect for her. You have a child, you understand her, you know her. You can make certain she doesn’t slide back down into the woman she used to be.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He pulled her behind a large bush, flowering and leafy enough to block the view from the house. No amusement lurked behind his scowl now. “Now you’re actually going to make me cross. Do you honestly think for even a moment that I would let that woman raise my child? Having a hand in all she has?”

  Addie was reaching for a flower, the scene so picture-perfect that it wouldn’t surprise Ella to find Cayton painted her just this way—except he’d have to leave Ella out. He wouldn’t want her spoiling the image of his daughter. “I know what she was. I do. But can’t you see how she’s changing?”

  “What I see is that she’s an absolute wreck, and that though she may have put off some of her most objectionable pastimes, she is still no more what I would want in a wife than . . . than Brook is.”

  But she could see it. The symmetry of it—the newly changed man helping the woman to complete her change as well. It would be the perfect romance. If only it didn’t involve the man she was pretty certain she loved and a woman she didn’t quite like. “But she needs you.” It sounded like a miserable statement, even to her own ears.

  It must have sounded even worse to his. He straightened, sneered, and tugged his jacket back into place. “The only man she needs right now is the Lord—and thus far she won’t listen to a word I say about Him.”

  “You’ve been talking to her of Jesus?” He really was perfect for her!

  “Ella! You’re missing the point. And why you’re missing it is utterly befuddling. Are we not friends? Do you honestly want one of your friends wedding a criminal? Bringing the consequences sure to come down on Addie’s head?”

  Friends. That grounded her, brought her thoughts back into line. She shook her head and held Addie close. “Of course not. Sorry. Sometimes the ideas sweep me away, independent of the people they actually involve.”

  “Good.” He smoothed a hand over Addie’s hair, touched Ella’s shoulder briefly, and then stepped from behind the bush. “If I ever hear you make such a suggestion again, I’m going to paint a picture of you with the most garish red hair ever seen in the world.”

  Ella laughed and followed him out, slipping her arm around his again. “Try it . . . and I’ll kiss you in front of Brook.”

  He winced and led her on.

  Twenty

  The music bounced and reeled. Kira had found an ancient tambourine in a little oddities shop in the village, and she shook it as she spun, as she twirled, as she laughed her way around the ballroom that Lord Cayton had granted them for th
e evening. A fiddle player had come from Ralin Castle, along with a few of the other servants. The room was full. Pulsing. Loud.

  So beautifully loud that the music swelled her very veins, the clapping matched her pulse. The tune was Irish, they’d said, something the duchess’s lady’s maid had requested. She and her husband—the duke’s valet—were leading the dance in the center of the floor, though others had joined in.

  Kira didn’t know half the faces, nor a quarter of the names. But she didn’t care. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a room so full of life and noise and sweat and laughter and . . . and joy.

  The music was Irish, but she could hear the familiar in it—the peasant dance. The one all rhythm and light rather than finesse and skill. She hadn’t known she’d missed it so much.

  Hands caught her about the waist, spun her around, and she laughed and spun with him, shaking her tambourine.

  Her knee didn’t hurt a bit.

  The tune came to a jaunty cadence and then a quick halt. The fiddler let out a hoot and demanded a cup of water, waving a hand at the piano.

  Lady Pratt slid onto the bench. Kira sucked in a breath and leaned against the wall. She hadn’t realized her mistress was still here. When the fiddler had shown up, Catherine had deferred to him, had slid back. Kira had lost sight of her. Or perhaps had just wanted to think that she’d left, and so had granted herself permission to think so.

  It was her birthday, after all. She was twenty-one years old. She hadn’t seen Russia in three years, her family in five. She had taken the stage in St. Petersburg, in Paris, in Monte Carlo. She had collected admirers like they were stamps. She had won the wealthiest patron in all of Europe.

  Lady Pratt struck up a less energetic song, though it wasn’t somber by any means. Dorsey—it had been Dorsey to spin her around, of course—held out a hand. “Waltz with me, beautiful.”

  She smiled her reply, set down her tambourine, and let him pull her onto the dance floor, pull her in front of him, pull her too close. Why not? It was her birthday, and he was a handsome young man with that perfect wave of fair brown hair and dreams as big as her own had been.

  The waltz came easily to her feet, her legs, her spine. The music filled her ears. She didn’t have to think about it, to concentrate on stretching her leg out fully, landing on the exact beat, making sure her hand extended in time with the flourish. She could just dance and smile and enjoy the fact that the handsome man was smiling back.

  “I believe this is the first I’ve seen you without a cap.” Dorsey’s gaze stroked her dark curls, warm and approving. “And in a dress with some color. You’re even lovelier than I thought, Sophie—and that’s saying something.”

  She laughed, letting her head fall back with it. She had missed styling her hair as she pleased. Missed having eyes turn her way when she entered a room. Missed wearing color. This dress was the least of the ones she’d owned, the only one she dared bring with her—but it was pretty. Blue, to match her eyes. “I am still not going to Africa with you, Dorsey.”

  “How about someplace closer, then? We could slip out to the carriage house. I could give you your birthday present.”

  More laughter bubbled up. He could have been any one of the village boys from back home, had he been speaking Russian instead of English. “Would that gift involve your lips on mine?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Maybe.”

  She tilted her head. “Maybe.” She shouldn’t lead him on, she knew that. He wasn’t Andrei, to chase her for a year. To know the game. But then . . . he wasn’t Andrei, to look at her as though she were just another piece of art in his collection. Perhaps she would kiss him. Just once. For her birthday.

  No, it wasn’t worth the risk. She was still, for now, one of Andrei’s possessions. She wouldn’t betray him. Even in so small a way.

  Dorsey grinned. “Does it require that much thought?”

  “Da. Unfortunately. Nothing is ever simple.”

  “Don’t know why not.” He leaned closer, his chuckle rumbling up her arms, down her spine. “I’ll be on my best behavior—I promise. Just a kiss. Happy returns and all that.”

  She laughed too. And considered it again, which she shouldn’t have done. She knew that. But really, she was Andrei’s spy here—he wouldn’t have anyone else spying on her. And if by some chance he did learn of it, she could claim it was all in the name of prying information from Rushworth’s valet, couldn’t she?

  He traced a little circle on her back as the song came to an end. “Meet me in ten minutes?”

  “Maybe.” She couldn’t promise more than that. But given his smile, he had no problem seeing in her eyes that she intended to make excuses for herself until she ended up outside.

  Just a kiss. It was no great thing.

  The fiddler was back, but before Kira could take up her tambourine again, Felicity grabbed her hand and pulled her to the side of the room where chairs were set up. “I got you some lemonade. You must be parched.”

  “Oh.” She was, though she hadn’t paused to realize it. “Spasibo.” She sat and accepted the cup.

  Felicity grinned and rested a hand on her belly. “You’re having a good time, I can tell. I’m so glad. And you look so beautiful!”

  “Spasibo,” she said again, smoothing a hand over the silk. Not high quality, but silk. Her skin had missed it.

  Felicity touched a finger to the pale blue lace that edged the overlayer. “Wherever did you find such a lovely dress?”

  “Paris. I had saved and saved until I could afford the material. A friend of mind did the stitching—I was never much with a needle.”

  “Well. Dorsey certainly seems to admire you in it.” She grinned, eyes bright. “That’s how Stew looked at me, when we met. Not that you’d know it now, but I was pretty.” Her grin faded as she pressed a hand to her swollen cheeks.

  Her eyes were still bright, but not joyfully bright, not healthily bright. Bright with a pain that pinched her face for a second before she cleared it again.

  Kira grasped her hand, her delight with the evening seeping out. “You are pretty still, Felicity. I know Stew would think so too.”

  “Oh.” She chuckled, waved off the comment. Swiped a hand over her forehead as if ridding it of a stray hair or bead of perspiration—but she pressed on her temple.

  The lemonade refused to settle in Kira’s stomach. “Have you a headache?” Again, she wanted to add.

  “Just the heat, I think. The noise. I’ll step outside in a minute and be right as rain, I’m sure.”

  “Do not push yourself too hard, mon amie. If you need to rest, then do. For the sake of the baby.”

  Felicity nodded and let the mask fade again for a moment. “I am rather taxed. And dinner did not settle well.”

  “I will walk you. I could use a breath of fresh air myself.” She looked out at the crowd of near-strangers who had looked like neighbors just a few minutes ago. “They will not miss me for a few minutes.”

  They made their way through the crowd, into the hall—quieter and cooler by far—and toward their shared room. Felicity loosed a sigh. “Well, you do indeed dance every bit as well as I thought you would. Where did you learn? I could never move like that, even when I was a great deal lighter on my feet.” Smiling, she cradled her extra weight.

  Kira’s smile hesitated. “I . . . I have always loved dancing. Much of it came naturally. I studied the rest.”

  “I can’t imagine any famous ballerina having more grace.”

  A few came close. These days, some probably surpassed her. “I hear the duchess dances.”

  “Oh, beautifully! Nearly as well as you.” Felicity bumped their arms together. “I’ve managed to peek in a time or two, at local balls. Did you know she trained for a while with that Russian company? In Monaco?”

  “Lord Rushworth mentioned it. The Ballet Russe.” Her tongue savored the syllables she hadn’t said in far too long.

  Felicity nodded. “That’s the one. I should like to see a
ballet someday. Perhaps I’ll save up enough to catch a show in Gloucester.”

  “Let me know when—I will join you.” A happy, completely unrealistic thought, given that Kira had no intention of staying in England. But she would dream. It was her birthday, and she would dream of being free enough to pick up and travel to another country just to catch a show with a friend. Perhaps that was the life that awaited her. Perhaps Andrei would be that generous with his parting gift.

  Felicity rubbed at her ribs and swayed a bit.

  Kira steadied her. “Are you all right?”

  “Just tired. My eyes are blurry—time for bed, I suppose.”

  No. Nyet, nyet, nyet. Kira opened the door into their room and helped Felicity to her narrow bed. “Felicity . . . have you seen the midwife recently? Or a doctor?”

  Felicity screwed up her face. “Not since you came. They’ll only tell me that the babe will be here soon, which I know well enough. Another fortnight? Maybe three weeks?”

  “I think . . .” Kira swallowed and leaned down to light the lamp. “I think you need to see the doctor.”

  “Oh, Sophie, I haven’t the money for that. You know all they do anyway. You can do whatever needs done.”

  But she didn’t. And she couldn’t. She shook her head. “I left home when I was sixteen. My mother died two years before that. It has been seven years since I helped with anything, and I . . .” I fear for you. But who was she to say so, after admitting to being so long out of practice? When she couldn’t even remember the name of the ailment she feared, just the symptoms?

  Felicity settled on her bed. “How did your mother pass?”

  “On her childbed. The bleeding would not stop, no matter what we did.” She perched on the edge of her friend’s mattress and pressed her hand to her forehead. No fever. “Have the midwife come by, at least. She will know better than me why you are having such headaches. Mention the blurry eyes. The pain in your ribs.”

  “Sophie. You’re overreacting. I’m pregnant. It’s uncomfortable business.”

  Kira. Today, of all days, she just wanted someone to call her Kira. She smoothed away Felicity’s hair from her face. “You are my friend. I worry.”