by Burke, Darcy
Eyes narrowing with purpose, Beatrix held her head high. “It seems we’re both going to get what we want very soon.”
No, Selina would never get what she wanted—a reunion with her beloved brother, the boy who’d kept her safe for years on the streets of London after they’d been orphaned. Then he’d sent her away to Mrs. Goodwin’s Ladies’ Seminary to keep her even safer and to ensure she had a better chance at a future than she would have had in the East End.
How wrong he’d been.
Mayhap her life had been better. There was no way to know. Either way, here she was, nearly right back where she started. And Rafe was gone.
So while she might not get what she wanted, she’d seize the next best thing: revenge.
Chapter 4
Harry slipped his finger between his neck and his overly starched collar and cravat and gave the fabric a gentle tug. His valet had gone to excess with his costume this evening, but then it had been a while since Harry had attended anything but a family dinner at his parents’ house.
The discomfort of his overly elegant clothing extended to his mood—he didn’t like these kinds of events. Pomp, fabrication, and excess. Though his parents did better than most as far as whom they invited and the expense they laid out, it was still far and beyond what Harry thought was necessary. Why not just invite a handful of friends over to play cards?
Because there will be dancing!
Harry heard his mother’s dissenting opinion in his head along with her effusive laugh and couldn’t help but smile. Yes, dancing, and he’d avoid it like the bloody plague.
Settling back against the squab and dropping his hand to his side as the hack turned onto Bond Street, he thought back on another pointless afternoon watching The Ardent Rose. The past five days, he’d either stationed himself across the street or observed the alley, onto which the back entrance opened. He had yet to see Madame Sybila leave the perfumery. She was either watching him and adjusting her departure, or he was incredibly unlucky.
Four days, actually, since he’d deduced that she hadn’t been there on Thursday. He’d paid someone to go in and ask about the fortune-teller’s schedule. She didn’t make appointments on Thursdays—or of course Sundays.
What he really needed, however, was to learn what she did during her appointments. He supposed it was possible she wasn’t up to anything fraudulent, but he wasn’t going to wait for her to cheat his mother or one of her friends to know for certain.
His mind turned to the other investigation weighing on him: that of the Vicar. Harry had visited St. Dunstan-in-the-West and asked to see the Vicar only to be told there was no person by that name, just the actual vicar of the church. So Harry had watched the church for hours at a time—and seen nothing. He’d also asked around Blackfriars and learned that there was still no one willing to discuss the Vicar, let alone give a description of what he looked like. The man either paid people well or inspired a deep loyalty.
The hack turned onto Grosvenor Street, and soon cut through Grosvenor Square before turning onto Charles Street, where Harry got out.
He strode into the mews behind his parents’ house, where he greeted one of the grooms. “Good evening, Barker.”
“’Evening, sir,” Barker said. “Surprised to see you here tonight. But not surprised you’re stealing in the back.” He chuckled.
“You know me well.” Harry winked at the groom, then took himself to the house, entering through the back door that the servants used.
Sounds from the kitchen carried up the backstairs, giving indication of how busy they all were for the soiree. It was early yet, and Harry could only hope Lady Gresham and her sister arrived near the start so he could leave as soon as possible.
Harry opened a door and stepped into the corridor that led to the library at the back of the house, where his family typically gathered before dinner—and before events such as this. He heard their voices before he stepped inside.
His brother Jeremy, Viscount Northwood, and whom everyone but Harry called North, stood just over the threshold and noticed him immediately, his dark auburn brows climbing his forehead in a combination of surprise and amusement.
Harry put his finger to his lips. He wanted to see how long it took before anyone else noticed he was there.
“That’s a beautiful color on you,” his youngest sister, Imogen, was saying to the oldest of his three sisters, Delia. “And the drape is perfection. It’s hardly possible to tell you’re increasing.”
“That can’t be true,” Delia said. “I feel as large as Lord Blakesley’s ridiculous new coach.”
“An absolute monstrosity,” Delia’s husband, Edward, Baron Moreton, said with a sniff.
Delia arched a chestnut brow at him. “You say that, but we will need one that big if we’re to cart four children about.”
“What a marvelous idea,” Imogen said, her dark brown eyes lighting with inspiration. “A vehicle for an entire family. One would think those would be readily available.”
“I believe that’s called a caravan, darling,” Imogen’s husband, Sir Kenneth, said with a smile from beside her.
“Well, that’s the definition of such a thing, and it involves multiple vehicles. Perhaps someone should design a family-sized vehicle called a caravan, so the whole family could travel together,” Imogen suggested. She cocked her head to the side. “Whom do we know who could do that?” Glancing about the room as if she’d find such a person within their family, she settled her gaze on Harry. “Well, look who’s here.” Her lips spread in a wide grin.
Every head in the library turned toward Harry. His mother gasped.
“Harry!” She came forward, her arms outstretched so that she took his hands when she reached him. “You came!”
“I said I probably would.”
“You always say that.” Her tone was wry, but her eyes were alight with pleasure. Letting go of one of his hands, she kept hold of the other and turned to face everyone. “Everyone is here—save the grandchildren, of course. How lovely.”
Harry’s middle sister, Rachel, narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you here? Is there an investigation afoot? Have Mama and Papa invited a criminal to the soiree?”
“Goodness, I hope not.” Harry’s mother sounded scandalized. She grimaced at Harry. “Is that why you’re here?”
“No, Mother.” He exhaled. “I finally come to a soiree, and everyone thinks I have an ulterior motive.”
Jeremy clapped his shoulder. “Because they know you.” He laughed. “Brandy?”
Harry nodded. A smile crept over his lips in spite of himself.
Their father walked to Harry with an approving look. “It’s good to see you here. I’m glad you came, whatever the reason.”
Harry knew the sentiment was genuine. “Since I asked you to add a pair of guests, I thought it only right I attend.”
“So you do have an ulterior motive,” Rachel said with a touch of triumph. Of his three younger sisters, she’d always teased him the most, and he expected nothing less since he’d been the one to teach her how to do it effectively.
“Not really. Mother and Father were delighted to welcome these guests as they are new to town. Since when is helping someone an ulterior motive?” Harry accepted the glass of brandy from his brother.
“And who are these guests?” Imogen asked.
Mother answered before Harry could. “Lady Gresham and her sister, Miss Beatrix Whitford.”
Jeremy stared at Harry. “They’re women? How on earth did you meet women who are new to town? They weren’t brought in front of the magistrate, were they?”
Several people in the library chuckled. Harry rolled his eyes. “No. I met Lady Gresham the other day. It’s a long story.”
“Please tell it,” Delia said with an eager smile.
“Later,” Mother said. “Guests will be arriving shortly. Come, girls.” She gestured for her daughters to join her. “Let us make one last pass through the main rooms to ensure all is ready.”
Harry’s sisters began to file past him. First was Delia, who paused briefly as she walked by. “I’m going to hear this story if I have to hunt you down later.”
“I’m sure you will.” Harry could only hope he was gone by then. If he told them the truth—that he’d nearly run the woman down while in pursuit of a child thief—they’d say it was a sign that he should marry her immediately. Trying to find wives for him and Jeremy was their chief objective.
After Delia came Imogen. “Shall we arrange for you to be alone with her?”
Rachel joined her. “But which one? Lady Gresham or Miss Whitford?” She scrutinized Harry as if she could divine the answer from his unamused face.
Harry lifted his glass and sipped his brandy without a word.
Imogen looped her arm through Rachel’s. “This soiree has suddenly become very interesting.”
Hell. Harry wished he’d never said anything. Or invited Lady Gresham and her sister.
No, he wouldn’t regret that. He was only trying to help. And Lady Gresham was…intriguing.
After the ladies had gone, Jeremy moved closer. “There isn’t any truth to any of that, is there?”
“Of course not,” Harry said. “I really was just trying to help Lady Gresham. Her sister is having her first Season. You may wish to steer clear of her.”
As heir to an earldom, Jeremy was a sought-after match. But, regardless of what their mother thought about him doing his duty, he had no desire to wed at present, especially to a young lady on the Marriage Mart. He’d been to Almack’s once and swore he’d never return. Which was once more than Harry had gone.
“I appreciate the warning.” Jeremy took a drink of brandy, and they went to join the other gentleman.
Their father broke away and came to Harry. He was a few inches shorter than Harry, and his dark hair, liberally streaked with gray, was beginning to thin. He possessed a warm smile and demeanor, both of which were on full display as he spoke. “I’m pleased you came. It makes your mother happy.”
“I know it does.” Harry should probably do it more often.
Father lowered his voice and leaned close. “Do you have any news about the fortune-teller? Your mother didn’t see her this week, as far as I know, but I don’t think she’s given her up, despite my insistence.”
Harry almost smiled. “The more you insist, the more she will cling to the woman. Perhaps if you leave the subject alone, Mother will simply lose interest.”
“Not bloody likely.” Father snorted softly before sipping his brandy.
“Well, I have nothing to report, unfortunately. Madame Sybila refuses to read the fortune of a gentleman, so I’m developing another plan. And no, don’t ask for details, because I won’t give them. Please let me do my job.”
Father held up his hand, his dark brown eyes flashing with irritation and then determination. “I do have information to share, however. Would you like to hear it?”
Harry kept the exasperation out of his voice. “Of course. Information is always helpful.”
“Lord Balcombe told me his wife donated a considerable sum to that charity suggested by the charlatan. He’s livid.”
“Do you know if Lady Balcombe gave the money to Madame Sybila or to the charity directly?”
“I don’t.” Father blinked, his gaze intent. “Does that matter?”
“Yes.” If Lady Balcombe had given the money to Madame Sybila, it could be theft—if the fortune-teller hadn’t given it to the charity as intended. “May I speak with Lord Balcombe, or are you still demanding I keep this investigation a secret for now?” Not that Harry hadn’t shared it with some of his fellow constables, such as Remy.
Father winced. “I don’t want your mother finding out I asked you to investigate.”
“She won’t know it was you. This is what I do, after all.”
“Then yes, you may speak with him. He should be here later.”
Harry groaned inwardly. He didn’t want to be here later. If he didn’t see the earl tonight, he’d pay him a visit tomorrow or the next day. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise this woman will not swindle Mother.”
“Thank you. I trust you to take care of this matter.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast before taking another drink.
A short time later, Harry and the others left the library to join the soiree as the first guests were arriving. Their father took his place beside their mother to greet people, while Harry and Jeremy went directly to the card room.
“You playing?” Jeremy asked.
“Perhaps. I should probably look for Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford first.”
“Careful, Harry, or I’ll think our sisters are right about your potential interest in one of them.”
Harry gave his brother a light shove that did nothing to move him, nor was it meant to. Then he turned and left the card room without a word, intent on going up to the drawing room, where he’d find a cozy corner to inhabit until Lady Gresham arrived. Hopefully, that would be very soon.
Luck was smiling upon him, for just after he’d taken up his position, Lady Gresham appeared in the doorway. Dressed in a stunning dark pink gown that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight, she was impossible to miss. Also because she was taller than most women, and tonight, with her golden-brown hair styled with a pair of white ostrich feathers, she seemed even more so. A single pearl rested against the hollow of her neck, and he found himself staring at the spot.
Forcing himself to look up, his gaze followed the graceful slope of her neck and the pert jut of her chin. He paused briefly on her mouth, a captivating bow, before moving even higher. She surveyed the room, and he imagined he could see the bright blue of her eyes—nearly the color of a robin’s egg—from where he stood. He couldn’t really, of course, so he pushed himself away from the corner and went to greet her.
“Good evening, Lady Gresham. I’m pleased to see you were able to attend.” He forced his attention away from her, which he found strangely difficult, and smiled in greeting to the petite young woman at her side. “You must be Miss Whitford.”
The younger lady curtsied, dropping her hazel gaze briefly before lifting it to meet his once more. Golden-blonde curls grazed her temples and cheeks. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sheffield. I just met Lord and Lady Aylesbury downstairs and thanked them for the invitation, but I understand I really have you to thank.” Deep dimples formed when she smiled, giving her an aura of youthful exuberance.
“I’m happy to have helped. How are you enjoying London?” he asked politely. This sort of usually mundane social discourse was a primary reason he avoided these events. It was one thing to talk with people he knew or with just one other person away from a crush—such as he’d done with Lady Gresham on two occasions now, and another to make idle conversation with someone with whom he wasn’t already acquainted. He glanced toward her and wondered at her almost surreal calmness. She wasn’t like everyone else who attended these sorts of activities. They were typically humming with enthusiasm and glee.
“It’s a lovely city,” Miss Whitford said, her eyes sparking with enthusiasm. “We’ve been to Hyde Park, to Astley’s, and of course shopping on Bond Street. I am hoping to visit Vauxhall and that I might be fortunate enough to obtain a voucher to Almack’s.”
“I wish you luck with your endeavors.” He caught sight of his two younger sisters heading straight for them. Blast, what were they about?
Rachel smiled wide in greeting. “Harry, are these the ladies you invited this evening?”
“Allow me to present Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford.” He looked to their guests. “These are my sisters, Lady Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Hayes.” He gestured to Imogen first because her rank was higher and then to Rachel, who’d married the second son of a viscount. That made Harry wonder what Lady Gresham’s rank was. He ought to look her deceased husband up in Debrett’s, but probably wouldn’t bother.
Everyone exchanged curtsies, and when both of his sisters rose with broad, sparkling smil
es, he grew suspicious.
“Did I hear you mention Almack’s?” Rachel asked Miss Whitford.
“Yes. I was just telling Mr. Sheffield that I hope to be fortunate enough to receive a voucher.”
“That can be difficult,” Imogen said. “But not impossible. We shall endeavor to assist you.”
“Do you go to Almack’s?” Lady Gresham asked Harry.
“No.”
“Not even once,” Rachel clarified, as if it mattered. “Our other brother at least did that.”
“Neither one of them is on the Marriage Mart, much to our parents’ chagrin,” Imogen said sweetly.
“I hardly think Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford care to hear about our family, er, matters.” He darted a look at Lady Gresham and saw that she was watching him with a bit of…humor?
Rachel and Imogen exchanged a look, and then Rachel spoke. “Lady Gresham, might we borrow Miss Whitford for a bit? It would be our pleasure to introduce her to some of the guests.”
“We are excellent chaperones,” Imogen assured her.
Harry coughed. Once, long before any of his sisters had wed, Delia had led all three of them on an excursion to Hyde Park alone. They’d made paper boats and had wanted to set them afloat on the Serpentine. Then they’d been seen by the bloody Duke of Holborn, of all people. A stickler for propriety, he’d marched them back home and given their father an earful. And that had been just the first of their unsupervised outings. Harry couldn’t imagine them as chaperones, excellent or not.
Even so, he said nothing because he found he was quite content to have Lady Gresham to himself.
Hell, was he?
“That would be wonderful, thank you.” Lady Gresham gave them an appreciative smile.
Imogen looped her arm through Miss Whitford’s, and they pivoted. Rachel looked from Harry to Lady Gresham and back again. “You should take a stroll in the garden. It’s a lovely evening.” She narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly and gave Harry a fleeting smirk before turning and following the others.
Bollocks. They were playing matchmaker, the shrews. They’d—rightly—assessed the situation and determined Lady Gresham would be of more interest to Harry. Because she was of interest to him.