Lizzie, too, if she were completely honest with herself. She clamped her lips shut before she could blurt out something stupid like I saw him first.
“When did you make his acquaintance?” Caro prodded.
“Oh, my lady, thank goodness.” Thank goodness for the housekeeper’s arrival, which saved Lizzie from having to come up with a believable reply. Mrs. Moore’s face was red, and her graying hair fell in straggles beneath her mobcap, as if she’d run up all the flights of steps from the kitchens.
“Is anything amiss?”
“No, my lady—that is, not now.” She pulled in a breath, and in spite of her reply, placed a weathered hand to her bodice.
“Will there be a problem shortly?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps.” Mrs. Moore produced a handkerchief and mopped at her brow. “Begging your pardon, but how long is our guest staying?”
“The man I brought out from London?”
“Lord Dysart, yes.”
“Lord Dysart?” Caro raised a single blond brow. Not that Lizzie could blame her skepticism.
Mrs. Moore nodded. “That’s what he called himself, miss.”
Lizzie could almost see the wheels turning in Caro’s brain, sifting through the names of all the well-connected families of their acquaintance. Weighing each one, and coming up blank.
Best to ignore that for now. “To answer your question, he’s staying for the party.”
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Moore patted her face again. “I hope I haven’t committed a terrible error.”
“I’m certain it’s not as bad as all that.” Lizzie patted her arm. “What did you do?”
“I placed him in Cousin Snowley’s usual room. It seemed expedient, since we’d readied it in a hurry in case he decided to stay. Oh, I don’t wish to insult Lord Dysart by asking him to move.”
“No, no. Don’t ask him to move.” Cousin Snowley’s usual bedchamber was too close to her own for her personal comfort. If she could suspect him of poisoning Papa, she could suspect him of attempting all manner of indiscretions, like turning up in her bed. She suppressed a shudder at the thought. As bad as the notion of him kissing her cheek had been, this was far, far worse.
For some reason, Papa’s parting words to her just now came to mind. The eldest is often asked to make the most sacrifices. It is true of the duke’s heir. It may also be true of the duke’s eldest daughter. Duty, my dear. Cryptic, indeed, when he’d been holed up with Snowley.
“But where shall we put Cousin Snowley when he comes back?” Mrs. Moore twisted her handkerchief between her fists. “He’s sure to raise a fuss if we’ve given his room away. And with the rest of the lodgings already decided. Oh, we’ll have to redo it all.”
“If he raises a fuss, you may kindly refer his complaints to me. In the meantime, give him Great-aunt Matilda’s usual quarters.” They were opulent enough to placate Snowley’s elevated sense of his own rank, with the added advantage of being on the opposite side of the house. “She won’t be attending.”
Mrs. Moore dropped a curtsey. “Very good, my lady. I knew you’d manage to work it all out. Were you wanting anything else, as long as I’m here?”
“Oh, I ought to consult with Cook about the rest of the week’s menus, now that I’m back. And send me Caruthers. I’d like a word with him.”
“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Moore bustled off.
“It’s not going to work, you know.” Caro leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. Her expression had lost none of its speculation.
“What isn’t?”
“I’m not going to forget you’ve brought a strange man back from London, just because you’ve thought of a hundred domestic tasks you need to see to. And Lord Dysart? Odd, but I’ve never heard that title before.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll believe he’s related to an old friend of Mama’s?”
“No.”
“How about that he’s struck up a correspondence with Papa and Papa’s extended an invitation?”
Caro simply shook her head.
Lizzie looked up and down the corridor. It was deserted, but she still leaned in and lowered her voice. If Snowley was doctoring Papa’s medicines, he had help. It wouldn’t do if that help learned she was on to the scheme. “I hired a Bow Street Runner.”
“You? You went to Bow Street all by yourself?” Funny, but Caro sounded almost jealous.
“I took a footman and my maid with me. It was necessary. Dysart will pose as a party guest while carrying out his investigation. We need to be sure Papa’s stomach ailment isn’t being encouraged.”
“Ah.” Caro nodded. “That makes a great deal of sense.”
“Tell me, how has Papa been while I was in Town? Has he had any more episodes?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but he could have hidden them from us.”
Lovely irony, that. Papa delighted in the attention he received from his exaggerated illnesses. Now that something might really be wrong with him, he’d possibly taken to hiding the condition. “Yes, which is why I’d like a word with Caruthers. If anyone knows, he does.”
Caro pressed her lips to together. “Yes, he would. But what are you going to do about Snowley?”
Lizzie shook her head. Why on earth was Caro so interested in Snowley? “I don’t imagine I’ll do any differently than I have been. I’ll treat him politely while doing everything in my power not to encourage him.”
“I can’t imagine our dear cousin is too delighted with Lord Dysart’s presence, even if he doesn’t know the reason behind it.”
Good Lord, where was this leading? “Why should he care?”
“Think of it from his point of view.”
“I’d rather not think about whatever Snowley’s got turning in his mind, thank you very much.” Especially not when those thoughts might well involve marriage to her.
“You’ve invited a man into this house,” Caro went on as if Lizzie hadn’t protested. “One Snowley’s never met. One, I daresay, to whom you’ve never been properly introduced and who doubtless has no social connections to speak of.”
Lizzie cast a pointed look at her sister’s breeches. “I never knew you were such a stickler.”
Caro snorted. An unkind soul might even say she sounded like one of her horses. “You know I’m not, but Snowley might decide to be, if he thinks he has cause to be jealous.”
Jealous? “Oh, good heavens.”
“I didn’t see the man up close, of course, but I can imagine the attraction to someone who is, shall we say, a bit more rugged than the gentlemen we usually meet.” Caro was watching her closely, her words dripping with insinuation.
Lizzie glared at her. “I can’t say I’ve noticed.”
Caro inspected her nails. “No, of course not.”
Blast Caro for pursuing the matter, and she hadn’t even had a good look at Dysart yet. “I wasn’t aware you were so interested in gossip.” And that sounded overly petulant, but Lizzie wasn’t sure she cared. “If we’re going to discuss this, let’s talk about something important. Such as your opinion of our dear cousin and whether you think him capable of harming another person.”
The knowing smile melted from Caro’s features. “This Dysart person thinks it’s Snowley?”
“He says it’s a possibility. What I’d like to know is whether you agree.”
“Snowley wouldn’t harm anyone. At least, not intentionally.”
Caro’s opinion hardly reassured Lizzie. Not when she’d already drawn essentially the same conclusion. Dysart’s words flitted through her mind. What if he only wanted to make your puh-pa ill? Perhaps make you accept him out of panic? “He used to pull the wings off flies. Remember that?”
“Most boys do.” Caro waved a hand like she was fending off one of the said flies. “They grow out of it.”
“Not all of them,” growled a voice that was fast becoming all too familiar.
Lizzie pivoted. Dysart’s presence filled the corridor with an electrifying intensity that made her wonder how
she hadn’t sensed his approach. His glare and his stance were enough to tell her he’d overheard the tenor of the conversation. Even Caro noticed, for she let out a gasp.
Yes, her dashed sister who had taken the trouble to point out the man’s attractiveness. It struck Lizzie with enough force to empty every last drop of moisture from her mouth. His reddish hair flopped over his forehead. A shadow of beard darkened his skin, accentuating sharp cheekbones and the grim slash of his mouth. At his throat, his cravat straggled, as if he’d been pulling at the offending linen. But even if that swath of fabric had lain pristine, starched, and perfectly knotted, such a gentlemanly veneer did little to hide his true essence. If anything, the superfine and buckskin, the tailored lines, emphasized his underlying roughness. He emanated all the danger of a drowsing tiger.
Caro’s smile returned, broader than ever. She cast Lizzie an expectant look.
Lizzie suppressed a sigh. “Caro, may I present Lord Dysart? Lord Dysart, Lady Caroline Wilde.”
Caro’s gaze roved over him, from head to foot and back. Then she eyed Lizzie, her smile stretching into the most irritating of grins. “Oh, yes, I see it. And I approve. Most heartily.”
Heat rushed to Lizzie’s cheeks. “What on earth does that mean, you approve?”
Dysart simply lifted a brow, and with that simple expression, all his crackling keenness turned to ice. In an instant, he’d become as disdainful as the haughtiest of dukes.
“Of the pair of you, naturally.” Caro was never one to let others’ opinions cow her. “I think he’ll be good for you. Much better than Snowley—but then, anyone would be.”
Lizzie should have known better than to ask. “He isn’t here as my suitor,” she grated.
“Well, no, but wouldn’t it be a lark to pretend he is? Has Papa met him yet?”
“No, your puh-pa has not met me yet.” Odd, but Dysart’s tone sounded nearly amused. “But an introduction sooner than later would come in handy.”
“Please forgive my sister.” Lizzie caught herself extending a hand, as if the appendage had decided on its own to placate him. “She enjoys shocking people. She takes after our great-aunt Matilda in that.”
“Oh, I’m not nearly that bad.” Caro laughed. “And some of us would do well to emulate her a bit more. When are you going to live up to the family name?”
Dear Lord. An echo of Dysart’s teasing passed through her mind. Are ye now, indeed. “Why should I bother when you do the job for the both of us?”
“Perhaps because it’s fun.”
“Caro, do you not have anything better to do?”
“If you insist. I’ll leave the pair of you alone so you can get better acquainted.” And with that pronouncement, Caro turned on her heel and marched down the passage. Her very posture proclaimed, My work here is done.
“You’ll have to make some allowances,” Lizzie said. “I don’t know what came over her.”
Dysart turned his head to watch Caro’s progress down the corridor. “I hear you have another sister. Should you warn me about her?”
He must have been talking to the servants…which made perfect sense. He’d have to ask them subtle questions for the sake of his investigation. “Philippa? She’s the quiet one.”
“I shall need to meet her. And while we’re on the subject…” His voice took on a hardened edge, and a glacial quality entered his tone. Yet danger still lurked beneath that ice. Something perverse inside her wanted to melt it. “We need to set another rule. You do not discuss my true business here with anyone. When I said your maid shouldn’t talk to the servants, I should have specified you not talk, not even to your family. People will eventually wonder why I’m asking questions, but I control who works that out and when. I cannot have you alerting any potential suspects to our true purpose.”
Of all the nerve. “We’re talking about my sister. She’s hardly got—what did you call it?—motive to poison our father. Not for any reason.”
“In an investigation no one is above suspicion. Not until I say they are.” So assured he was. So confident. So cold.
She’d show him cold. “I suppose you think I’m suspect, as well.”
He shrugged, hang the man. “It’s always a matter of likelihoods. The person who hired me wouldn’t want me poking my nose into places if they were up to something. Someone who stood to profit from the duke’s demise, on the other hand…”
“My sisters do not stand to profit. Nor do I. If anything, we gain by our marriage.” She allowed herself a tight smile. “And none of us has taken that drastic step as yet.”
“Gain by your marriage?” He stiffened, his nostrils flaring like a hunting dog scenting danger. “What do you gain?”
“Funds of our own so we do not have to depend on our husbands for pin money.” She would not name Snowley, even though both of them knew Snowley comprised her intended future. “In my particular case, an unentailed property, should married life not suit me.”
Dysart emitted a feral sound, as if the tiger stirred. “So much a suitor may gain if he secures your hand.”
She knew what he meant. Even if Papa set aside both lands and money in her name, an unscrupulous man could take all that under his control. Hence the reason she’d been reluctant to commit to wedding anybody so far, distasteful cousins aside.
“You see,” she said carefully, “why I have every intention of keeping my papa alive—over and above any sense of filial attachment.”
The rigid lines about his mouth eased. “I already said the likelihood of you being behind this was minimal. However, you do your cousin’s case no favors.”
She knew. Lord, she knew, but she didn’t wish to discuss the matter yet again. If Snowley was doing something to Papa to push her toward the altar, the fastest way to end it would be to accept his suit. But she couldn’t bring herself to face that prospect, any more than she could summon an adequate reply to Dysart.
So she changed the subject. “You wished to interview Papa, did you not?”
“In a moment. I had something to ask you, as well.”
In the middle of reaching for the door handle, she stopped. “Oh?”
“The guest list for the party tomorrow. Who’s invited?”
She studied him from the corner of her eye. His blasted cravat had worked itself even looser, and its dangling ends hung down his chest, tempting her to adjust them. But his query about the guest list gave her pause. It wasn’t as if he traveled the same social circles as she did. He wouldn’t actually be acquainted with any of her guests.
Would he?
Still, she rattled off as many names as she could recall.
“Is that all of them?” he asked when she’d finished.
“Yes, I believe so. Although Caro may have added a few. Why?”
“I just want to know what to expect. I don’t like surprises. And now, the duke.”
“Wait, you can’t go in there like that.” Even if Papa was probably abed. She took a step, hands outstretched. “Your cravat.”
He glanced down. “Blood—Blasted thing.”
She stood close to him now—too close for society’s notions of respectability, especially given their respective status; close enough that she could catch his scent. She’d expected something coarse, but it was nothing of the sort. It filled her lungs with its freshness, its cleanness, with an utterly captivating hint of earthiness. Her fingers shook as she took up the trailing linen ends.
His hands clamped down over hers, engulfing them with warmth. The roughened calluses on his palms pressed into the soft skin over the backs of her hands. She suddenly understood the dictate that young ladies wear gloves. If such innocent contact with a male caused her nerves to tingle along all points of contact, imagine the effect of something more intimate. Something more scandalous.
You’ve encountered other men before. None of them ever did this to you. No, not even the ones who had tried to kiss her.
“Are you certain you know what you’re doing?” His question emerged r
agged and raspy. At the same time, he may as well have been addressing her lips directly.
A sense of awareness washed through her. They were alone here in this upstairs corridor. Alone and nearly embracing. All he had to do was slide his hands up her arms to her shoulders. Or better yet, down to her hips, where he could pull her against his body and…
When are you going to live up to the family name?
She pushed that inconvenient thought aside. The last thing she needed was an emotional entanglement with someone so completely fascinating yet so wholly inappropriate.
“Perhaps…” Her reply came out raw. “Perhaps Papa would lend you his valet. He doesn’t get out of bed often enough to require assistance on a regular basis.”
Dysart dropped his hands and stepped out of her reach. “That’s likely for the best.”
“Yes, quite.”
A feeling of officiousness took over every last vestige of warmth he’d elicited. She snapped to attention and with crisp efficiency opened the door to Papa’s quarters before marching across the sitting room. Dysart’s footsteps thudded softly behind her. A quick knock and she entered the bedchamber.
At her appearance, Papa tugged at the sleeves of his brocade banyan. He still occupied the same upholstered chair as when she’d left him earlier. “My dear, I thought we’d established I’m in as fine a fettle as possible under the circumstances. Surely you’ve no reason to come back and check up on me.”
“I’ve brought someone to meet you, Papa.” She waved Dysart into the bedchamber and cleared her throat. Efficiency. That would be her byword from now on. “Your grace, I present to you one Dysart. Dysart, the Duke of Sherrington.”
Papa sat up straighter, his narrow shoulders square. Despite his failing health, he radiated an air of nobility that seemed to transform his wingchair into a throne. He studied the newcomer, and something gleamed in his eye.
“Dysart, you say?” He rubbed his chin. “Something wrong there.”
“Begging your pardon, your grace, but there’s nothing wrong.” Dysart’s tone was all deference, but Lizzie held no doubt as to which man would control this interview. “I’d like a word, if you wouldn’t mind. A private word.”
To Lure a Proper Lady Page 4