Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  Hunt shrugged. “I can only tell you what Sir Alexander repeated to me. The men we apprehended speak of the ‘viscount,’ and Newsome made it known at several of the clubs that he means to see me brought low. Sir Alexander and others in the know thought Newsome’s boring tales of his dogs is a pretext for his involvement in a greater plan, but the baronet informed me today that no connections lead back to the viscount.”

  “What does ‘brought low’ mean?” his father demanded.

  Hunt leaned forward in an attempt to order his thinking. “This is all so hard to keep straight for I no longer possess direct knowledge of the events. Remmington tells me I hold several of Newsome’s vowels, and the viscount has hinted that I cheated to win.”

  “I will drive the man from my house!” his father insisted. “No one speaks of my son as such. What bit of Bedlam possessed the duchess to include the man among her guests?”

  “Sir Alexander suggested it might be best to keep Newsome close so as to monitor the man’s actions,” Hunt pressed. “However, such did not prove advantageous.”

  “Could this mystery be related to your stint upon the Continent?” his father inquired. “Perhaps you unknowingly stumbled upon those financing the smuggling trade or something more sinister.”

  “I doubt it. More than eight years has passed since my incarceration. From what Sir Alexander shared with me regarding my involvement with the Home Office, I am employed only to discover information. I sit in a public house and eavesdrop on the conversations going on around me. Without knowing it, I evidently overheard something I should not have and then was recognized somehow, but until I recover my memory, we are working without a base. The information I previously shared with Sir Alexander has not brought his attention, so whatever I know, which has set these events in motion, I did not recognize it for its importance. It grieves me greatly that I brought my misfortunes to your door, sir. I meant to shield the family from this danger.”

  “Nonsense!” his father declared. “We McLaughlins have been fierce fighters since we lived in the Highlands. No one frightens us from our duties.”

  * * *

  Hunt made a point to be present in his mother’s drawing room for the afternoon tea. After sharing with the duke all he knew of Sir Alexander’s investigation and of the reasons Lord Newsome was a suspect, Hunt had spent time with Harry and Etta, assuring his siblings in the calmest composure he could muster that their mother knew only a minor injury.

  How his mother rallied her spirits to oversee the afternoon’s entertainments brought pride to Hunt’s heart. Other women of the ton would use their wounds as an excuse for poor manners.

  Just as the last of his mother’s guests arrived to partake of the refreshments, a footman showed the Sandahls into the duchess’s largest drawing room. Sandahl made short the distance to where the duchess entertained several of her long-time acquaintances. Hunt noticed how Lovelace, Lady Gunnimore, and Angelica stiffened with Sandahl’s entrance. The trio, flanked by Remmington and Sir Alexander conversed quietly before the empty hearth.

  “Duchess.” Sandahl bowed low before Hunt’s mother. “Please forgive my road dust. My family and I only this minute arrived, and I thought it best we make our presence known rather than to arrive late for your festivities.”

  His mother nodded aristocratically. “Thank you for your consideration, Lord Sandahl,” the duchess repeated in what sounded of practiced amiability. “We did not know the hour of your arrival or we would have waited for your appearance.”

  “It is of no offense, Duchess. The countess’s health remains questionable, which delayed our return.” Sandahl shot a look of disgust in his wife’s direction.

  “Please.” Hunt’s mother gestured to where Mr. Strasser poured tea from the teacart. “You and your family should enjoy the refreshments before you seek your quarters. I am certain my other guests will understand, and I know you must be famished.”

  Sandahl glanced to where his wife and daughter waited to make their curtsies. “I fear my countess remains unwell. I would imagine my lady will forego the refreshments, but Lady Mathild and I will enjoy the additional company.” He looked to Hunt. “We are pleased to see Malvern continues to heal from his injuries. Are we not, Mathild?”

  The girl blushed, but she responded as expected. “Yes, Father.”

  The duchess diplomatically ignored the earl’s insinuation. “Enjoy yourself, Lord Sandahl. Supper will be served at the customary hour.”

  “Thank you, Duchess.” Sandahl bowed again before stepping aside to permit his countess, who appeared pale and uncomfortable, and Lady Mathild a brief recognition by the duchess. Hunt split his observations between Sandahl’s too genial presence and the quiet conversation of the Lovelace party. Despite his oath to stay away from Miss Lovelace, Hunt remained prepared to step in if Sandahl created a scene.

  Sandahl steered his daughter’s steps in Hunt’s direction, and he shrugged internally in anticipation of the earl’s continued manipulations. Mr. Mangan would be sleeping in Hunt’s dressing room again.

  “Lord Malvern.” Sandahl bowed. “I was just telling the duchess how fine you appear. You are healing well, sir?”

  “I am, Sandahl. I appreciate your concern.” Hunt made himself speak to the girl. “I pray your journey was without incident, my lady?’

  The girl attempted to smooth the wrinkles from her traveling frock. “It was, my lord. I apologize for my unkempt appearance. I meant no offense. Our arrival was only moments prior.”

  Hunt attempted to soothe the girl’s embarrassed awkwardness. “You always carry yourself well, my lady. Do not fret. Neither my mother’s guests nor I will think poorly of you.” He glanced toward the door where Lady Sandahl made her exit. “I understand your mother remains unwell.”

  “The countess’s health continues to baffle both my father and me. She never knows complaints. My father sought a physician’s opinion while we were in Oxford, but the man could shed no light upon what ails the countess.”

  Hunt accepted her excuses in a discomforted silence. “Perhaps the countess requires a bit more rest,” he offered, at length. “Now that you have returned to Devil’s Keep, your mother may take her time in healing. I assume Lord Sandahl has no more pressing business to take your family upon the road again.”

  “I do not, my lord,” Sandahl assured. “Mathild and I look forward to the duchess’s entertainments. A relaxing holiday is long over—”

  Hunt knew the exact moment Sandahl’s eyes discovered his brother among the drawing room’s guests.

  “What the devil?” the earl growled. “What is he doing here?’

  Lady Mathild’s expression puckered in concern. She scanned the room, attempting to identify the object of her father’s disdain. “Who?” she asked, sounding like an owl staring into the night.

  Hunt kept the bemusement from his lips, enjoying the moment more than he should. “I believe Lord Sandahl refers to his brother, Mr. Lovelace.”

  “Mr. Lovelace?” Lady Mathild appeared more confused. “I thought Uncle Cadon passed when I was but in the nursery.”

  While Sandahl simply glared in Lovelace’s direction, Hunt responded, “It is your father’s younger brother from America. Mr. Lovelace is the special friend of the Countess of Gunnimore and several others of the duchess’s acquaintances. Surely you realized Miss Lovelace bears the same family name as you, Lady Mathild. You are first cousins.”

  “No, she is not!” Sandahl declared in a voice too loud for polite conversation. “Cadon Lovelace was my only brother!”

  Hunt smiled knowingly, thinking to rub Lord Sandahl a bit rawer, but he knew instant alertness when he looked up to see Horace Lovelace’s approach. Angelica’s father bowed to Sandahl.

  “It is good to see you again, Carpenter,” Lovelace said amiably. “It has been too long.”

  “Not long enough!” Sandahl hissed through tight lips. “It will only be long enough when I view you in your grave!”

  A gasp brought silence
to the room, and Hunt’s eyes found the source of the commotion. His father, wearing a menacing scowl, stepped behind Sandahl. “I will thank you, my lord, for using a civilized tone in my duchess’s drawing room,” the duke uttered in chilling accents.

  Sandahl fumed, but a quick scan of the room told the earl Horace Lovelace possessed powerful allies: Remmington, Sir Alexander, Mr. Connell, Lord Cuthbert, Cuthbert’s father Lord Watkinson, and the Earl of McIntyre flanked the gathering.

  “Certainly, Duke,” Sandahl said through a fake smile. “I meant no offense.”

  “Mr. Lovelace and his daughter are honored guests,” Devilfoard spoke loud enough for the room to hear. “Only this afternoon, Miss Lovelace acted magnanimously in saving my duchess and the Countess of Gunnimore from a foolhardy hunter’s misfire. I assume, Sandahl, you will place aside your animosities of more than two decades for the sake of the duchess’s entertainments.”

  His father’s imposing figure filled the room, and Hunt wondered, not for the first time since he returned to Devil’s Keep, how he would ever achieve even half of his father’s legacy.

  Sandahl pulled himself up to his full height. “I know my place, Devilfoard,” the earl said with indignation. The man did not enjoy being singled out. “Devil’s Keep is large enough for Mr. Lovelace and me to conduct ourselves as gentlemen.” He turned to his daughter. “Come along, Mathild. We should freshen our clothing for the evening’s festivities.” With a bow to the duke, Sandahl escorted the girl from the room.

  “At least, no one demanded satisfaction,” Harry said with a nervous twinge.

  “Not yet,” Lovelace said, as he watched his brother’s exit. “However, if I know Carpenter, this reunion is not over.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Did you notice Newsome was not present in the duchess’s drawing room earlier?” Sir Alexander asked as they waited for the other guests to gather for the evening meal.

  Hunt arrived early to assure that Lord Sandahl’s obvious temper had not festered since afternoon tea. He glanced up as Angelica entered the room on Mr. Connell’s arm, followed closely by Lovelace and Lady Gunnimore.

  He admired how she managed a semblance of her customary composure. Angelica’s party sought several of the countess’s acquaintances as company. “In truth, I barely noticed anyone beyond those of the Sandahls’ affair.”

  “Once Sandahl made his exit, I thought to seek Newsome’s whereabouts,” the baronet explained. “I called Mr. Strasser to the side to make a few discreet inquiries just as the viscount made his entrance from the back of the house. Dust and grass covered his boots, and the elbow of his jacket sported a tear. When I asked what occurred, Newsome claimed he had taken two of the duke’s hounds out for some exercise and lost his footing on the downhill approach to the tarn.”

  “But you do not believe his lordship’s tale?”

  In a façade of simple congeniality, Sir Alexander nodded to Lord and Lady Cuthbert as they entered. “The viscount wore a reddish-brown waistcoat. Just as Miss Lovelace described.” He paused before adding, “I am experiencing second thoughts regarding Newsome’s innocence.”

  “Surely, the viscount would not attempt mischief while acting as a guest of my parents?” Although Hunt wished to solve the puzzle surrounding his memory loss and the invasion of his family’s privacy, he could not imagine anyone to be so bold.

  “I thought you should know so you might be more vigilant,” Sir Alexander acknowledged.

  Hunt wished he could concentrate on the possibility of Lord Newsome’s seeking some sort of convoluted revenge, but at that very moment, Angelica’s sweet laugh reached where he stood. The enticing sound called to him. Yet, before he could follow his instincts, Newsome entered, drink in hand. The viscount swayed in place, as if he had imbibed heavily.

  “Ah, Lady Cuthbert,” Newsome said a bit too loudly. “We are to be tablemates.”

  “I do not think so,” Cuthbert insisted. “I will not have my lady exposed to boorish behavior.” Cuthbert placed his wife from Newsome’s reach. “Perhaps you should ask for a tray and return to your quarters to sleep it off.”

  From behind Hunt, Strasser announced, “Supper is served. The duke and duchess await you in the dining room.”

  Hunt glanced at Etta, who shrugged her confusion. He feared something was amiss. A break in protocol was not the custom at the Devil’s Keep. His parents always led their guests into supper. Before someone else could claim her company, he placed his sister upon his arm.

  “I require intelligent conversation,” he announced as he kissed his twin’s knuckles.

  “You avoid both Lady Mathild and Miss Lovelace,” Etta whispered on a taunt.

  Hunt’s smile widened. “Likely so.”

  They entered the room to discover his mother seated to the duke’s right rather than at the foot of the table.

  “The duchess and I decided not to know formality this evening. Sit where you wish. Good conversation and comfortable company is upon the menu this evening,” the duke announced.

  “Which means, after the earlier incident and the arrival of the Sandahls, mother had no time this afternoon to make the necessary alterations in her seating arrangements,” Etta whispered from the corner of her mouth.

  “At least it is nothing more sinister,” Hunt said without thinking to guard his words.

  “Such as?” Etta asked suspiciously.

  With a grimace, Hunt realized he misspoken. “Nothing of note,” he assured her. “I suppose I am still shaken from the afternoon’s uproar.”

  He chose seats for him and Henrietta at mid table, thinking his parents would wish their children to assume the roles of host and hostess. Angelica and Mr. Connell joined the Cuthberts and several other young couples. Hunt knew relief at not finding her upon Lord Remmington’s arm. He doubted Angelica’s keeping company with Connell meant anything more than her being cordial to Lady Gunnimore’s son, and he found comfort in that particular conclusion.

  As if to take control of an ill situation, the Earl of McIntyre and Lord Watkinson directed Newsome’s steps toward the table’s end, and the earl ordered coffee for the viscount. Lord Sandahl and Lady Mathild arrived last. They bowed to the duke and duchess before seeking their places.

  “Sit anywhere. His Grace decreed this evening’s seating open,” Lady Falonwick instructed.

  Hunt noted Sandahl’s scowl of disapproval, but the earl apparently controlled his expression and replaced it with one of a genial smile. As few seats remained open, Sandahl seated his daughter beside one of Harry’s university friends before assuming one of the empty chairs on the other side of Watkinson. As if he wished to avoid Newsome and the two lords, the earl left an empty chair between him and the trio. That particular chair should be Lady Sandahl’s, but the countess remained noticeably absent.

  Etta spoke to the frazzled expression crossing Sandahl’s features. The man appeared flustered by the change in propriety. “Is your lady still indisposed, Lord Sandahl?”

  Sandahl placed his serviette upon his lap. “I fear so, Lady Stoke. I meant to make my wife’s excuses to the duchess, but I suppose they can wait until after supper.”

  “I am certain the duchess will understand,” Etta assured him.

  Hunt breathed a bit easier to observe Mr. Lovelace and Lady Gunnimore at the other end of the table from Lord Sandahl. Everything began well, his father’s servants delivered the white soup. Yet, the drama, which had marked the day, would not know an easy death.

  By the third course, Lady Arcane, who sat to his left, appeared a bit pale.

  “Are you unwell, my lady?” Hunt whispered.

  The girl shot a glance about the table before denying his concern. “No, my lord.”

  He noticed the girl looked a second time upon her mother, Lady Falonwick. Her ladyship smiled, and Hunt wondered if Lady Arcane meant to place her bonnet in the ring for his attentions. Intuitively, Hunt turned to his sister, distancing himself from the girl.

  If circumstances f
orced him to choose a bride, he would act selfishly and claim Miss Lovelace. A few minutes passed before the circumstances changed.

  “My lord,” Lady Arcane tugged upon his sleeve. Color rushed to the girl’s cheeks, but even so, she appeared quite pale. She whispered, “I spoke an untruth earlier. I feel most decidedly unwell.” She held her serviette to her lips.

  For several seconds, Hunt considered whether the girl practiced a ploy. “I will ask one of the other ladies to escort you from the table,” he offered.

  The girl blinked rapidly, tears forming in her eyes. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Hunt’s eyes rose to meet Angelica’s quizzical gaze. He could have asked Etta, but his sister’s condition did not speak well to assisting others. Henrietta’s steps were often wobbly at best. His decision made, he held Miss Lovelace’s gaze and nodded in the direction of Lady Arcane. As if he spoke his request, Miss Lovelace’s eyes followed his. Immediately, she was on her feet to circle the table. Several gentlemen rose to acknowledge her exit.

  She bent to speak privately to the girl beside him. “Permit me to assist you, Lady Arcane. You appear quite pale.”

  The girl nodded her agreement as Angelica caught her elbow. Hunt rose to assist the girl to her feet. “I will have Lady Arcane’s maid summoned,” he explained.

  Angelica guided the girl’s tentative steps. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Arcane?” Lady Falonwick rushed to her daughter’s side.

  “It is nothing, Mother,” the girl said weakly.

  “It is something,” her ladyship declared. “You are never ill.”

  “Permit me to send for Mr. Roddick?” Hunt suggested.

  He wished Lady Falonwick had permitted her daughter a quiet exit.

  “That would be wise, my lord.” Lady Falonwick’s response overrode the denial upon her daughter’s lips.

  Hoping to bring order to the scene, Hunt followed the trio into the hall. He closed the door behind him, but before he could speak to Strasser about the need for a physician, Lady Arcane caught at one of the duchess’s decorative urns and emptied her stomach several times while her mother wailed in disbelief.