—
Dysart was up to something. Lizzie just knew it. Yet an hour later, she still couldn’t work out what. At first she thought he wanted an excuse to keep her here so he could catch a glance at her manuscript, but he hadn’t made a single attempt in that direction.
He hadn’t made any attempts in any other direction, for that matter. He had her alone in a little-used sitting room. The other guests were occupying themselves outside, and the servants were bustling about their duties. If he wished to do something rakish, he had ample opportunity.
But no, since he’d learned of Pippa’s painting, he’d turned all that keen focus she’d witnessed in him that first day on their current concerns. As he should. Lizzie had hired him to do a job, after all. She’d do well to think of that and not the way his kisses made her blood sing in her veins.
Papa. They were sorting this out for him and no other reason.
She set aside her quill and shook out her hand. It had cramped long since from painstakingly copying out the list of their entire staff from the household account book. From Caruthers, to the footmen, to the hall boy and the scullery maids, down to the least of the stable boys, she’d covered two sheets of paper with names along with speculation on the likelihood of them being involved in the duke’s illness.
A fortnight ago, if anyone had asked her what she thought the life of a Bow Street Runner involved, she might have said excitement and danger. Based on her current experience, she might well say the opposite. Dysart’s occupation required a lot of sifting through tedious details.
Dysart ran his hands over his face. “What have we got?”
“A lot of names that point to nothing,” she replied. Frustration—his occupation involved a lot of that, too. Frustration, waiting, wracking of brains.
She rose from her seat. After sitting so long, she was more than ready for a constitutional. “Might I have leave to go, or did you need me for anything else?”
His gaze lingered on the lines of her figure. She could almost feel it run along her contours like fleeting fingers. She swallowed, as her mind called up images of the previous night. Those lips, those hands, that body. And he was thinking the same thing. He had to be, the way his eyes darkened as he contemplated.
“Yes, I reckon it’s for the best if you leave me to look over our notes.” Again, but she hardly needed to point that out. “I may have missed something along the way, and it’s better if I’ve no distractions.”
She nodded, but now that she’d resolved to step away, her feet became like lead weights. Reluctantly, she turned for the door.
Only to find her father standing just beyond the threshold.
“Papa! What are you doing out of bed?” She studied his features for the slightest hint of anything wrong, but his complexion had lost some of its chalkiness, and his lined face broke into a smile.
“I’m feeling rather better today,” he replied. “Thought I might have a look in on this house party.”
“I believe the other guests are outside. It’s a lovely morning.” If, indeed, it was still morning. Lizzie was no longer certain.
“You’re not.” There was a pointed edge to Papa’s remark. His gaze traveled past Lizzie to land on Dysart.
“No, I’ve been assisting—” She broke off, unsure how to continue. Did Papa know of the reasons behind Dysart’s presence? Ought she even refer to him as Dysart, or was Papa aware of the man’s true name? That seemed likely, given Papa’s expression when she first introduced them.
“I see.” That was neutral enough. “And what of Snowley?” And that was decidedly not neutral. Those four simple words carried volumes of meaning.
“I haven’t seen him today.” By choice, but she couldn’t admit as much in front of Papa.
“Come to think of it, neither have I,” Dysart growled in a tone just as fraught with implication.
Lizzie turned a pointed glare on him. “Don’t you think you ought to leave things that way?” she asked through a fixed smile.
“No, I don’t. In fact, I’m highly curious to discover what he’s up to.” Dysart moved toward the door, with a nod to Papa. “It might be a good idea if I tend to that small matter now.”
Papa cast a speculative glace at Dysart’s retreating back before returning his consideration to Lizzie. Just what is going on here? He may as well have voiced the thought out loud.
To head off any further questions in that vein, Lizzie leapt to the offensive. “Are you certain it’s all right for you to be up and about?”
“Perfectly so.” He smoothed his hands down the front of his velvet waistcoat. Good heavens, he’d taken the time to dress properly for receiving guests. A superfine topcoat and breeches replaced his usual banyan. “In fact, your great-aunt Matilda’s…er…Well, Sven. He recommended I take the air on a more regular basis.”
Lizzie might have pointed out she’d said that very thing more than a week ago, but the notion of Sven communicating a thought in a way Papa could understand stopped her. “I didn’t think Sven spoke English.”
“He doesn’t. He jabbered a lot of nonsense at me in Swedish and your great-aunt served as interpreter.”
Good Lord, she didn’t want to consider how Great-aunt Matilda had picked up enough of the intricacies of Swedish to perform such a function. “So you’re happy to take the advice of a foreigner when you won’t listen to your own daughter.”
“Don’t look so put out, my dear. Sven was quite forceful. And I reckon it cannot hurt to try. At the very least, I can show a bit more courtesy to my guests and greet them all personally. I believe I shall preside over supper tonight, and I do hope you arranged for dancing?”
She hadn’t. She’d decided not to take the trouble of hiring musicians. And her current knowledge of the family’s finances made her glad she’d not gone to the additional expense of transporting performers in from London. “I’m afraid I didn’t consider it.” How she hated to disappoint him. “I can see if some of the young ladies might provide a little entertainment, but I’m not completely certain what sort of talent we have at hand.”
Heaven only knew she was hopeless behind the pianoforte, Caro’s fingers were better suited to a pair of reins, and Pippa preferred her paintbrushes to an instrument.
“It will not do for you three to provide the music. I intend to dance with each of my daughters tonight.”
A sudden knot in her throat had Lizzie struggling to swallow. She couldn’t remember the last time Papa had shown any interest in dancing, let alone with each of them. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said thickly.
“And I wish to see you waltz with Snowley.”
“Oh, Papa, really.” She didn’t need to say more. The pairing to open the soiree would certainly make a statement, especially in front of such gossips as Lady Whitby. It was easily as much of a declaration as Snowley leading her in to breakfast on his arm. “Did Snowley put you up to this?”
“Why would you think that? Besides, I just got through saying I’ve seen nothing of him today.”
“He could have asked you at any time.”
“And you know just as well that I’ve asked you to consider his suit.”
Yes, he had. Over and over. Although he’d originally claimed to want a match between Snowley and any of his daughters, of late Papa had been relentless about pushing Lizzie in her cousin’s direction. “Why are you so set on this match? Can you tell me that?”
“Oh, my dear.” Papa took a step closer, and brushed his hand along her arm. “To be frank, Snowley needs you.”
And what of her needs? She clamped her lips down on that particular retort, but she couldn’t stop herself from a short reply. “How?”
“You know I’ve no choice when it comes to my heir. Do you think if I did, I’d wish the estate to go to someone like Snowley?” Papa shook his head. “I realize the boy’s family, however distant, but he takes after his grandmother in a way. He simply has no sense.”
“I beg to differ. Great-aunt Matilda possess
es quite a lot of sense compared to Snowley.”
“My point exactly.” Papa put both hands on her shoulders, his knobby knuckles contracting in an affectionate squeeze. “If I had my choice in the matter…If I were allowed to do it, I would name you my heir.”
“Me?” She could barely breathe, let alone formulate a more coherent reply.
“You, my dear. You’re the most capable of my daughters. You’ve proved it over and over.” He caught her gaze, his eyes clearer than she’d seen them in recent memory. Not a single cloud of medication marred his gray irises. “It is a burden, I know, but so is running an estate. I simply wish to ensure my lands pass into the proper hands after I’m gone. Do you understand?”
How could she not? “Yes, Papa.”
“Then you know why I’m so adamant that you consider Snowley’s suit.”
“Considering is not the same as putting on a show before society,” she replied faintly. Thank goodness Dysart had resolved to stay away and thus would not be present to witness the display. “People will talk, as you well know.”
“It is only my wish to see you properly settled.”
Properly settled, yes, but happy? The problem was, she didn’t have the heart to tell him. Not now.
Even worse, she suspected he already knew.
Chapter 15
Like any proper gentleman of his station, Papa was as good as his word. He turned up, dressed in dark blue superfine and a perfectly starched cravat, in the drawing room to preside over sherry. A wash of pink stained his cheeks, hiding the ever-present smudges beneath his eyes. Glass raised, he smiled at the company and downed his portion of deep ruby liquid.
In Lizzie’s opinion, something had happened to shave years off his appearance, but she couldn’t place her finger on what. Could there possibly be something to Sven’s cures?
Through course after course, she watched Papa from her place at the foot of the table. He partook of everything, eating with surprising relish. Or perhaps not so surprising, given his usual fare. Properly spiced beef and richly sauced fowl surely beat a steady diet of offal.
Lizzie wasn’t the only guest to take notice. Now that the gentlemen had joined the women in the drawing room, Lady Whitby gravitated toward the duke like iron filings to a magnet. Smiling, he leaned down and muttered something in her ear, and she threw her head back in a peal of laughter.
Pippa downed her glass of watered sherry in one go. “If she ends up joining the family, I shall never forgive myself,” she said low enough that only Lizzie heard her.
“Perhaps it’s Papa’s way of ensuring we accept the first offers to come our way,” Lizzie replied from behind her fan. “Or…” A new thought struck. “Do you think that’s why Lady Whitby hasn’t already run off with her nose in the air over all the scandalous goings-on? Because she’s had plans for Papa all along?”
Pippa blanched. “Heaven forbid.”
“You’ll want to watch that one,” chimed in a voice from behind Lizzie’s shoulder. Great-aunt Matilda had sidled up. “She had her heart set on being a duchess, back in the day.”
“What?” Try as she might, Lizzie could not call to mind an image of her papa as a young and robust man, even if she knew he must have been one, once.
“Oh, she had her cap set, did the future Lady Whitby.” Great-aunt Matilda gave an authoritative jerk of her head. “She may well think she’s got another chance at a better title.”
“What rubbish.” Pippa waved a dismissive hand. “What good would it serve for Papa to make her an offer when he believes he’ll be off to meet his maker any day now?”
“Does he look like he’s got a foot in the grave to you?” Great-aunt Matilda asked.
“Not tonight, no.” Pippa tapped her chin with her folded fan. “So what was he up to with all the dramatics before the party?”
“Ensuring it happened, I suppose,” Lizzie said. But that made no sense. Indeed, very little of the entire situation made sense. Without thinking, she cast a glance around the room, but couldn’t find what she was looking for. Whom she was looking for.
Dysart. She needed him to gather the various shards of facts and rebuild them into some reasonable semblance. She wanted him to turn them into a stained-glass window that would explain everything in a single clear image.
But he wasn’t in the drawing room—just as he said he wouldn’t be. The man had been as true to his word as Papa.
Because he’s a gentleman. As much as he tried to hide his upbringing, he couldn’t escape it.
To make doubly sure, she scanned the room once more. Pendleton lurked in the corner, a half-full glass of brandy in his white-knuckled grip. His gaze shadowed Caro. Blast it all, there was another good reason she needed Dysart’s presence—as a deterrent. And if another fight broke out between the men, at least she’d have an excuse to send Pendleton packing.
Papa certainly hadn’t noticed the growing tension from that sector. Lady Whitby commanded his complete attention, her lips flapping like a bird’s wings, recounting heaven only knew what amusing anecdote. She pressed a glass of sherry into Papa’s hand.
Lizzie caught her breath. That glass might be perfectly innocent. Then again, it hadn’t come from a servant’s tray, not that Lizzie had seen. Any number of others could have touched it before it came to Lady Whitby. Could she afford to take any chances, given even the slightest possibility of poison in the glass?
The entire room separated her from Papa. The most she could do was cause a distraction. Thankfully, Papa shook his head and set the glass on the mantelpiece.
Then he clapped his hands. “Your attention, if you’d be so kind. Lady Elizabeth has arranged for another entertainment. If you’d all like to follow me to the ballroom, we shall have dancing.”
Out of nowhere, Snowley appeared to offer his elbow. No doubt he expected her to open the first set on his arm. A statement, just like the others. His mark on her. She suppressed a shudder.
“Step aside, young man. Your turn will come.” Thank goodness for Papa, even if he had seen fit to throw Snowley a small bone.
“Are you certain you’re up to all this excitement?” Lizzie asked as he escorted her to the manor’s massive ballroom.
The servants had outdone themselves on such short notice. Hundreds of candles glittered in the chandeliers, casting a flickering glow over a riot of summer blooms gathered from the gardens. The scent of a cool summer evening wafted in from the open casements that overlooked the terrace. In one corner, partially hidden behind the fronds of a few potted palms, their makeshift orchestra sat at the ready, Anna Whitby ensconced behind a pianoforte and a few of the older chaperones brandishing bows.
Papa nodded his approval. “You’ve done well to put all this together so quickly. You’d make any gentleman here proud to have you on his arm.”
“Thank you, Papa.” What else could she say in the face of such blatant hinting? She had no need to point out that most of the gentlemen present were not expected to offer for her. Only Snowley. She clamped her teeth down on the inside of her cheek.
“As for your other remark…” Papa led her into the middle of the dance floor to the jaunty opening notes of a reel. “I shall choose to ignore it.”
“Papa—”
He held out a hand and guided her into the first steps. Layers of blush-pink silk frothed about her ankles. “I do not wish to hear any protests. Not tonight.”
The dance saw them exchanging partners, and Lizzie found herself circling Lord Allerdale. Somehow, he’d managed to ask Lady Whitby for this dance. Lady Whitby, who was partnering Papa, at least for the next few measures. She exploded into coquettish giggles more befitting her daughter than a woman her age.
And Papa, blast him, chuckled right along with her.
“What did Sven do to you?” Lizzie demanded the moment she got her Papa back.
“Haven’t we had this conversation? I seem to recall telling you earlier. Perhaps you’d like to try one of his cures.”
“You are n
ot acting…well, yourself,” she protested.
“I’m feeling better than I have for years. Since your mama died, if I’m being honest. I thought I might enjoy that time with my daughters.”
And Lady Whitby, seemingly, but she could hardly point that out. The mere thought caused her palms to prickle with guilt inside her gloves. Damn and blast. “Yes, Papa. You’re right, of course.”
Once more, they changed partners for the space of a few measures. For all that they’d been thrown together at the last minute, the orchestra was acquitting itself rather well. Lizzie had never heard that Anna Whitby was known for a particular talent at the piano, but perhaps she ought to be. Her fingers fluttered over the keys without a hitch.
“Pray it lasts, my dear,” Papa said when they switched back. “I never expected to live long enough to see all three of you settled, but I hope to witness at least one of your weddings.”
How a man of his age, and a duke at that, managed to sound coy, Lizzie would never know. What she did know was that he wasn’t referring to just any of his daughters. He was referring to her, and quite directly. “Why wouldn’t you be on hand to witness our weddings? Especially now that you’re feeling better?”
“I wouldn’t be so worried if you girls didn’t take so deuced long to make up your minds.” But then his smile faded. “No one knows what the future holds. As well as I am today, tomorrow is another story altogether.”
The music came to an end, and courtesy demanded they observe the niceties. Lizzie spread her skirts and dropped into a curtsey, while Papa bowed. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and he steered her off the dance floor. Straight toward the side of the room where Snowley waited, his chest puffed out.
From behind the potted palms floated the notes of the next tune, a familiar three-quarter rhythm.
Snowley stepped forward. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
Naturally he’d claim her for a waltz. Part of her wondered if he’d requested the next set on purpose. But either way, what choice did she have? Best get this over with now.
To Lure a Proper Lady Page 14