He tossed the stub of his cheroot to the path at his feet and ground his heel over it. He ought to take up his job and get it over with. The sooner the better, and he could leave Lady Elizabeth to get on with her engagement to her cousin. A shudder accompanied that thought, but he brushed the feeling aside.
He needed to forget Elizabeth’s doings and question the servants again. He could track down Sherrington’s estate agent. He could find a thousand more productive things to do than play bloody Hide-and-seek.
And what of Pendleton?
Yes, he was another problem. What was he after? The mare or Lady Caroline herself? Although Dysart was fast reaching the conclusion that Lady Caroline could fend for herself, he couldn’t subject her to even the possibility of Pendleton.
And how was any of that connected to the duke’s illness? If it was connected.
Dysart would like nothing better than to lay charges on Pendleton. His blood raced through his veins at the very thought. But he hadn’t uncovered enough evidence.
Yet.
A dull rumble broke the woodland quiet, a constant rhythmic thrum that quickly crescendoed until it masked the birdcalls amid the trees. Dysart spun on his heel. Legs churning, a great brown beast of a horse bore down on him, relentless as any harbinger of the impending apocalypse.
“Cor!” He dove into the bracken.
A split second later, pounding hooves thundered past. Lady Caroline sat easily atop the mountain of muscle, her hands quiet on the reins. She wore a habit yet rode astride, her skirts rucked up to reveal a scandalous length of booted ankle and lower leg.
Dysart raised his head in time to see her rush a four-foot stone wall. She leaned forward in the saddle, and her mare cleared the obstacle in a graceful arc that left several inches to spare, before galloping on. Silence fell once more.
Christ, it was like he’d summoned the beast and its rider with his mere thoughts. Could Pendleton be far behind? But if the bastard did turn up mounted, Dysart was ill-suited to come to Caroline’s aid.
He picked himself off the ground and brushed a few stray leaves from his garments. Just beyond that wall, the trees thinned. Checking his back to ensure he wasn’t in imminent danger of being trampled by any followers, he approached the edge of the wood. Oaks, elms, and ash gave way to rolling fields dotted with tidy little cottages. No doubt Sherrington’s tenants dwelled there, secure beneath tight thatching. Caroline’s form seemed to float above the nodding heads of oats before disappearing behind a swell of land.
No one was going to catch her the way she was flying. Not unless they rode a far faster steed, given the lead she had. Dysart could return to the manor with a clear conscience.
But as he moved to retrace his steps, more sounds echoed through the trees. Not the thunder of hooves this time, but the ungainly shambling of a man puffing on foot.
Instinct told Dysart to duck low to the wall, and he always listened to his instinct. Just in time, for Pendleton jogged down the path in Lady Caroline’s wake, but badly behind. A few yards away from the wall, he doubled over, hands on his thighs while he sucked in great gulps of air.
“What can he be thinking?” Dysart muttered to himself.
But a scenario immediately leapt to mind, one where Pendleton lay in wait on the path Caroline must take home.
Careful not to make a sound, Dysart crept along the base of the wall, looking for a likely spot where he could observe undetected. There. A cluster of bushes hugged the base of the stones a few yards off. While Pendleton occupied himself with regaining the ability to breathe, Dysart made for the shrubbery.
Only to encounter another obstacle the moment he settled himself amid the twigs and leaves. Crouching near the wall in a stance similar to the one Dysart had just assumed, a man approached, his gaze riveted on Pendleton. The creases on his face spoke of a life spent out-of-doors, but his clothes were a touch too fine for a tenant. Rather than nankeen and homespun, he sported a worsted topcoat, beeches, and bespattered leather boots. But he was not well enough dressed for a guest at the house party, either.
Dysart’s job depended on the ability to pick up subtle cues from others’ manner of dress, but he couldn’t pin this particular man down.
A branch cracked under the newcomer’s foot, and Dysart winced, but Pendleton didn’t seem to notice. Nothing for it, though. Dysart was going to have to announce his presence before this idiot drew any more attention to himself.
Dysart cleared his throat, and the newcomer snapped his head about. His tanned skin lightened a hue or two until it took on an unhealthy shade of ocher.
“Ye’ll have to find yerself another hiding spot.” Dysart kept his tone low, a single degree above a whisper, while adapting his accent to his audience. He hoped. If he guessed right, he might inspire a bit of confidence. “This one’s taken.”
The other man glanced at Pendleton, who had taken to pacing and muttering to himself. “Keep your voice down.”
Dysart studied his hedgemate while the man eyed Pendleton. Dysart could ask for the man’s name, but something told him his newfound friend wouldn’t be forthcoming on that score. “So why are ye hiding from a nob like Pendleton?”
Not that he expected any more of an honest response to that question.
“Pendleton? Is that the bloke’s name?” The reply came a bit too casually, enough to set Dysart’s nerves on edge.
“Yeah, it is. Wot’s’e got on ye?”
“Nothing. I’ve got my own reasons for being here.” Once again, the response slipped out like it was coated in butter.
“When someone’s skulking in the bushes, it looks funny.”
“Says another skulker.”
“I asked ye first.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but sometimes a man intends to meet a friend of the female persuasion away from prying eyes.”
He couldn’t have planned on meeting Lady Caroline. Could he?
“Ah, so yer meeting the nob’s wife for a little Rumpy Pumpy?” Not that Pendleton had a wife, thank God. Dysart wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone, even someone like Lady Whitby. But whether this bloke knew that or not, Dysart had no idea.
“As I said, it’s none of your affair.”
“Affair, eh? Interesting choice of words.”
The crumple of feet displacing dried leaves in bracken came to a sudden halt. Dysart’s companion went rigid.
“Who’s there?” Pendleton glared at the stand of bushes through narrowed eyes. “Show yourself.”
“Shite.” Beads of sweat broke out on the stranger’s creased forehead. If Pendleton had succumbed to the parson’s trap, Dysart would almost suspect this had been a tryst between the hapless woman and this stranger. So what was really going on?
Only one way to find out. Dysart unfolded himself.
Pendleton fixed him with a stare worthy of a bull about to charge. But he skipped pawing the ground in favor of a lunge. “You. I might have known.”
The crackle of breaking limbs was all the warning Dysart had. His companion crashed through the shrubbery, shoving past Dysart, before tearing away through the trees.
At the sight, Pendleton let loose a stream of curses that would make a sailor blush. With a final glance at Dysart, Pendleton pounded off after the other man—whoever he was.
—
“May I present our winner,” Great-aunt Matilda crowed the moment she and Lizzie entered the parlor.
The company turned to watch their entrance, and Lizzie fought off a blush, whether in response to her aunt or what had happened in the course of the game, she wasn’t exactly certain.
“Cheers!” Lord Allerdale raised a tumbler of amber liquid toward the ceiling. “And where is Lord Dysart? I say it’s rather unsporting not to present himself for a proper ribbing when a young lady has outwitted him.”
Great-aunt Matilda tittered like a chit fresh from the schoolroom. “I’ve no doubt he’s off to console himself over his loss.”
Lord Allerdale lifted his
glass once more, this time to his lips. “That must have been one cracking forfeit Lady Elizabeth demanded. Pity none of us was about to witness it.”
“As it happens, I haven’t decided on his forfeit,” Lizzie said.
For some odd reason, Lady Whitby caught her attention. The older woman was staring at her with what could only be termed a calculating expression. Beyond her shoulder, Snowley tucked his lips between his teeth.
“Hah!” Allerdale let out a bark of laughter. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. What do you say, Wilde?” He clapped Snowley on the shoulder. “You might have inherited some of your cousin’s wits. Asking Miss Anna to answer a simple riddle. Really, old boy, you’ve quite missed the point of these things.”
Lizzie wasn’t sure she agreed with that assessment. If Snowley had had to assign a forfeit to her or either of her sisters, he’d have chosen something embarrassing. She could well imagine him making her go down on all fours and imitate a pig or, worse, a donkey. Goodness, when had her cousin developed any sentiment so high as empathy toward a shy young lady overshadowed by an overbearing mother?
A tug at her sleeve distracted Lizzie from her thoughts. Pippa stood at her elbow, her expression all but demanding explanations, for goodness only knew what. On a mission for certain. She jerked her head toward an unoccupied corner, but when that didn’t produce the desired result, she wrapped strong fingers about Lizzie’s wrist and tugged her away from the others.
“Tell me about the maze,” Pippa said the moment they were out of general earshot.
Good Lord. Clearly Caro had said something, but a glance around the room proved Caro was not among the company. “What do you think there is to tell?”
“Caro said things got…interesting. And then you went off with Lord Dysart alone.”
“And where is Caro now?” For that matter, another guest seemed to be missing. Pendleton ought to be polishing off Papa’s best brandy right beside Allerdale; his absence was conspicuous. Alarm sent a prickle down Lizzie’s spine. “Did she tell you the rest of what happened in the maze? We came across her and Pendleton having a straight out row.”
“Caro decided to sneak off for a ride before Great-aunt Matilda could spoil her plans with another idea for fun and games.”
“And Pendleton?” Another prickle, this one sharper. “Don’t tell me he decided to accompany her.”
Pippa squeezed Lizzie’s hand. “Not that I know of. I shouldn’t worry about Caro. No one can catch her on Boudicca. You know there’s not a single horse here that’s a match for that mare.”
“Perhaps Lord Dysart will run into Pendleton.” Although that thought wasn’t much comfort, not when the solution to one problem might well lead to another.
“Yes, about Lord Dysart. You’ve stalled long enough. Tell me what’s going on.”
Good heavens, where should she begin? Caro had clearly dropped enough hints to rouse Pippa’s curiosity where kisses might be concerned, but then there was the whole issue of Dysart’s mysterious background. That bit would require more explanation than she wished to give in a crowded parlor full of curious guests.
The rasp of a throat clearing saved her from having to decide. Thin-lipped Lady Whitby had approached their corner. “I should like some explanations regarding this so-called Lord Dysart myself. I was given to believe the gentlemen guests at this party would be suitable matches for my Anna. So might you kindly explain how one of them is already married?”
Chapter 12
The party guests were still in the drawing room when Dysart took up his post by the doors to Sherrington’s apartments later that evening. Dysart had skipped the formal dinner in favor of a meal in far more comfortable surroundings. A pint or two to wash down a pasty and a wedge of cheese suited his stomach far better than course after course of richly sauced meats.
No matter that such fare had once been usual for him. No matter that, at one point, he’d imagined no other future than the one that played itself out downstairs in the drawing room.
Charades. From the sound of things as he’d padded by, that was the game that occupied the company tonight. How fitting.
His family had raised him with the expectation he’d take up the very sort of social charade for which the ton was noted. Sally had changed all that.
He leaned his shoulders against the doorjamb and considered having a look in on his grace. On his return from the village, Dysart had passed through the kitchens, where he’d ascertained from the servants that the duke was resting easily after taking a tray in his rooms. No one had disturbed the old man the entire day.
Not even Pendleton. At the thought of that bastard, Dysart’s hands clenched into fists. He’d followed at a distance while Pendleton chased down his quarry, but the stranger had gone to ground somewhere. Neither Pendleton nor Dysart had caught a further glimpse of the man.
Dysart’s questions in the village had met with bland stares and shaken heads.
“Older chap? Creased face?” The landlord of the local pub had left off wiping his counter for a moment or two. “Let’s see. There’s Sherrington’s estate agent, and John Tyler wot lives t’ the other side o’ the hill, and”—he laughed—“there’s me own wife, for that matter. But none o’ them ain’t got no call hiding in the woods, and that’s a fact. More’n likely it were poachers.”
But for Pendleton, Dysart might have drawn the same conclusion. “Do the name Marcus Pendleton mean anything t’ ye?”
“Can’t say that it does.” The landlord went back to his wiping.
“Maybe he wouldn’t give his name. Nobbish sort. He’d make free with the serving wenches.”
“Don’t get many nobbish sorts here. Mr. Wilde from time to time, but I reckon he prefers the duke’s brandy to my simple ale.”
Damn it, wrong nob. Dysart raised his mug. “It’s good enough for the likes of me.”
Now in the corridor, the image of Pendleton straining over a weeping Sally floated through Dysart’s mind. His fist pounded into the wood at his back, while he longed for another chance at Pendleton’s face. But he could not afford to call any more attention to himself.
Between the scene in the stables and the tension at breakfast, he could not withstand the scrutiny of someone like Lady Whitby. She’d already cast too many suspicious glances in his direction. The best course was no doubt to avoid the other guests for the remainder of the party.
But if he did that, how was he to keep an eye on Pendleton? Asking the servants to alert him should Pendleton decide to wander about the estate once more would have to do. Dysart could only hope he didn’t spend all his wages passing out coin in exchange for the information.
From the end of the corridor, the soft pad of feminine footsteps and the whisper of silk skirts reached his ears. To the devil with it. He’d hoped to have at least another hour before he had to face any of the others. Before he had to face Lady Elizabeth, if he was honest with himself.
Yet she approached now, the pale blue satin of her bodice clinging to a lush pair of breasts. Her skirts swayed about her body, giving enticing hints at the curve of her hips and the dip of her waist.
His palms itched with the desire to map every last contour, to test the weight of those breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples to hardness, while his lips tasted hers once more. While he learned all the secret places of her body where his touch would elicit a sigh. A moan.
Impossible. And not simply because of who he’d become. Even in his former life, he’d never have turned her head. She is above you.
Not only that. Now that she’d discovered him here, she was doubtless about to barrage him with questions about his past.
Time to head that off, if he could. “Isn’t it early for Charades to be over?”
“I pleaded a headache.” She touched her fingertips to her temple, displacing a tendril of rich chestnut hair. “I may even have been telling the truth.”
“I can’t say I blame you there. I can only tolerate so much of what passes for amusement in
your circles. Especially after this morning.” Well, damn. If he’d intended to deflect her attention from his past, he’d set his foot in it there.
A slight crease formed between her brows. “I made excuses for you, you know. Lady Whitby was particularly curious about where you’d disappeared. Not to mention my great-aunt.”
Just as he’d suspected. One or both of the beldams were trying to work out who he was. “It’s for the best, don’t you think, if I avoid certain guests.”
“In the interest of keeping the peace, yes.” She reached past him for the door handle, close enough that he caught a hint of her perfume, but at the last moment turned a thoughtful gaze on him. “Speaking of Lady Whitby, she told me quite a fascinating story today. I wonder if I can believe it.”
He crossed his arms. He might have known he didn’t possess the kind of luck to present him with a young lady who would let the matter drop. “What gave you the impression I’m one to pay attention to gossip?”
“Perhaps once you’ve heard the story, you’ll think differently.”
“Not bloody likely.”
“Humor me.” Her words may have been light, but her tone was not. He recognized an order when he heard one.
“Not here.” Not where anyone could happen by.
She gestured to the door at his back before turning the handle. Good God, was she planning on sleeping in there again? Close enough that the image of her slumbering form would torture him all night?
He followed her into the sitting room. The fire hadn’t been laid today, and the room lay under a blanket of shadows, but he knew exactly where she was, thanks to the rustle of her voluminous skirts. The whispering slide of rich fabric aroused a vision of her arraying her gown over the settee.
He remained where he was—as far from her as possible. And then he waited for her to begin. Though he had a very good idea what she was going to say, he wasn’t about to prompt her into beginning the story.
“What would you think of a younger son of an earl who turned his back on society and disappeared?” She spoke quietly, her tone carrying not the least hint of accusation. “All to marry one of the upstairs maids?”
To Lure a Proper Lady Page 11