A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to shake off the woman, but Mrs. Grisdale’s hold on her merely tightened.

  “Mrs. Stedman must be informed. This is a serious matter, young lady. As the daughter of a marquess, you may believe you can do anything that pleases you, but I assure you that could not be further from the truth!” Mrs. Grisdale dragged Victoria out of the room, despite her increasingly frantic denials and attempts to free herself.

  The light waved wildly in Victoria’s free hand. Visions of the oil spilling over them and setting their gowns on fire crowded out her embarrassment at being dragged in front of the other guests by Mrs. Grisdale. As Victoria passed the table in the hallway, she jerked around to put the lamp down. It teetered, the oil sloshing around in its base. She glanced over her shoulder in concern as Mrs. Grisdale pulled her along. The lamp finally settled on its base, the flaring, flickering light shrinking to a normal, happy flame.

  At the top of the stairs, Victoria tried once again to pry Mrs. Grisdale’s fingers loose. “Please, let me go!” Victoria insisted. “If you feel you must, why don’t you ring a bell and have one of the servants bring Mrs. Stedman here?”

  “Are you afraid of a scene, Lady Victoria?” Mrs. Grisdale asked, a grimly triumphant glint in her hazel eyes. Her mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Perhaps you should have considered that before you decided to steal that tiara.” With a sharp tug, she forced Victoria to follow her down the staircase to the first floor.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she walked behind her captor into the drawing room. Her stomach clenched and crawled as if she’d swallowed a handful of live ants at dinner—it felt as if the eyes of everyone in the room were fixed on her. A humiliating flush burned her cheeks.

  She wasn’t an errant five-year-old child to be chastened thoroughly as punishment, and yet that was exactly how she felt.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Grisdale didn’t stop or say anything until she’d drawn Victoria over to Mrs. Stedman.

  Their hostess was sitting with Victoria’s parents and the colonel at one of the white-covered card tables in the rear of the room. Playing cards were scattered over the snowy surface, and each of the players held cards in his or her hand. Frowning at his hand, the colonel was the first to look up. His expression grew even more irritated when he noticed them, his brows bristled over his deep-set eyes.

  “Well? What is it?” Colonel Lord Parmar asked, placing his cards face down on the table in front of him and pressing a hand down over them. “Well?”

  “Mrs. Stedman,” Mrs. Grisdale said, ignoring the colonel. She lifted her chin and stared pointedly at their hostess.

  “Yes?” Mrs. Stedman raised her gaze from her cards. Her brows rose as she caught sight of the box in Mrs. Grisdale’s hand.

  When Victoria shifted from one foot to the other, Mrs. Stedman’s thoughtful gaze swept from the jewelry box to Mrs. Grisdale’s fingers, grasping Victoria’s arm. She looked up at Victoria, her eyes wide with surprise.

  “I caught this woman in your bedchamber with your empty jewel case in her hands,” Mrs. Grisdale announced, her voice ringing with triumph.

  Although she tried to stand with her shoulders proudly squared, Victoria couldn’t help cringing. Her gaze fell to the jumble of cards on the table in front of her, wishing she’d decided to join the game earlier.

  Before Mrs. Stedman could respond, Victoria’s mother gently placed her playing cards face down on the table. She lifted her head and studied her daughter. The corners of her mouth drooped. She sighed heavily and shook her head.

  “Oh, my dear—why?” Lady Longmoor asked in a plaintive, long-suffering voice.

  “But I didn’t! I have done nothing wrong!” Victoria expostulated. She shook her arm free of Mrs. Grisdale’s grasp and reached out to touch her mother’s shoulder, her gaze fixed imploringly on her sad face. “I found the box, and that is all!”

  “Found the box and took the tiara!” Mrs. Grisdale said, her cheeks flushed with triumph. She looked around, her eyes bright. “You all remember—it was Lady Victoria who insisted—absolutely insisted—that Mrs. Stedman take off her tiara. Why else would she have been so insistent? She wanted to take it. There could be no other reason.”

  “She did seem very determined,” Mrs. Stedman agreed, though her voice was slow with reluctance.

  When Victoria glanced at her, Mrs. Stedman refused to meet her gaze and stared down at the linen-covered table.

  “You see?” Mrs. Grisdale asked. “She must have decided to steal the tiara as soon as she saw it!”

  “Lady Victoria—really!” Her father coughed into his fist before he heaved a lugubrious sigh. His shoulders slumped as he stared down at the table, his fingers playing with the cards, aligning their edges and then spreading them out again. “Surely, you are old enough to know this sort of behavior won’t do—not at all. Won’t do at all.” Lifting his head, he glanced across the table at Mrs. Stedman. Every day of his sixty years was etched on his weary face. “I must apologize, Mrs. Stedman, though there is no excuse I can offer you, except to say we shall not leave until your headdress has been returned to you.”

  “Father!” Victoria said in anguished tones, wringing her hands together. “Please believe me, I had nothing to do with this. I discovered the box on the floor—empty!” She pulled her pocket out from the slit in her evening dress and frantically removed the contents, spilling them onto the white tablecloth. A silver-chased bottle of smelling salts, a lace-edged handkerchief, a small tortoiseshell comb, and a tiny mirror clattered together, followed by the wooden cylinder of a needle case.

  Her gaze bounced from her father’s face to her mother’s, taking in their disappointed expressions. They didn’t believe her, even after she’d emptied her pocket. Her chest tightened until she could barely breathe. Looking around, she focused on John, who sat slumped in a chair by the fire, his eyes closed.

  As if sensing her stare, he straightened and turned his head in her direction. The firelight played over the hollows under his cheekbones and the pallor of his skin, but his brown eyes were sharp as he returned Victoria’s gaze. Placing his hands on the armrests, he pushed himself up, took a deep breath, and sauntered over to join her.

  Although he didn’t touch her, a sudden flush of warmth cascaded through her. Some of the tension tightening her shoulders relaxed.

  “What has happened?” he asked in a mild, almost disinterested voice, as if he believed that whatever it was, it was clearly nonsense.

  “Mrs. Stedman’s tiara is missing,” Victoria said before anyone else could speak. “I found her jewel box empty on the floor upstairs.”

  Before he could respond, Mr. Wickson hurried up and caught John’s arm. “I say—you’ll never guess who I saw hurrying down the street in that bloody puce pelisse—Lady Victoria! Saw her pass under the streetlamp at the corner. Wonder why she left.” He frowned and shook his head.

  John pried Mr. Wickson’s fingers off his arm and cleared his throat.

  “Eh?” Mr. Wickson’s brows rose. He looked around, his eyes widening when he realized he was standing not four feet away from Victoria. “I say—back again, are you? How the devil did you manage that when I saw you on the street with my own eyes not two minutes ago?”

  Feeling strangled, Victoria coughed and shook her head. “I assure you, I have not stepped foot outside since we arrived.”

  “Then it was some other chit wearing your puce pelisse,” Mr. Wickson stated with a frown. “No mistaking that ugly—er—delightful garment.”

  “Oh, Victoria—you were going to give that girl, Rose, your pelisse,” her mother murmured. She stared up at Victoria with sad eyes, her lovely mouth drooping at the corners.

  Victoria could only shake her head. Warm tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked furiously. She would not cry—she absolutely refused to cry.

  “You didn’t corrupt her as well, did you?” her mother asked in her soft, mournful voice.

  “Rose?” Her father eyed her. �
��You didn’t give it to your maid, did you?”

  “No—I swear to you—I didn’t do anything! I didn’t take it—I haven’t seen Rose!” Her voice rose tremulously.

  Panic rising to choke her, her gaze rushed from one suspicious face to the other. Everyone was staring at her with accusing eyes, disappointment and anger tightening their features. A thoughtful V creased the colonel’s brow, and he tapped the edge of the cards he held against the table as he studied first Victoria and then her father. She could almost hear him considering how best to withdraw his offer.

  The only one who seemed ready to believe her was John Archer.

  She gripped his arm, and looked up at him, searching his face. “I swear to you, I didn’t take that tiara!”

  Patting her wrist, he nodded.

  Chapter Eleven

  So, someone had taken Mrs. Stedman’s tiara. John studied the condemning expressions worn by the other guests and couldn’t help but think they were all idiots. Every last one of them.

  Even her parents, shame that it was.

  Clearly, Lady Victoria was innocent. Any fool could see that.

  “What about that chit on the street?” Wickson wailed, gesturing wildly at the bow window behind them. “I tell you—I saw her running down the street!”

  “Did you not give your pelisse to Rose, dear?” Lady Longmoor asked plaintively, her eyes fixed upon her daughter’s strained face.

  “I told her she could have it—I don’t know whether she took it or not,” Lady Victoria replied, her grip on John’s arm tightening.

  Her beautiful, delicate face was pale with tension, and her eyes shadowed. The urge to throw his arm around her was so strong that he took a step closer before he could stop himself. The wound in his side pulled, and a dull twinge of pain made him suck in a quick breath. Ignoring his own discomfort, he focused on the scene playing out in front of him like one of Shakespeare’s more melodramatic moments.

  Lady Victoria’s silken gown brushed against his leg as he pressed a steadying palm against the hollow of her back. Slowly, her rigid muscles relaxed.

  “Steady on,” he murmured softly. Glancing around, he said, “There is no need to make foolish accusations. I am sure if we permit cooler heads to prevail, we can discover what has happened to Mrs. Stedman’s headdress.”

  “Indeed,” Sir Arnold agreed heartily, relief wreathing his round face with a smile as he joined them. “No need for a fuss. Send for this Rose and request her to bring back the tiara. No need to discuss it further. Forgive and forget—that’s what I say. No need for all this bother.” He glanced around as if he’d never been in his drawing room before. “Ring for paper and whatnot, shall I?” His brown brows rose expectantly, and he ran a hand through the curls his valet had so carefully arranged earlier to disguise Sir Arnold’s receding hairline. His brown hair sprung up in response, forming a tangled crown across the top of his shiny head.

  Next to John, Lady Victoria sighed, released his forearm, and folded her arms protectively against her waist. “Perhaps it is just as well to request her presence. She will be able to tell you that I did not send for her, or arrange for her to take away anything from this house.”

  She sounded so tired, so discouraged, that John wanted to call a carriage and take her away. There was no reason for her to be treated so cruelly by those who loved her best and ought to defend her. Grinding his teeth together, he kept his coiling anger well-hidden behind a bland expression.

  “Certainly, we may send for your maid,” he agreed. “However, in the meantime, I suggest we do a bit of investigating of our own.”

  Sir Arnold clasped his hands behind his back and glared at the doorway. “The servants first, I suppose, though they have all been with me the last five years or more. Never caused a whit of bother before.” He strode over to the bell pull and gave it a strong jerk.

  When his butler appeared in the doorway, Sir Arnold gave him a series of orders.

  With a reassuring glance at Lady Victoria, John joined him. “Your name is?” he asked the butler.

  “Hankinson, sir,” the tall, almost cadaver-thin butler replied with a bow. His black jacket flapped around him when he moved, like the wings of a raven.

  “Well, Mr. Hankinson,” John said. “Can you account for the whereabouts of the other servants during the last hour or so?”

  “I believe we can, sir, between Mrs. Gascoyne and myself.” Hankinson bowed again.

  “Mrs. Gascoyne is the housekeeper?” John asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell him, man,” Sir Arnold said impatiently. “Give us an account, then. Where were you?”

  “Has there been an issue, Sir Arnold?” Hankinson asked instead.

  When Sir Arnold opened his mouth to answer, John interrupted. “Not an issue, no, not per se. We are simply trying to ascertain the whereabouts of those in the household for a matter with which you need not concern yourself.”

  “Very good, sir.” Hankinson fixed his black eyes on the doorframe above John’s head as a thoughtful expression smoothed over his long face. “The footmen and myself were clearing away the supper dishes, of course, while the maids cleaned the room.”

  “Mrs. Stedman’s maid?” John asked.

  “She was partaking of a small cordial with Mrs. Gascoyne.”

  “Sir Arnold’s valet?”

  “He was in the washroom with a pair of Sir Arnold’s boots.” His brows rose toward his bald dome. “Once Sir Arnold’s supper was cleared away, Mrs. Gascoyne and I felt it best to hold our own supper, and of course, all of the servants were present during that time. We had not quite finished when Sir Arnold rang.” His long, narrow face revealed nothing about his feelings concerning his interrupted meal, but his rigid posture and firm gaze planted on a point just above their heads indicated that whatever he felt, it wasn’t pleasure.

  Nonetheless, if the butler were to be believed, all the servants had been accounted for during the last hour or so.

  The guests had been in the drawing room, listening to Miss Urick’s attempts to play the pianoforte from approximately fifteen minutes after ten until half past, when many started drifting away. During that time, Mrs. Stedman had disappeared and reappeared later without her tiara. Which meant that the tiara had to have been stolen sometime between half past ten and eleven, since it was just a few minutes shy of that hour now.

  Frowning thoughtfully, John rubbed his right arm. Even though the wound was on his side and not his arm, the limb still ached and felt as heavy as lead. The bandage around his middle constricted his breathing in the manner of a corset, and a drop of sweat eeled its way down the side of his face before saturating his collar. Taking as deep a breath as he could, he focused on the problem at hand, rather than the discomfort plaguing him.

  “It must have been one of the guests,” a light voice said, echoing his own thoughts.

  “So it appears,” he agreed.

  He turned to find Lady Victoria at his side. Although anguish still darkened her lovely gray eyes, the gleam of intelligence shown, as well, fine and clear. A grin twisted his mouth.

  She had shaken off her initial despair at being named a foul thief and, pushing her emotions aside, had applied her mind to the problem instead. His admiration for her increased. Many men, as well as women, of his acquaintance would allow their passions to rule them under similar circumstances, melting them into a puddle of tearful incomprehension. It took backbone and courage to face a roomful of condemning faces, particularly when her own parents had unaccountably arrayed against her.

  The thought strengthened the deep bond he felt toward her, the sense that they were kindred spirits. He knew what it meant to be an outsider, without a family willing to acknowledge or support him.

  “We must try to determine where everyone was after Mrs. Stedman retired to remove her jewelry at half past ten,” Lady Victoria said, her gray eyes fixed upon his face. She glanced over her shoulder at the other guests, who were watching them curiously. “It will
not be easy—it is so indelicate—as if I were trying to absolve myself by thrusting the blame onto someone else’s shoulders.”

  “If you were not innocent, I would agree. But as that is not the case, then it is the only course open to us.”

  She nodded slowly in agreement, although her mouth drooped. “Perhaps I should question the ladies and you the men?”

  “The reverse, I believe,” he replied with a jaunty smile. “And I shall start with our dear Mrs. Grisdale, since it seems she was wandering about the hallways, herself, during that time.”

  “I wish you luck, then.” A rueful grimace twisted her mouth. She pulled her plump lower lip between her teeth to chew on it while she studied the other guests. “At least we can leave Miss Urick and Mr. Fitton in peace. They were at the piano. At least I think they were, weren’t they?”

  “Yes.” A wince tightened his face. “Unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately?”

  “I was unable to avoid hearing her attempt to butcher poor Mr. Haydn. If I hadn’t known the piece was in G major, I doubt I should have guessed it from her playing,” John said with an amused glance at the pair still infesting the area around the pianoforte.

  Lady Victoria’s hastily suppressed giggle rewarded John, and he was pleased to see her gray eyes sparkling with bright laughter. “She is not that unskilled.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d been in the room to witness her torturing that helpless instrument.”

  Her second attempt to stifle her giggles resulted in a soft snort. His grin widened as he gazed at her softly flushed cheeks and happy expression.

  She quickly sobered, though, when he said, “We must make a start of it, however, before some idiot sends for the authorities. It will not do to let this go too far.”

  “No, it will not.” Placing a hand lightly on his arm, she glanced up at him, her eyes filled with sudden concern. “You must wonder—that is—my parents… Well, you see once, when I was a child, I absentmindedly caught a ribbon in my sleeve. I was going to return it as soon as I realized, but my mother caught me first and was sure that I was trying to steal it.” Her blush deepened, and she dropped her gaze to stare at one of the gold buttons on his jacket. “It was terribly embarrassing. I didn’t know what to do. When I tried to explain, no one would believe me.”