A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  Sir Arnold drew closer, concern crumpling his face. As he neared Victoria, she couldn’t help but notice the faint odor of boiled chicken that seemed to cling to him. For the first time, the slick dampness of his receding hair caught her attention. Dismay shivered through her. She swallowed several times, resolutely thrusting away her reaction.

  He was a kind man, after all. A sweet man, and she was simply being ridiculous.

  “Oh, Lady Victoria,” Rose croaked in a hoarse voice. The maid’s thin fingers played with a button at the neck of the pelisse. “I—it is n-not my night off!” she stammered.

  Victoria closed the gap between them and placed a reassuring arm around her. “I am not angry—you have nothing to fear as long as you admit the truth.”

  “Oh—I—I can’t!” Rose moaned and covered her face with her hands, trembling under the weight of Victoria’s arm. “You’ll turn me off!”

  “I will not—truly!”

  “You will!” Rose’s voice rose shrilly. “You’ll turn me off, and I’ll be left on the street, alone. How will I support my babe, then—oh!” She broke off with a sobbing cry.

  “You will not be turned off, Rose! Don’t be ridiculous.” Victoria hugged her and then gave her a little shake, although she felt sick inside.

  Had her maid just admitted to being with child? Her stomach twisted. It had to be one of the other servants. It couldn’t have been—no, she wouldn’t believe it of her father. Nonetheless, the room tilted as the world around her spun. Whoever it was, he would just have to marry Rose. So it couldn’t be Victoria’s father.

  With a deep breath, she thrust her feelings aside and focused on the one, important question. “Just tell us the truth, Rose. Were you passing by Sir Arnold’s townhouse earlier this evening?”

  “Stop badgering the girl!” Colonel Lord Parmar strode forward and wrenched Rose out of Victoria’s arms. “Here, you! Wickson! A little of that brandy, if you please!” He waved at the sideboard where a silver tray rested, supporting a decanter of the rich, deep gold liquor and several small crystal glasses. With a stern glance under beetling brows, he frowned at Victoria and dragged Rose away by the wrist to a nearby chair where he thrust her down. “Sit, girl!”

  I never imagined he was that soft-hearted! Victoria couldn’t help staring at the colonel. Really—what had gotten into him?

  Wickson hurriedly slurped a great deal of brandy into one of the glasses and raced over to hand it to the colonel, watching the older man with concern. “Just the thing, eh? Feeling a bit under the weather?” His already protuberant blue eyes opened even wider when, instead of the colonel downing the drink, he handed it to the maid. “I say—what? What?” Wickson reached out and nearly grabbed the glass from the girl’s hand before he realized it was hardly polite to do so. “I say…” he sputtered. “Good brandy for a maid? Hardly decent…”

  The colonel faced him, a thunderous expression on his face, and his hands in tight fists.

  Stepping backward, Wickson raised his hands, palms out. “Never mind. Daresay she needs it. I need it, myself.” He hurried back to the decanter, poured himself an even larger portion, and gulped it down in one swallow. Gasping, he returned the crystal glass to the tray with a clatter that shook the glassware, making the glasses and decanter reel toward the edge of the sideboard. With nervous hands, he held the glassware in place on the tray until the tumult subsided.

  When he glanced up to see all the other guests staring at him, he turned beet-red, gulped, and poured himself a second brandy. This time, he managed to drain the glass and replace it without any undue excitement.

  Still feeling muzzy-headed, Victoria returned her gaze to the colonel. And Rose.

  Her maid was delicately sipping the brandy, distaste twisting her face at each small taste. The colonel awkwardly patted her shoulder and mumbled soothing remarks in a low voice.

  “Colonel,” Victoria said, unsure precisely what to ask. “That is—”

  He heaved a deep sigh and straightened to face her. “I suppose I should explain—should never have let it reach this juncture.” Exhaustion dragged across his features, deepening the lines and turning his skin gray. “There was no need to send for Rose.”

  “You took the tiara?” Victoria asked, aghast. She couldn’t believe it—the colonel? Why would he do such a thing?

  Exasperation tightened his mouth. “This is not about that ridiculous tiara, young lady. I certainly did not take it, and I can assure you, neither did Rose—Miss Redding. She had nothing to do with this matter.”

  “Then—em—why? That is, was she here?” Victoria asked.

  “Yes.” The colonel’s ramrod straight shoulders sagged. “It seemed harmless enough, a brief moment when we knew she would not be missed from your household. We have so few such moments.” His left hand found its way to Rose’s shoulder again, and he squeezed it gently.

  Rose reached up to touch his hand, though she kept her gaze fixed on the floor at her feet.

  “So few moments?” Victoria repeated.

  “Well, we should never have suited one another, Lady Victoria. Surely, you have realized that,” the colonel stated. The skin around his deep-set eyes crinkled as he looked at her, his gaze begging for understanding. “And my children need a mother—they have gone too long without the tender maternal influences of a woman.”

  “But… but, my maid? Rose?”

  He coughed and stood, if possible, even straighter. “I have seen too much and am too old to worry about what others think. We suit one another.” He glanced at her, his face softening with affection. “Miss Redding is a decent woman, and it will be my honor if she agrees to be my wife.”

  “But…” Victoria clamped her mouth shut before she wailed, but what about me?

  A shiver ran down her back. For one second, she wanted to demand her puce pelisse back, just to feel the comfort of the warm folds surrounding her. All her suitors were deserting her. And John… Her jaw ached as she strained to keep from glancing at him.

  He’d betrayed her. She couldn’t forget—or forgive—that. A familiar anguish welled up in her, tightening her throat. Her hands clenched at her sides. She’d thought she’d been hurt when Laverick abandoned her, but that was nothing compared to the wrenching feeling tearing her apart now. A raw wail filled her head, and only the most rigid self-control kept her from sobbing aloud.

  “Then that mystery, at least, is resolved,” Sir Arnold said with a smile, rubbing his hands together.

  Sir Arnold! Victoria looked at him, his cheerful round face and stout body, and realized with dismay that he was her only hope, the only one who hadn’t rejected or betrayed her.

  But I don’t love him! A small voice wailed. She took a deep breath. At least she would eat well in his household and have no complaints about his disposition. She could do worse.

  Or a great deal better. If only… No. She couldn’t think like that. She couldn’t forgive him. She was only a wager to him—a chance to win one hundred pounds from Mr. Wickson.

  One didn’t wager about things that were important—things that meant a great deal to one. She’d been a game—nothing more. She had to remember that, no matter how much it hurt, even if it felt like she’d been hanged and was twisting in the wind, slowly strangling to death.

  Forcing herself to pay attention, she realized that Sir Arnold was still talking. “…Perhaps we should forget the entire matter. Least said, soonest mended, eh?” He rubbed his hands together again, smiling at his guests.

  “But Sir Arnold, my tiara…” Mrs. Stedman objected, standing. “It is one of the few things I have left to remind me of my late husband.” Her gaze, sad and slightly accusatory, fell on Victoria. “We cannot simply forget about it.”

  “Well, no,” Sir Arnold agreed, shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “But if this girl had nothing to do with it, well, we can’t go about accusing our guests of such a thing! You must agree. It simply isn’t done!”

  “It may not be done, but w
e must do it,” Mrs. Grisdale stated as she, too, rose to stand next to Mrs. Stedman.

  The two ladies stared at Victoria, Mrs. Grisdale with thin lips and accusations hardening her gaze, Mrs. Stedman with a fretful, anxious look wrinkling her face.

  Sir Arnold looked from one face to the other, rubbing his hands together and a conciliatory smile trembling on his lips.

  Conscious of a growing warmth at her side, Victoria glanced to her right.

  John stood next to her. “May we have a moment?” John bowed to the ladies. “Lady Victoria and I must have a brief word.” He waved negligently, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond Mrs. Stedman. “A minor matter of little import.”

  “To concoct some tale, no doubt.” Mrs. Grisdale’s chin rose.

  “No, no—certainly not,” Sir Arnold said hurriedly. “Of course, Mr. Archer. Nothing easier. Ladies? Perhaps a glass of madeira?” He opened his arms to herd Mrs. Grisdale and Mrs. Stedman toward the sideboard, though neither one of them appeared to desire a glass of the sweet wine.

  A cold silence settled around Victoria. Despite her best effort to appear natural, she couldn’t look at John, couldn’t bring herself to gaze into his warm, brown eyes, knowing about his humiliating wager.

  “Would you care to have a seat?” John asked, moving closer to a nearby cushioned settee.

  “No, I would really rather stand.”

  Despite his cool air of assurance, she could feel his questioning gaze fixed on her face. She turned her side to him, facing the door.

  “This problem has proved more intricate than expected,” John said. “Did you have any luck?”

  Her gaze roved around the room, moving from one gentleman to the other. She shrugged. “I questioned everyone, but I can’t see how any of this could have happened.” Noting Lord Taggert idly leafing through a pile of newspapers left on a small, round piecrust table near a comfortable reading chair, she stiffened. She’d forgotten all about Miss Urick’s brother. Frowning, she said, “I failed to question Lord Taggert, however, though I doubt it matters.” She rubbed her temple absently. “This notion that I should recognize the answer plagues me, but I can’t see what it is.”

  “We will get to Taggert in a moment,” John replied. “Do not lose hope, Lady Victoria. We shall prove your innocence without a doubt.”

  “I can’t see how.” The bitter words escaped her before she could stop them. Weariness washed over her as the clock on the fireplace mantle chimed a mellow hour, the echoing bell-like tings sounding twelve times. She crossed her arms and held her elbows tightly, wishing she could simply walk out the door and return home.

  But even that would not mean peace. She would have to face the disappointed look in her parents’ eyes and know that they believed she was a thief. They’ve always thought that I was a thief, she corrected herself, the metallic taste of her bitterness harsh on her tongue.

  “The colonel—”

  “I believed him,” she interrupted John. “He was horribly embarrassed to admit that he’d been clandestinely courting my maid. He would never have admitted such a thing if it weren’t true.” Her mouth twisted. “I would never have believed such a rigid man would admit to loving a woman he would normally describe as a mere maid, but there you are.”

  “Or perhaps the tale provided a splendid excuse for meeting her to have her spirit away Mrs. Stedman’s headdress,” John commented with a cynical chuckle.

  Victoria shrugged, still unable to meet his gaze. The pain of standing next to him was tearing her apart. Her fingers tightened around her elbows. His pretense that everything was fine and that he admired her sufficiently to help her ate at her pride, at her very self. Her stomach clenched, leaving her skin feeling damp and her limbs shaky.

  “He did not steal it, of that I’m certain,” she said at last to break the awkward silence and shake off the betraying weakness.

  “It would be very agreeable if we could prove Mrs. Grisdale did it.”

  A hysterical giggle surged up Victoria’s throat, but she swallowed it and shook her head at John’s wry remark. “Do you really believe a woman would steal such a unique piece of jewelry? What would she do with it? She could never wear it—the piece would be immediately recognized.” She sighed. The more she thought about it, the more puzzling the theft became. “And a man, well, a man might do so in hopes of breaking up the tiara and selling the stones.”

  “Might not a woman do the same?”

  A grim smile stretched her mouth. “Perhaps, but I can’t see a woman wanting it for any reason other than to own—and wear—such a lovely thing. Which would be impossible in London. I can only believe that the thief is already regretting her impulse, if she took the tiara to wear it.”

  “Are you saying, then, that Mrs. Grisdale is out of the question?” John grinned at her.

  “Much as I would like to accuse her, I can’t see how she could have.” Victoria sighed. “I can’t see how any of them could have. Mrs. Grisdale’s reticule is too limp to contain much more than a handkerchief and bottle of smelling salts, and the same can be said for the other ladies’ reticules.” Looking around, she gestured toward Mr. Fitton. “And the men, well, you need only see how neatly their jackets fit to know they have nothing as awkward as a tiara stuffed in their pocket.”

  “I agree. Which can only mean that the headdress must have been secreted away someplace convenient.” John pulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. “And it is my guess that it will either be in the hallway or in this room, in a place that anyone might easily brush by and extract the thing on the way home.”

  Hope fluttered in her heart. If she could find it… “We could search for it,” she blurted out.

  He caught her gaze, his brown eyes growing dark. Her breathing stopped as she studied him hungrily. The shadow of his beard gave him a rakish air that made her long to step closer. His neckcloth was even more rumpled now, and his thick hair curled over his head, one lock hanging over his left brow. Her hand twitched, wanting to brush it back and feel the softness between her fingers. A hint of brisk sea air, with its suggestion of saltiness, clung around him, in sharp contrast to the overboiled chicken scent she’d noticed around Sir Arnold.

  This will never do. Without thinking, she blurted out, “I can’t be the one to discover it—everyone will believe I knew where it was all along.”

  “I—”

  “No, you can’t be the one to discover it, either,” she said in a rush. “They will think I told you where it was, or that you were helping me.”

  “There is that,” he agreed, his brows drawing together. He pulled his lower lip again. “A bit of creativity may be required.”

  “Creativity? What kind of creativity?”

  He smiled blandly, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. “Never mind, my dear.”

  Her temper flared at the careless endearment. How dare he call her dear? She stiffened, her mouth tightening. However, although her jaw muscles ached with the effort, she managed to control the flash of hurt anger.

  She smiled sweetly and said, “I will leave it to you, then, and speak to Lord Taggert.” Her gaze drifted past John’s shoulder to the crimson embers in the fireplace. “Though I’m sure you are far more creative than I, there is at least one shockingly convenient way to encourage everyone to take their belongings and go home.”

  Chuckling, a slow, sardonic grin twisted John’s mouth. “Oh, there are several ways. We shall see which one is the most effective.”

  With a shallow dip of a curtsey, Victoria turned. Fixing her gaze on Lord Taggert, she slipped across the room to join him.

  Face slack with boredom, Lord Taggert sat in the chair by the window, idly rifling through one of the newspapers from the table next to him. His gestures were slow, and his elbows rested heavily on the arms of the chair. As Victoria watched, his head bobbed down to his chest and then popped up. He shook out the newspaper and frowned at it, clearly trying to fight off his drowsiness. Finally, he took a sip from a glass of brandy and
set it down on top of the papers at his elbow.

  “Lord Taggert,” Victoria said as she stepped closer. “You must be wishing you had never come tonight.”

  “Not at all, Lady Victoria.” He got to his feet and shook out the newspaper before folding it neatly and placing it under the glass of brandy on top of the stack. “Very nice supper. You cannot fault Sir Arnold for his table.”

  “No, indeed,” Victoria agreed, smiling. She glanced up at him, assuming a coquettish expression. “You are so kind—I do so hope you will assist me.”

  Taking a step back, his legs hit the seat of the chair behind him, and he nearly fell into it. He twisted to grab the chair back, his wary blue eyes fixed on her face. The glass of brandy on the piecrust table teetered and then tipped over, the golden liquid quickly soaking into the stack of newspapers.

  Lord Taggert ignored it. “Assist you? Now see here, Lady Victoria, I—”

  “No, no. You misunderstand.” Raising her hands in a helpless gesture, she laughed. “I foolishly made a wager, you see—how many guests left the drawing room between half past ten and eleven. I have won, but only if you can confirm that you did not leave during your sister’s lovely concert.”

  “Leave?” Lord Taggert stared at her from beneath lowered brows. His freckled forehead gleamed where the thin, sandy hair had receded back an inch, giving him the aesthetic appearance of a solemn monk deliberating over a particularly troublesome point of theology.

  “Yes.” She nodded vigorously, feeling like an empty-headed fool. “Your sister plays beautifully, does she not? She must practice a great deal.”

  “Too much,” he grumbled, glancing over his shoulder to frown at the pianoforte.

  “Then you didn’t enjoy her concert?”

  “She plays Bach well enough, I suppose, but she should never have attempted the Haydn.”

  “But why?”

  “Are you tone deaf as well as a—” he broke off. “She should never have tried to play the Haydn.”

  As well as a thief. He didn’t need to say it—Victoria knew what he’d been thinking. Her left hand tightened where she held it against her waist. At least she knew he hadn’t left the drawing room, even if he hadn’t specifically said so.