by Liz Carlyle
But Napier followed her in and set away his stick with a loud clack! that severed the odd, fanciful moment. The door slammed shut after him just as a second horrific hiss sounded, and the train lurched. Lisette, still perched crookedly on the edge of her seat, was thrown sideways. She landed awkwardly, but Napier’s hand whipped out to steady her, catching her firmly beneath the elbow.
Embarrassed, Lisette clapped a hand onto her hat to secure it. “Well, that was a near-run thing,” she grumbled as his hand slid away. “Cutting it close, weren’t you?”
He looked at her blandly. “Until Jolley saw you drive up, we weren’t ticketed,” he said, settling back onto his banquette. “I did not expect you to turn up of your own accord.”
Lisette glared at him. “I sent round a note yesterday,” she said, “accepting your . . . well, let us call it your kind invitation.”
He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “I assumed it a ruse—something to throw me off guard.”
Lisette rolled her eyes. “Alas, poor Napier!’ she said. “Such an innate distrust of human nature. I wonder how you live with yourself.”
Was it her imagination, or did Napier’s mouth twitch?
“I manage,” he replied.
He turned that dark glare to the window, staring out at the tall iron columns of Paddington as they slowly slipped past, and the rhythmic ring of metal upon metal came faster and faster. The man sat as if he owned the compartment, she noted irritably, his arm stretched the length of the banquette, his legs set wide, and his fine cloak tossed over the seat beside him.
Lisette regarded him in silence, as if she might will him to speak further. After some five minutes, it worked.
He turned from the window, and fixed her with a stern eye. “You understand, then, that I mean to hold you to your bargain?” he finally said in his low, rumbling voice. “And I warn you, Miss Ashton, I’ll brook no opposition to my instructions, nor put up with any of your deceit.”
“Why, I would not think of it,” she said sweetly. “No deceit at all—or none, that is to say, save that which you’ve already blackmailed me into.”
He cut her a long, assessing look, the first time he’d allowed his eyes to actually linger. They drifted down her face with a studied interest, as if he knew not what to make of her.
She sensed an odd sort of reluctance in him today, and began to wonder if he were regretting his impulsive plan. And impulsive it had been; Lisette had realized that much even as he’d bellowed his orders in her parlor that day.
And yet Napier did not seem a man much given to impulse. He seemed cold, and utterly calculating. What would he have done, she suddenly wondered, had she indeed not shown up this morning? Was it possible he might have been secretly relieved, caught the later train, and gone on about his business?
“I think, Mr. Napier, that you are regretting our little bargain,” she ventured.
He said nothing for a long moment. “I’m fairly confident I will live to regret it, yes,” he finally admitted. “This trip is a delicate business. But like a fool, I let my temper lay my plan.”
“And you do not trust me,” she added.
“And I do not trust you,” he echoed, one corner of his mouth lifting in a grim smile. “Indeed, I feel rather as if I’ve seized a wolf by the ears.”
“Oh, and I have not?”
Then, letting her head fall gracelessly back against the banquette, she gave a deep sigh. “I should have run, shouldn’t I?” she went on. “You’d not have caught me—I think you would not have. But you’d have hounded me, I daresay, to the hinges of hell out of sheer spite.”
“Without question,” he admitted.
“But I did turn up, and now we are stuck together,” she said, “at least until the next station.”
They said no more for a time, but merely sat in the silent shadows of the compartment as the rhythmic clack-clickity-clack of the train sped up and the edge of suburban London rolled away.
In gentlemanly fashion, Napier had taken the reverse seat, leaving Lisette to look out upon the approach of Notting Hill. She noted the creep of civilization with bland disinterest until there was nothing but countryside flying past, and nothing but silence within.
She cleared her throat sharply. “Where do we go, precisely,” she asked, “and how long have we?”
“Something around three hours,” he replied, “to Swindon Junction, where we will make our way into the godforsaken backwaters of Wiltshire.”
She tried to give a sarcastic smile but to her horror, it wobbled. “So you don’t mean to let me off at the next station?”
Napier was looking out the window again, his brow deeply furrowed.
Could he actually be considering such a thing? And why did the notion leave her with a faint stab of disappointment? She was more than a little afraid of Napier. There was nothing remotely approachable about the man. He distrusted her, understandably. But he also disliked her. Loathed her, perhaps.
Was that what troubled her?
Well, that, perhaps, and the fact that her whole life had just fallen apart again.
Inexplicably, Lisette felt tears spring warm and bitter behind her eyes. Better than half her twenty-seven years had been lived with one single, if slowly galvanizing, intent: vengeance. And now that she had tasted it, the thing was bitter as ash in her mouth. As if she had emerged from some near-madness like a mole popping its head out into the light of day, only to be blinded by sudden clarity.
Surely, surely there was something more to her life than that? And if she did not find it—or find, at the very least, some temporary distraction—she really might go mad. But good Lord, was Royden Napier all that was left to her? Did she actually want to go to Wiltshire in his company?
At the moment, it seemed so. Such was her desperation to escape herself.
“Look here, Napier,” she said, “I may have made a deal with the devil, but—”
“Did you now?” His head jerked around, one dark eyebrow crooking a little dangerously.
Lisette lifted one shoulder in feigned nonchalance. “This moment, yes, it feels like it. But I am here, am I not?”
“And why does that thought little comfort me?” he murmured.
Lisette glowered at him. “Well, with that attitude, we’re in for some miserable days.”
“Aye,” he muttered, “or weeks.”
“How utterly delightful,” she said mordantly.
“Why, had you a schedule to keep to, Miss Ashton? Someone else to persecute or scam or fleece, perhaps?” Napier’s gaze had hardened. “By the way, kindly remove that dreadful wig.”
“But—” Lisette stared at him. “But I haven’t any hair.”
“Yes, you do,” he countered. “Moreover, it suits you. The wig does not.”
“Short curls went out when Caro Lamb died,” Lisette warned, lifting her hands to unpin the wig. “But if you wish your fiancée to appear unconventional, I daresay it’s nothing to me.”
“Miss Ashton,” he said blandly, “there is nothing remotely conventional about you—and no wig will ever hide that fact.”
Lisette could not tell if she had been insulted or complimented. But she removed the wig, unfastened the short pin curls Fanny had so carefully wound, then raked her fingers through to loosen them. Across the carriage, Royden Napier watched her hands fixedly, but said not a word.
Lisette did not bother to put her hat back on for it now held the wig and all the pins. Instead she turned her gaze to the window, shutting herself off as he had done earlier. Trees were flying past now; an old orchard lining a low stone fence. Stone as hard as her heart. Trees as warped with age, perhaps, as her bitterness had warped her.
She did not want to let go of that bitterness, and her hard heart had been hard won. She was going to help Napier—for reasons mostly selfish but perhaps . . . just perhaps a tiny bit altruistic?
Still, that didn’t change what she’d done. It certainly would not change what Napier was—or what he thought o
f her. Nothing, she feared, would repair that damage. And nothing was apt to soften that ruthless look in his eyes or that perpetual sneer upon his lips. She told herself she really didn’t give a damn, and prayed that it was true.
Lisette turned from the window and fixed him with a hard stare. “Well, then,” she said. “If you don’t mean to let me go, we’d best get on with it, hadn’t we?”
One eye narrowed. “Get on with what?”
“Getting our stories straight,” she said. “Heavens, you’re a sort of policeman, are you not? How are we to manage this little hoax of yours if we haven’t a plan?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, his sneer twitching. “I defer to the expert. How shall we begin?”
“Firstly,” said Lisette, “I should like to know if you think Lord Saint-Bryce died a natural death.”
Suspicion flared in his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“And secondly, I should like to know your precise connection to the gentleman.”
“Would you?” The suspicion softened but little. “And I should like to know how—”
She threw up a hand, palm out. “Yes, I helped out in my uncle’s newspaper business, Mr. Napier,” she said. “I have some idea how to dig out facts. You said you were going to see family. In Wiltshire. Specifically, to a house in mourning. And you instructed me to pack my most elegant clothing.”
“And so . . . ?”
“And so the facts tell me that there was but one gentleman of great consequence who died in all of Wiltshire these last three months or better, and that was Baron Saint-Bryce, so—”
“Good Lord,” he interjected.
“—so one can only conclude you have some relation to him,” she pressed on. “And since you seem no more happy than I to be making this journey, and since you have ordered me to confuse and waylay your relations, one must conclude you are investigating something of a criminal nature.”
“Good Lord,” he said again.
“Yes,” said Lisette impatiently, “He is. But He is not apt to help either of us, is He? So you may as well cease using His name and just tell me who is who and what is what in Wiltshire.”
He shot her a dark look. “You seem to have grasped a vast deal without my having said a word. Why do I not permit you to simply carry on?”
Lisette forced an indulgent smile. “Come now, Napier, I’ve accepted your bargain. Is there any reason I should do it halfway? Better a good job swiftly done, and all the sooner we’ll part ways. That’s how I see it.”
“Aye, now there’s a bit of logic to cling to,” he grumbled, “along with my sanity, I pray. But very well. Saint-Bryce was my father’s elder brother. And I have no notion what killed him. His death, however, was sudden, and occurred mere weeks before he was to marry again.”
Lisette pondered the explanation for a long moment. “But his family name is Tarleton,” she finally said. “Are you a bastard?”
“Perhaps. But my parents were married.” There was a glint of sardonic humor in his gaze, and for the first time Lisette realized his eyes were not really black, but a dark, lustrous blue. “My father took his wife’s name. It’s rather a long story.”
“And this is rather a long train ride,” Lisette responded. “But we’ll let that go for the nonce. We’re traveling then, I collect, to Burlingame Court?”
“Yes,” he said laconically.
“Which was the home of Baron Saint-Bryce and of . . .” Here, she considered it. “His father, who would be your grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“So your grandfather, then, is Viscount Duncaster?” she pressed. “Really, Napier, must you make me pull teeth here? I’ve lived half my life in America. I haven’t time to sort through a decade of newsprint along with the society gossip, too.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“You must tell me about these people.”
Napier tossed his elegant black hat onto the seat beside him, and puffed out his breath through his cheeks. “Very well,” he said. “Duncaster had three sons. My father, the Honorable Nicholas Tarleton, was the youngest, but left the family after a quarrel and was disowned.”
“Ah,” said Lisette. “Money? Or marriage?”
“Marriage,” said Napier. “Hence, there was no money. Well, no family money.”
“No, there usually isn’t,” said Lisette dryly. “But your father changed his name. That’s . . . impressive—well, it’s something, anyway—and it explains how you came to be earning your own crust. How often do you go home?”
“Every evening after work,” he said tightly. “But I’ve been to Burlingame only twice. Last year the Earl of Hepplewood wrote to ask the Home Secretary to—”
“And Hepplewood is married to your great-aunt, I collect?” she interposed. “To Lord Duncaster’s sister?”
“A half sister, yes,” said Napier. “The issue of a second wife. As to her husband, Hepplewood died at Burlingame after writing a strange letter to the Home Secretary. My great-aunt remains there, dripping crepe and venom.”
“At Burlingame? Not at her husband’s home?”
“I gather they’ve always spent a part of each year with Duncaster,” said Napier, “then moved in semi-permanently a year or two ago. One gets the impression Hepplewood’s seat in Northumberland is a drafty old pile.”
“Northumberland and drafty do not sound ideal together.”
Napier shrugged. “And Lady Hepplewood has always been willful, I collect,” he said. “She is much younger than her brother, much doted on, and prefers her childhood home. Hepplewood, being a diplomatic man, apparently obliged her.”
“Yes, I recall his political career,” Lisette remarked. “Was he not briefly the ambassador to the United States?”
“I believe so.”
“And such an important man might wish to remain close to London. Who manages his estates?”
“Some distant cousin.” Napier gave an offhand gesture. “Though Hepplewood does have a pampered, overweening son knocking about London.”
“Who is now Lord Hepplewood,” added Lisette.
“Yes. Tony, I think he’s called.” Napier’s gaze turned inward. “Aunt Hepplewood had him late in life and doubtless spoils him. Beyond that, I know little of the fellow save that he’s frightfully rich, lives in Clarges Street, and gambles incessantly—but only in the very best places, of course.”
“Never dropped by for dinner in Eaton Square, this dashing cousin of yours?” asked Lisette dryly. “I wonder why.”
“I daresay he did not fancy dining with a disinherited government drudge,” Napier returned, “any more than I fancied dining with a spoilt and arrogant wastrel.”
Lisette shrugged. “One imagines Burlingame a crowded place,” she remarked. “Saint-Bryce left children, did he not? And dear old Grandpapa Duncaster still breathes?”
Again, Napier’s mouth twitched. “Despite certain protestations to the contrary, I expect to find Duncaster quite in the pink,” he said. “And yes, Saint-Bryce has a married daughter who’s often about. The eldest is an avowed spinster and the third and youngest is still in the schoolroom.”
“And Lady Saint-Bryce?”
“There were two. The last died about a year ago after a long illness.”
“So both wives left Saint-Bryce with no heir,” Lisette murmured. “And he died before he could marry again. Interesting. Whom else I should know about?”
Napier grunted. “That’s it, thank God,” he said. “No, wait—Hepplewood’s cousin, Diana Jeffers. I gather she’s a companion to Lady Hepplewood.”
“Very well. Let us reprise who is who.” Lisette ticked them off on her fingers. “At Burlingame we have your grandfather Duncaster. Then his much-younger sister, Lady Hepplewood, now widowed. We have her son Tony, who resides in London. Her companion, Diana. And Saint-Bryce’s three daughters—give or take one. May I know their names?”
“The eldest, the spinster, is called Gwyneth, I think,” said Napier. “Anne is married to a baldi
ng, put-upon-looking fellow whom I merely glimpsed at the funeral. Bea is the little one.”
“Very well,” said Lisette. “At least I now have some idea who we’re dealing with. And yet you don’t mean to tell me precisely why you are going or what it is you suspect?”
“I do not,” he replied.
“As you wish.” Lisette lifted one shoulder. “I concede it wasn’t part of our bargain.”
Without further argument, she rose, dragged her carpetbag off the rack, then rummaged through it for paper and pencil. But just as she handed the bag up again, the train let go a loud whistle and lurched left, braking hard. Caught in mid-reach, Lisette was pitched violently backward.
“Oh!” she cried, tumbling.
But a pair of sure, strong arms caught her around the waist. The train straightened, the whistle faded, and Lisette realized she was staring up into Royden Napier’s piercing blue eyes, and splayed crookedly across his lap. One of his arms was lashed around her waist, and the other hand was settled quite snuggly over her right breast.
She swallowed hard, heat flooding her face. “Oh!”
The large, warm hand covering her breast slid away, but in no great hurry. “I beg your pardon,” Napier murmured.
Lisette seemed unable to respond, or even to think. They were so close, she could smell his musky, masculine scent and see the hint of black stipple that shadowed his cheeks. A shock of dark hair had tumbled over his forehead, softening the severity of his face but making him look faintly disreputable.
Lisette blinked up at him. “Heavens,” she managed. “How awkward—even given our pending marriage.”
The tension broke, Napier’s eyes glittering oddly. And somehow Lisette found the presence of mind to clamber off his lap, with Napier lifting her away as if she were no more than a feather. But his hands left her almost lazily, hesitating a trifle longer, she thought, than strictly necessary.
Seizing the luggage rack for balance, she shook out her twisted skirts, then sat down with as much grace as she could muster. The train had now clackity-clacked its way into a station—a mere shed of a place, from the look of it—and was grinding to a halt.
“Thank you,” she said, “for catching me.” She took up her pencil and paper, praying her face was not beet red.