To Lure a Proper Lady

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  He ought to thank God for the maid wedged in next to Lady Elizabeth on the seat across from him, arms folded. The woman clearly hadn’t forgiven or forgotten his cheek the previous day. If nothing else, her glare of silent judgment would keep him in line.

  “Shouldn’t we get our story straight?” Lady Elizabeth’s question broke in on his musings, but the interruption was hardly a welcome one.

  He inserted his finger into his collar and tugged. He hadn’t worn a cravat in months, and the thing suffocated him like a bloody noose. “Leave that to me.”

  “But what shall I tell people? In a day or two, the guests will start arriving.”

  Right. The damned house party. The last society event he’d attended was a masquerade. Much easier to pass unnoticed with half your face covered. This event would be trickier, especially if she’d invited any sort of social sticklers who were likely to go running to Debrett’s the moment they heard an accent that didn’t meet with their general approval. “I c’n be anyone ye need me t’ be.”

  “I don’t need that.” She eyed him up and down. “It doesn’t go with your dress.”

  No, he’d donned what passed for his fashionable togs for this job. He wiggled his toes inside his Hessians. The damned things pinched. “Suppose I can pass as Lord Dysart.”

  “And your connections are?” Naturally, one of her position would ask. She, along with most of her guests, would realize no such title existed.

  “Dinna fash, lassie. I be Lord Angus Alistair Dysart, fresh from Aberdeen, out of favor with my father, the Earl of Urquart, for being overly fond of a wee dram. So he’s punished me by sending me to terrorize the Sassenachs.”

  “That may be overdoing things rather much.”

  Smoothly he slipped into a different role. “Faith, I can be Irish if ye prefer. Top o’ the day to ye.”

  Lady Elizabeth’s brows disappeared beneath the brim of her bonnet. “That’s quite a talent you have.”

  “Trust me, you haven’t seen all my talents.”

  The words popped out before he could stop them, flirtatious and highly inappropriate. Such a line ought to be reserved for the serving wenches at the Cock and Bull, not duke’s daughters. Not now, not where his life had led him.

  The maid stiffened, on edge. Ready to intervene.

  The tiny muscles about Lady Elizabeth’s eyes tightened. “Which is your true voice, I wonder?”

  God help him, she’d already heard it, but he’d be damned if he’d tell her which one. “They all are. They each have their uses in my line of work.”

  The carriage slowed and turned a corner.

  “Decide on a name, quickly. We’re coming to the first rest stop.”

  “I doubt we’ll have to make introductions or explain ourselves.” Especially not if he remained in the carriage. “Trust me. I can talk my way out of anything.”

  She paused in the midst of alighting. Her swishing skirts hinted at tempting curves beneath. Damn, but he didn’t need that image burned into his brain. “Can you?”

  He returned her gaze. “Yes. I can.”

  When the carriage door closed behind her, he settled himself more comfortably against the squabs and tipped his hat over his eyes. The journey might pass more agreeably if he feigned a nap. The act would definitely guard against wayward thoughts.

  Hours later, voices roused him. “We’ve nearly arrived.”

  Ah, so the maid did possess the ability to speak.

  Dysart straightened, raised his hat, and looked out the window. They were trundling down a long drive flanked by rows of trees, like a line of palace guards, or perhaps the bars of a prison. Beyond the silent sentinels, swards of precisely trimmed grass spread into the distance.

  The carriage turned, and the trees gave way. Here, the drive circled about a pond edged with flowerbeds. Colorful blooms danced in the early evening breeze. The level rays of the setting sun shone on the curving scales of a giant marble fish in the midst of the water, a spout of white foam jetting from its mouth.

  “Cor.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lady Elizabeth, naturally. The maid wouldn’t deign to address him.

  “Nothing.” For some reason, Dysart couldn’t take his eyes off that marble fish. Ridiculous thing.

  “But we haven’t settled anything,” she protested.

  “I told you before, trust me. As for my name, just follow my lead.”

  Though the fish faded from view, they still weren’t quite to the house. As soon as he caught a glimpse of the monstrosity, he wished he hadn’t. Three stories; four if he counted the bloody turrets. Two of those, one at either end, topped with a filigree of cunning stonework. Diamond-paned windows peeked between stone mullions to reflect golden sunlight. High chimneys grouped at intervals along the gray roofline made of the same red brick as the house itself. None of it crumbling, even though this pile must have stood since Tudor times.

  Broad steps led to a flower-edged terrace in front of the pond. Another carriage waited before the front door. A man stood beside the conveyance, watching their progress from beneath the shelter of a tall beaver hat. The wind stirred the points of his lapels.

  “I thought you said the guests wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow,” Dysart said.

  “What?”

  He nodded at the view. “See for yourself.”

  She swiveled her head to catch a glimpse. “Oh, good heavens. Snowley’s here already.”

  —

  Of all the rotten luck. Lizzie had hoped for a day’s reprieve at least, during which she might explain Dysart to her sisters and convince them to play along with her and Dysart’s little charade—whatever it ended up being. She’d hoped to pass him off as another guest, the better for him to carry out his investigation. She’d known Snowley would look askance on this newcomer, but with a modicum of preparation, her sisters might have backed her claims.

  Now she must plunge ahead, ready or not.

  She stole a glance at Dysart. He was staring out the window, turning all that intriguing intensity on Snowley’s carriage, as though it might give up its secrets under sheer force of will.

  “So it begins,” he muttered.

  “But what…How do we explain you?”

  Dysart turned to face her, teeth bared. She supposed the expression was meant to be a smile, but it resembled a wolf’s leer more than anything. Eager and animal. Ready for the hunt.

  “Follow my lead,” he said again.

  She had no choice there. They’d rumbled to a halt on the pea gravel drive, and her footman, the very definition of efficiency—blast the man—let down the steps. When the door opened, Snowley himself stood ready to hand her down.

  “Cousin Lizzie, isn’t this—” His smile faded. He’d caught sight of Dysart. “And who have we here?”

  Dysart burst from his seat, caught Snowley’s hand, and pumped. “Angus Alistair Dysart, late of Aberdeen.”

  Lizzie suppressed an urge to slap her palm over her face. At least Dysart had toned down his Scottish burr. Somewhat.

  Snowley raised light brown brows, shaking out his hand before helping Lizzie alight. She ducked out of the way, just in time to avoid the pair of lips descending toward her cheek. Beyond her cousin, Dysart snapped to attention. Somehow Lizzie felt the movement like the crackle of electricity on dry winter air.

  Snowley eyed the man, as well. “And how is it you’ve made my cousin’s acquaintance?”

  “Dysart is having you over,” Lizzie intervened. Follow his lead, indeed. “He does enjoy a joke now and again. He’s the son of an old family friend.”

  “Is that a fact?” Snowley drew the question out. “How is it that I’ve never heard of you before? Or anyone named Dysart, for that matter?”

  “His mother and Mama were friends at school,” Lizzie replied.

  “I wrote to the duke ages ago,” Dysart put in, thankfully adopting a more believable accent. “We’ve been keeping up a lively correspondence. His grace saw fit to invite me to this little gathering in h
opes we might meet face-to-face.”

  “Indeed.” Snowley rubbed at his chin. “And yet you have no conveyance of your own?”

  “That was a stroke of pure luck, my good man.” The lightness in Dysart’s tone contrasted with the hard glint in his eye. He clapped Snowley on the shoulder. “I was on my way here when my coach broke down. Lady Elizabeth happened along just in time to rescue me. She insisted on seeing me to shelter, as it were.” He threw out an all-encompassing arm. “And what a shelter it is.”

  Snowley caught her gaze. “Lizzie?”

  She gave him a tight smile. “It’s just as he says. I could hardly leave him stranded. And what are you doing here, when the other guests aren’t set to arrive until tomorrow?”

  Not only that, he was clearly just leaving. Had Snowley hoped to make his escape before she came home?

  “I had some business to discuss with the duke.” He brushed an invisible speck of dust from the front of his topcoat before staring at her straight on.

  “What sort of business?” Although she could guess, given the way he was looking at her. In another moment or two, he’d be salivating.

  “Now, now.” He waved a finger in front of her nose like a peevish governess reminding her not to breach some minor point of etiquette. “That’s a secret, but you’ll find out soon enough. Besides, I’ve heard he’s been feeling poorly of late. More so than usual, that is.”

  A prickle of alarm raised the hairs on the back of Lizzie’s neck. What had Dysart said about this man? He had motive, yes. And perhaps opportunity. Had he stopped in to ensure his plans were working? “Who told you Papa’s been unwell?”

  She had to credit herself for keeping her tone light. And not looking at Dysart.

  “Oh, you know.” Once more he brushed his hands down his front. “Word gets out. You know how servants gossip.”

  “And how is Papa? I had to run to Town over some last-minute party details. I do hope nothing’s happened in my absence.” Somehow she managed to force her reply past the rapidly forming knot in her throat. That last thing she’d wanted to do was leave Papa while he was feeling poorly to attend to business, but she’d had little choice. Doubly so when her consultation with Dr. Fowler had proven fruitless.

  “He struck me as no worse than usual.”

  Relief washed through her, but only for a moment. What if he wanted to convince her to overlook Papa’s stomach ailments? “I believe I’ll have a look in on him just to be sure. You were leaving, at any rate, weren’t you?”

  “I was.” He gaze flicked over her shoulder toward Dysart. “But I wonder if it isn’t better that I stay.”

  “Nonsense.”

  She didn’t get any further than that, because Dysart stepped in front of her to clap Snowley on the shoulder. Again. “By all means, stay. Not that my lady hasn’t been delightful company, and I shall ever be indebted to her for coming to my rescue, but a man sometimes wishes for more masculine entertainments.” He reached into his topcoat, produced a silver snuffbox, flipped the lid, and waved it beneath Snowley’s nose. “Do you partake?”

  Above his impressive side-whiskers, Snowley’s cheeks reddened. He stepped back, coughing into his fist so hard, he doubled over. Dysart pounded him on the back, which nearly sent Snowley sprawling face-first into the drive.

  “Not at the moment, thank you,” Snowley wheezed as soon as he got his breathing under control. A stray tear leaked from the corner of one eye.

  Dysart pulled a flask from his waistcoat. “I think I might have something for that cough.”

  Snowley waved him off. “Your pardon. My housekeeper makes a most excellent cordial. Just the thing. Lizzie, you can count on me to return in time to help you greet your guests.”

  Dysart smirked after him as he stumbled toward his carriage, nearly colliding with a pair of servants unloading Lizzie’s London purchases. Gravel kicked up beneath Snowley’s wheels as he clattered off down the drive. Soon enough he disappeared into the trees beyond the far end of the pond. Lizzie let out her breath and pivoted, only to find Dysart had turned his considering expression on her.

  “Lizzie, is it?” he asked, looking her up and down. “I’d never have twigged you for a Lizzie.”

  She caught herself just before something ill-considered popped out of her mouth—such as a question on what he had expected. However he viewed her shouldn’t matter, not one whit. “As your chosen role in this house implies we are not well acquainted, you may refer to me as Lady Elizabeth.”

  His cheeks creased under the force of his renewed smirk, and he gave his forelock an exaggerated pull. “If you say so, my lady.”

  “Are you always this irreverent?”

  He laid a finger to his chin in blatantly mock consideration. “Now that I think on it, I’m much worse. You should be thankful you’re a lady.”

  She strode for the steps and the front door. “I’ll have Caruthers show you to a room. I need to see my papa.”

  He lunged after her, one hand whipping out to clamp about her wrist. “Not so fast.”

  Pulling up short, she stared at the contrast of his long fingers against the dark fabric of her traveling costume. For some reason, the pale beige of his glove against the deep brown velvet fascinated her. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going to get something straight before you go running off.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My investigation, my rules,” he grated. “The first one is, you let me ask the questions from now on.”

  “Is this about Snowley? Might I point out that you ran him off? And right when he just told us he had private business with Papa?” An awful feeling settled into the pit of her stomach, like a ball of ice, but all sharp edges. “I need to make sure he’s all right.”

  She tugged at her wrist, but Dysart’s grip only tightened. She felt it down to the bone. Deeper, perhaps. “He’s all right. If Snowley’s our man, he won’t want to be so obvious about his plans for your puh-pa.” He squeezed again, a momentary flex of his fingers; this time the movement was almost comforting. “Let me ask the questions. You wade in the way you did just now, and you’ll tip your hand. The trick is not to let anyone know we’re on to them. And make sure that maid of yours doesn’t talk to the other servants.”

  He released her this time, his hold unraveling slowly, but he wasn’t through. “Before you go up, tell me this. Do you come with the estate when your cousin inherits?”

  “Me?” Under the force of his gaze, she took a step back. It was almost as if he could see through her traveling costume, past her undergarments, and directly into her heart. “What makes you ask such a thing?”

  “The way he was looking at you. I’ve seen starved dogs eye a meaty bone with less interest.”

  The image caused a shudder to pass through her. “What does that have to do with it?”

  “I’m weighing motivation here.”

  “But Snowley doesn’t have to wait until Papa is gone to propose. In fact…Oh, good Lord.”

  “Go on.”

  Her thoughts jumbled along with the words to her reply. That ball of ice was suddenly blocking her throat. “Before I came up to London, Papa told…well, all of us—my sisters and me—that it was his dearest wish to see us wed before he passed on.”

  Dysart made a small sound in the back of his throat. “Did Cousin Snowley know about this wish?”

  “I certainly didn’t tell him, but it’s no secret. Papa’s wanted to see us all settled for the last three Seasons, at least.”

  “I’d say that gives Snowley a bit more motivation, wouldn’t you?”

  Dysart might be perfectly correct in his conclusion, but she simply couldn’t imagine her cousin wished to marry her to the point of killing the duke. “Still, he doesn’t have to commit murder for the privilege. Papa would be ecstatic over the match.”

  Dysart watched her from the corner of his eye. “Yet you’re seemingly not.”

  “No,” she admitted—but then, her wishes in the matter
had never counted for much. “Still, that’s no reason to take it out on Papa.”

  “What if he only wanted to make your puh-pa ill? Perhaps make you accept him out of panic?”

  “Good heavens, what a harebrained scheme.” Unfortunately, Cousin Snowley had carried out more than his share of harebrained schemes in the past. “But if he’s not trying to kill anyone, there’s no real crime.”

  “And if he slips up?” Dysart growled. “You convince the magistrate he didn’t truly intend murder.”

  “I wasn’t trying to defend the man.”

  “See that you don’t where it’s not warranted. Unless you’d like me to wish you well. In which case, I’ll be seeing myself back to London.”

  Chapter 4

  “I thought you went to Town on party business.” Caro’s assessing gaze pinned Lizzie to the wall just as she closed the door to Papa’s rooms. The man was in an unaccountably chipper mood, showing no sign at all of malaise. When she’d asked about Snowley’s visit, he returned an enigmatic smile by way of reply. Blast the men and their plotting, especially when she was certain it concerned her.

  “I did.” Lizzie looked her sister up and down. Caro was wearing boots and breeches, which meant she’d been racing across the fields again, jumping ridiculously high fences. She must have taken advantage of the duke’s allowances with the guest list to invite some of the horsey set. No doubt she was planning a race of some sort. “Best not let Papa catch you dressed like a stable boy.”

  “He won’t. And don’t try to deflect the conversation. I saw you arrive with a man.”

  Lizzie waved a hand in the faint hope the gesture would brush away Caro’s speculation. “I did him the courtesy of bringing him out in our carriage.”

  “I didn’t recognize him. Believe me, if I’d seen him before, I’d have remembered.”

  So would Lizzie. When she’d first met Dysart on Bow Street, she wouldn’t have described him in any more flattering terms than disreputable. But put him in a dark blue topcoat, buckskin breeches, and Hessians, and he looked nearly dashing, if rough about the edges. But that slightly ragged quality—the hair a bit too shaggy, the coarse shadow of a reddish beard on his chin and cheeks—hinted at adventure. Perhaps even danger. The very things Caro found attractive.