by Gaelen Foley
These two options were clearly meant to provide the two of them with their ruse.
His Grace had planned this rendezvous with care, she thought with slightly giddy amusement. But it was well that she’d already drunk most of that second glass of punch—the remainder of which had gone warm in her hand—otherwise, she might not have had the nerve to follow her co-conspirator into the recesses of the hotel with hundreds of people present.
A tipsy giggle escaped her for some reason—what, she now laughed at the prospect of ruin? But she shushed these thoughts away like wooly sheep blocking a country lane. Everything would be fine.
Amberley’s self-assurance was contagious.
So far, so good. With the ballroom at full capacity, it was easy to weave her way among the crowd until she was far away from her usual circle of friends.
When she finally stepped through the back corner doorway, the staircase was thankfully empty—except for His Grace, who was already racing up the stairs at top speed, passing by the floor with the ladies’ lounge.
She pressed her lips together to hold back another nervous laugh as he bent down to beckon her with an insistent look before springing up the last stair, out of view.
It was only after he’d vanished that she noted he had somehow kept his footsteps silent. One might almost deduce he has done this sort of thing before, she thought, holding back another giggle.
Anyway, since he was the one venturing into forbidden territory around the ladies’ lounge—not her—Maggie took the stairs at a more dignified pace, moving sedately. All the while, she was still fighting tipsy laughter. Sneaking away to meet a man in the middle of a ball?
She had never done anything so daring in her life. Well, except for last Thursday night, when she’d gone knocking on his door close to midnight. Lord, if anybody ever found out…
She smiled politely as two ladies emerged from the women’s private lounge and came bustling down the steps. Maggie nodded to them, waited a beat, and then, with her glass dangling from her gloved fingertips, she climbed the rest of the stairs oh so casually, one hand sliding along the banister.
But the moment she reached the landing, instead of heading for the nearby lounge, she glanced up at the next story, where, suddenly, a handsome head poked out over the staircase, peering down at her.
He beckoned to her again, and Maggie grinned. With a glance this way and that, she whirled to set her glass on a tray table by the wall, then hitched up her skirts and bolted up the next flight of stairs in a flurry of petticoats.
Heart pounding, she found her friend already gone when she reached the next landing, but the staircase continued upward, and so did she.
The continuous deep drone of voices from the ballroom gradually faded away as she ran up three more flights of stairs, zigzagging back and forth until her chest heaved like her bosoms might burst out of her gown.
He’d probably enjoy that.
At last, reaching the top floor of the luxurious hotel, a faint layer of perspiration dampening her brow in the several layers of her hot, formal clothing, Maggie spotted the duke waiting for her some distance down the corridor.
When he saw she had arrived, he strode on.
She continued to follow, still at a safe distance—and fortunately so. For just then, a door opened ahead and a pair of guests stepped out of one of the hotel suites. Maggie moved politely to one side of the hallway as the pair walked toward her, heading for the staircase.
Hiding her gulp, she lowered her gaze with a demure smile as the couple passed, engrossed in conversation.
Beyond them, Maggie saw that in that second she’d looked away, Amberley had disappeared around the corner ahead.
Given that more guests could pop out of any random door here at any moment, Maggie pressed on with a newfound surge of desperation not to be caught at her mischief. She all but tiptoed along the patterned carpet runner lining the elegant hallway.
Upon reaching the corner, she glanced around but did not see Amberley at all. The start of dread gripped her.
Oh no. I’ve lost him.
She’d be stranded up here and not even achieve what she’d taken this daft risk for. The hallway was silent.
He would not have slipped into one of these rooms, would he? Since this seemed unlikely, she ventured over to the one door she was rather sure wasn’t a guest chamber, as it was much narrower.
Ever so discreetly, she opened it and peered inside.
“Psst! Dukes do not hide in broom closets, darling,” came a roguish whisper. “Even I know that. Over here!”
She spun around in shaky delight, grinning again in spite of herself.
Amberley motioned to her from behind a swoop of velvet curtain framing an alcove niche at the end of the corridor. Then he ducked out of sight behind it.
Maggie closed the broom closet silently and stole over to the alcove, her heart skipping a beat as he pulled her into the shadows with him, whisking her out of view.
“You made it,” he murmured, steadying her gently when she stumbled and crashed against his chest.
“Barely!” she whispered breathlessly, not minding their contact a bit. She pushed a stray wisp of hair out of her face, and he grinned at her like a rascal.
Maggie smiled back, then realized she was blushing again.
“Oh, look at that view!” she whispered suddenly, averting her gaze in a wave of self-consciousness.
Their cozy little alcove turned out to be a recessed window nook, from which hotel guests could enjoy a marvelous view of London, presently lit up in all its nighttime glory—especially with the Season in full swing.
Maggie turned her attention to the view, refusing to gawp at her handsome neighbor again like the smitten virgin that she increasingly feared she was.
He drifted to her side and gazed at it with her. “Yes… Lovely.”
The sky was black above them, but below, the endless streets of London unfurled. Rows of streetlamps illumining the cobbled lanes, through which miniature carriages rolled back and forth.
Glowing mansion windows sparkled throughout this part of Town as Society played, and in the distance, bridges were strung with lanterns, while the onyx river flowed on, glittering with silver moonlight.
Yet with all the beauty of the capital laid out before him, she could feel her companion eyeing her.
She didn’t dare look over to confirm this sensation, however.
Not when the rich, caressing timbre of his baritone made her insides quiver with strange, fitful yearnings as he murmured, “Very lovely indeed.”
She bit her lip, acutely aware of his tall, muscular body beside her, his arm brushing against hers. All of a sudden, it dawned on her that this was want she was feeling. Raw, urgent desire, like nothing she’d ever experienced before.
The newness of it shook her. As did the realization that he probably knew exactly what to do with it. How to relieve the breathless agony that quivered through her for a moment, heating her blood.
“Did you have any trouble getting here?” he asked softly.
Somehow, she hid her thoughts and found her voice. “Um, no. Not really.” Calling back sanity somehow, she managed to look reasonably natured as she turned back to him. “It was actually rather fun.”
He took this in with a curious smile.
Maggie cleared her throat and sternly reminded herself that they were supposed to be here for practical reasons. Right.
She had to give him—as promised—the details she had learned about the suspects on his list of names.
This was part of their bargain.
Still, it was hard to clear her head and focus when he stood so near. A proper girl should’ve worried that, alone like this, he might try something inappropriate. She rather wished that he would.
Stop it, she ordered herself. This was not like her at all.
She looked up again to find the duke studying her intently, as though sensing the war going on inside of her. Those shrewd blue eyes glittered in the sta
rlight coming in through the window, while the darkness of their alcove wrapped around them…like a black satin bedsheet.
God. She shuddered with another subtle pang of desire, then fought the impulse away, staying her mind on the task at hand as best she could. A lady was not a creature filled with lust, ever.
Mama would be so ashamed of her. Maybe I’m drunk. I don’t think I am, but…ugh.
With that, Maggie remembered her morals. Right. She ignored his magnetic appeal and turned her full attention to the business at hand.
She had already told him she had serious doubts that any of the men on his list might be the killer, but the major was the expert on such things; he could decide for himself if any of these fellows warranted further inquiry.
For her part, Maggie was eager to show him what a useful ally she could be.
Just in case there ever came a time when he did not have to worry about being murdered anymore, and could start looking for a wife.
After all, with her Bryce match terminated, she still had to marry someone, and getting out of Delia’s house sounded all the more appealing if it meant joining Amberley in his. Especially when she thought about a husband’s marital rights…
Ack! Stop it, now.
Her smile was ever so polite as he touched her elbow gently, bending down a little to speak more intimately with her. “My lady, I wanted to thank you for introducing me around to your friends. That was…so kind of you.”
“Nonsense.” She blinked away the spell with a bright smile. “I said I would. Besides, they’re your neighbors, too. You’d have met them eventually.”
“Ah, but your introduction, I think, disposed them to look more favorably upon me than they might have otherwise done.”
“Well, they all seemed to take to you at once. Not that I’m at all surprised. You’re a decidedly likable fellow.”
His eyes twinkled. “Don’t tell my troops that.”
“War’s over, Your Grace.”
“So they tell me. And your friends aren’t bad, either, for Englishmen.”
She snorted at his teasing. “How now! Enough of your cheek, sir. Wait till you hear all I’ve found out for you. I have been a very busy bee this past week, so now I shall dazzle you with my full report.”
* * *
Dazzle me? Connor thought. Didn’t the lass know she’d done that from the first moment he had laid eyes on her?
It was strange, actually, to think he’d only known her for a se’nnight. She felt so much more familiar to him than that by now.
They worked together well, he decided as he listened to her begin filling in the details on the last five men ever to see Granduncle Rupert alive. She was proud of herself for all the facts she’d sniffed out, it was plain, and he found her pleasure in the telling rather adorable.
But he forced himself to focus on the information.
“Lord Clayton Bexley is an undersecretary at the Treasury,” she said, keeping her voice down. “He’s a younger son of the Marquess of Liddicoat, and he was seeing your uncle on business, according to my sources. His father, Lord Liddicoat, wanted your uncle’s vote on a budget proposal he was circulating. Harmless, in my view.”
“Sounds it,” Connor said cautiously, trying to be subtle about his enjoyment at inhaling her perfume.
“Second,” she continued with a businesslike air of importance that made his heart clench, “we have Gideon, Baron Curnow. You may have noticed Lord Curnow out and about. Bit of an eccentric. Tweed hat, walking stick, beard, country clothes in Town, always travels around with at least one dog.”
“Does he?” It was difficult not to touch her, let alone pay attention.
She nodded briskly. “He writes in lots of periodicals about agricultural improvements. That’s his expertise. Enclosures, livestock, irrigation, the proper care of the woodlands on one’s estate. All matters pertaining to country life.”
“Interesting.”
“Your uncle must’ve thought so. From what I was able to learn, Duke Rupert sought a meeting with Lord Curnow to get his advice on land usage at Dartfield Manor, his favorite of the estates you apparently inherited.”
“That’s where he died,” Connor said.
“Is it? Well, that’s why they met. Most likely, to talk about land.”
“Hmm. That one sounds harmless, too,” Connor said.
“Third, we have Mr. Benedict Dewitt, a gentleman in his sixties. Spectacles, soulful stare, pipe. He lives in Hanover Square. Mr. Dewitt is a wealthy widower whom your uncle counseled, probably falling back into his former role as vicar out of habit, after Dewitt lost his wife. Mrs. Dewitt died unexpectedly of typhus, and several ladies told me the poor man took it quite hard.”
“Aha. Ladies’ gossip? That’s where you gained your information?” he asked in a mild tone, raising his eyebrows.
“Ladies know more about what goes on than you may imagine, Your Grace. Those scandal-broth sessions we love so much can yield more than just idle gossip, you know. But all this comes from a variety of sources. Don’t worry, I was entirely discreet.”
“I’m not worried,” he said, surprising himself to discover it. “Do go on.” He was enjoying this immensely. What a clever girl. Resourceful. Reliable, too.
A man could do worse.
“Fourth,” she continued, “Bishop Viscount Humphries, whom you saw downstairs in the ballroom. Your uncle and he were acquainted since divinity school.”
“Oh? Were they friends?”
“Except for a few pointed disagreements on matters of theological doctrine, they were.”
“Hmm.” Connor furrowed his brow. “Hard to think of a bishop as a killer, anyway.”
She chuckled. “To be sure. Last on the list, we have Sir Barnaby Lynch, who I can personally vouch for—a dear old man, nearly eighty. Smiling, buoyant, happy. Around Town, we call him the Christmas elf. I would wager he was in touch with your uncle for his usual Christmas charity drive, benefiting war widows and orphans.”
“I see. Harmless again,” Connor murmured.
She nodded. “Especially the Christmas elf.”
Connor sighed. “Then I’m no farther in all this now than I was a week ago.”
“I tried,” she said with a shrug.
He squeezed her arm in reassurance. “No, no, I’m not blaming you, my dear.” Then he froze, wondering belatedly if touching her like that was far too familiar.
He withdrew his hand awkwardly, lowered it to his side, and cleared his throat a bit with chagrin. Last week, it hadn’t bothered him to make her bare her ankles, but now, he cared very much what this girl thought of him.
Which was highly unusual in itself.
He cast about for a quick change of subject. “Actually, it’s astonishing that you managed to do all this in a week. Wellington should’ve hired you for a spy.”
She laughed, not looking at all offended by his brief touch. “Well, Your Grace, a lady has vast swathes of free time, and I’m dreadful at needlepoint.”
He snorted at her jest. He liked her sense of humor.
“Besides, I’ve become rather a dab hand at research through studying possible future husbands.” With a wry chuckle, she glanced back toward the picture window and folded her arms across her chest. “A practice I frequently had to repeat, after all the men Delia chased away.”
“What? What do you mean?” he asked at once, crossing the alcove in a step or two to stand beside her.
But it was not the view of London that enchanted him.
She waved his question off idly. “Delia did her best to make me look like a fool to any man who showed an interest.”
Connor jolted to attention. “Did she indeed? Why would she do that?”
“To amuse herself, probably. She claimed she was protecting me. It was ‘for my own good.’”
“I don’t like hearing this.” He stared at her. “Your own sister got you jilted?”
“Well. At least they weren’t rude about it, usually.”
“I
don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, really.”
“Huh,” he said after a moment, setting his hands on his waist. “So…that explains your former match with Bryce?”
“He wasn’t my first choice,” she admitted. “At least he wasn’t frightened away by Delia’s games, though. I’ll give him that.” A low, awkward laugh escaped her. “Yet I got rid of him all the same, didn’t I?”
“You’re better off,” he said automatically, then realized perhaps it was too blunt of him—as usual.
She didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, believe me, I know.”
Connor was relieved he had not offended her. Still, he could not suppress his indignation on her behalf. “I can’t believe your own sister would do that to you.”
“She’s been picking on me since we were little girls. I’m used to it.” Then she elbowed him, clearly wanting a change of subject. “What of your own progress? Did you find out anything useful this week about all this?”
“Alas, no.” He checked his roiling anger at her sister to answer the question. “Though I tried. I spent the past week retracing my steps.”
“What do you mean?”
“In hopes there might’ve been something I missed back in January after the poisoning—because, believe me, I was nigh blinded by rage for a few days—”
“I’ll bet.”
“They nearly killed my best mate.”
“Oh…I’m so sorry. Who’s that?”
“Sergeant Rory McFeatheridge.” He grinned. “Don’t think ill of me when you meet him. He’s not the most refined chap. But there’s more to Rory than meets the eye.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Is he in London?”
“No, he went to some family in Portsmouth to recover from his ordeal. He’ll be back at some point.”
“And this week you said you retraced your steps?” She folded her arms and leaned against the window frame, watching him, listening.
“Yes, I went back and spoke again to the family solicitor to see if he had any opinion on the dukes’ deaths, any possible leads. He didn’t.” Connor shook his head. “He’s a fact man. He believes it all happened exactly as stated in the coroner’s reports.