by Burke, Darcy
“What?”
He shook his head, blinking. “Nothing, just contemplating.”
“Conspiring,” she said.
He didn’t respond to her comment. “How will you get him to leave you, or rather Madame Sybila, alone?” He straightened and leaned slightly toward her.
“I’m taking care of that.” She suddenly realized part of coming back to London to find Rafe had been to show him that she’d managed quite well on her own—much as Beatrix was trying to do with her estranged father.
“If I can help you in any way, I hope you’ll tell me.” He seemed earnest, but Selina didn’t need his help. She had things well in hand.
“Is it all right if Mrs. Kinnon and Luther know I’m aware you’re not really dead?”
“Yes. I really was just trying to protect you, Lina. When I heard you were back, and I saw how lovely and refined you’d grown up to be…” He smiled, but there was sadness behind it. Maybe regret. Selina felt both those emotions too. “I thought it best if I remained dead to you.”
“And yet, if you become respectable, we could be what we always dreamed. We’d both be secure. No more begging or scraping or hating our lot in life.” That sensation was still so familiar, even after years of being “safe.” Was that because she actually still hated her lot?
Rafe reached across the table for her hand. She placed her palm in his. “I’d like that more than anything. I’ll let you know what I find out about the fire.”
“I can’t tell Sheffield what you learn—we’ll have to find another way to convey the information.”
“Of course.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “I already have a plan.”
Chapter 8
On Thursday evening, Harry walked up the short flight of steps to his parents’ house on Mount Street. The butler opened the door before Harry reached the stoop and welcomed him inside.
“Your father would like to see you in his study.” The butler, Tallent, was somewhat new to the position as their longtime butler had retired last year. Tallent had been promoted from footman and by all accounts was doing an excellent job. Harry particularly liked him because he’d helped him and Jeremy out of a few scrapes in their younger years.
Harry handed him his hat and gloves. “Thank you, Tallent. How is his mood this evening?”
“Let us hope you have good news for him, sir.” Tallent pressed his lips together and gave his head a light shake.
Exhaling, Harry made his way through a sitting room to the study. His father was seated in a wingback chair in front of the hearth where a few coals burned.
“’Evening, Father,” Harry said. “Do you need a refill of brandy?”
The earl glanced toward the glass in his hand. “Not at the moment, thank you.”
Harry went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass, then took the other chair situated in front of the fire. After sitting and sipping his brandy, he leaned back in the chair and awaited his father’s interrogation.
“What news?” Father asked.
“I assume you’re asking about the fortune-teller, or are you perchance interested in me?”
His father snorted softly. “I am always interested in you. However, everything you discuss involves work. Your investigation into the fortune-teller serves both of us.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Harry took another drink of his brandy. “I regret to inform you that it appears Madame Sybila’s charity—the Home for Wayward Children—is, in fact, a legitimate operation.
Father thumped his palm—the one that wasn’t holding his brandy—on the arm of the chair. “Damn and blast! How can that be?” He speared Harry with a dark, angry stare.
“I went to the home, and everything seemed as it should. I’ll return next week, but I can’t say I expect to find anything different. That doesn’t mean Madame Sybila isn’t executing some other fraud.” There was still the matter of the tonics. Harry meant to obtain her offerings to determine if they were anything other than water or something equally innocuous.
Scowling, Father lifted his glass and polished off the contents. He rose from the chair and took the empty vessel to the sideboard. Turning back to Harry, he exhaled. “I appreciate you looking into this. I just can’t see why your mother believes in such nonsense.”
“It could be that Madame Sybila simply comforts her. Would that be so bad?” Harry didn’t mean it as a defense of the fortune-teller, but of his mother. Even so, he realized how it sounded to his father, who despised the fact that his wife was seeking the counsel of what he perceived to be a charlatan.
“Of course it is!” Father frowned. “You aren’t giving up, are you?”
Harry rose from the chair. “No. I’ll continue to supervise the fortune-teller’s activities. I won’t let her take advantage of Mother.”
“Good.” Father straightened his coat. “We should join the others in the library.”
“After you.” Harry gestured to the door.
His father departed the study, and Harry followed behind. They entered the library a few minutes later, where everyone was gathered with the exception of Jeremy. Harry wondered if his twin would come—he didn’t attend every week. In fact, he attended less often than Harry, who always strove to be present unless his work interfered, which happened on occasion.
Rachel strolled toward him, an auburn brow arched saucily. “You’re here.”
“You doubted it?”
She shrugged. “Your presence isn’t guaranteed. But tonight of all nights, I was really hoping you would be here.”
Instantly, Harry’s neck pricked. He looked from one sister to the other. Every single one had an anticipatory sheen to their expression—that and an irritating smugness. What the hell was going on? He shot a look toward his mother. She had that same sense of anticipation about her, along with something else: giddiness.
Bloody hell, what were they planning?
“Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford,” Tallent announced, drawing Harry to turn.
Standing just over the threshold was Lady Gresham and her sister. Probably her sister—because Tallent had said so. Harry couldn’t confirm her presence because he couldn’t tear his gaze from Lady Gresham.
But he did. Because he knew what this was: an unabashed attempt at matchmaking. How the hell had they—his sisters and mother—correctly determined that Lady Gresham was special? That he was, perhaps, interested in her?
Because they weren’t stupid, apparently.
Harry cast a narrow-eyed glare at Rachel. She barely lifted a shoulder in response as her lips almost curved into a smile. Almost. The wretch.
Except was he upset that Lady Gresham was here? Not at all. And maybe that disturbed him more than his family’s machinations.
Harry took in the ivory gown with its red and dark orange embroidery that perfectly draped Lady Gresham’s tall, elegant form. She looked like she belonged in London’s best drawing rooms, which, he supposed, she was—the Earl of Aylesbury’s library was as fashionable as any in the upper crust. He suddenly felt a great divide between them. She was a woman at home in this environment, while he was more comfortable working.
Except she’d seemed quite well adapted to assisting him with and accompanying him on investigations. He ought to be careful not to make assumptions about her. Perhaps that was why he found himself so attracted to her—she did not fit any particular mold.
Miss Whitford curtsied to the room at large. “Good evening.”
Lady Gresham also dipped a brief curtsey, her gaze going to Harry’s father. “Good evening, my lord. Thank you so much for your kind invitation to dinner this evening.”
“It is our pleasure to welcome you,” Harry’s mother answered, moving toward Lady Gresham and drawing her into the room.
Rachel went to Miss Whitford, smiling, and escorted her to sit on the settee next to Delia.
Harry resisted the urge to go directly to Lady Gresham. That would only encourage his family’s efforts to pair them off.
Would tha
t be so bad?
Yes. He wasn’t seeking a wife, and she wasn’t planning to remarry. He’d made himself quite clear on that topic to his entire family. Perhaps he ought to suggest to Lady Gresham that she do the same.
Instead, Harry simply looked in her direction. Their eyes locked, and her lips curved into a slight smile, as if they shared a secret. He supposed they did. His family had no idea they’d spent an afternoon together—two if he counted their previous visit to Gunter’s—and he certainly wasn’t going to tell them.
He went to stand behind the settee where his brother-in-law Nathaniel Hayes, an MP, stood with his other brother-in-law, Sir Kenneth. “We were just discussing the need for greater governance regarding child labor. Limiting hours and ages for those working only in cotton mills isn’t enough,” Hayes said with a frown.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Harry thought of the children at Mr. Winter’s home the other day. They could all be working in a textile mill for far too many hours and even overnight. Too many of them suffered those conditions and were exposed to environmental dangers. “You’re fighting for this in the Commons, I expect.”
Hayes nodded. “Of course, though I’ve not nearly enough support.”
Harry appreciated that Rachel’s husband fought so hard for others. That made Harry think of Lady Gresham’s concern for the less fortunate. She would undoubtedly support Hayes’s efforts too. Harry’s gaze strayed toward her, but she was focused on his mother. Were they discussing Madame Sybila? That was actually a good idea. Perhaps Lady Gresham, as a woman who had also seen the fortune-teller, could dissuade his mother from seeing her.
But no, he wouldn’t ask her to do that. It wasn’t fair—to her or his mother. His father might just have to accept that his wife enjoyed seeing Madame Sybila. So long as the woman wasn’t fleecing Mother, what harm did it truly cause?
“We’re still working on your voucher for Almack’s,” Delia was telling Miss Whitford. “I expect we’ll be able to accomplish it within the month for certain. Mark my words, you will be presented there before the Season draws to a close.”
Miss Whitford had charming dimples when she smiled, as she was doing now. “I deeply appreciate your assistance. I’m having a dress made especially for the occasion.”
Imogen sat down on Miss Whitford’s other side and asked about the dress. As Miss Whitford described the costume in excruciating detail, Harry wondered where Rachel had gone only to see her standing with his mother and Lady Gresham. Rachel was angled toward Lady Gresham, her gaze darting toward Harry as she spoke.
What on earth was she saying to poor Lady Gresham in her effort to make a match? Hell, was that a pained expression in Lady Gresham’s eyes?
Knowing the need for a rescue when he saw one, Harry excused himself from his brothers-in-law and circuited the seating area on his way to reach Lady Gresham.
“Oh, Harry, how nice of you to finally join us and welcome Lady Gresham,” Rachel said, pulling him into their half circle so that he was between her and Lady Gresham.
Harry quashed the urge to glare at his meddling sister. “Good evening, Lady Gresham.”
“We were just telling Lady Gresham how the entire family meets for dinner most Thursdays during the Season,” his mother said. “I feel so fortunate to have everyone so close.” She looked to Lady Gresham. “And every other Sunday, my grandchildren come over after church to spend the day. They’re such a delight.” Her gaze shot briefly to Delia on the settee. “And we are soon to have another.”
“How many grandchildren do you have?” Lady Gresham asked.
“Seven. Delia has three already, as does Rachel. Imogen has but one so far, but I suspect there may be another soon.” She arched her brows briefly and smiled.
Rachel pursed her lips. “Mama, you shouldn’t speculate about such things. You don’t want to curse anything.”
“Nonsense. I’m not speculating. A mother knows things. Besides, Madame Sybila told me recently that there would soon be even more additions to our family. The cards never lie.”
Rachel rolled her eyes, which Harry found amusing. “Let me understand, Rachel. You believe in curses, but not the forecast of a fortune-teller?” He laughed softly and had the strong impression Lady Gresham was doing her best not to smile.
“Oh, laugh all you please. I don’t like to speculate about babies—too many things can go wrong.”
“That is very true,” Lady Gresham agreed. Once again, Harry wondered if she’d lost a child.
“Not wanting to discuss whether someone will increase is not at all related to fortune-telling.” Rachel turned her head to their mother. “You’re still seeing Madame Sybila? I thought Papa forbade you.”
Mother waved her hand and scoffed. “Your father doesn’t forbid me to do anything. He strongly suggested I find another hobby, as he called it, but I enjoy seeing Madame Sybila. She’s a lovely woman with a kind heart. Did you know she supports several charitable endeavors, such as the Magdalen Hospital?”
“Unless she showed you receipts for her donations or personally visited the hospital with you, I’m not sure I’d believe that,” Rachel said wryly.
Harry hadn’t realized his sister possessed such a cynical opinion on the matter. If she’d tried and hadn’t been able to persuade their mother to give up the fortune-teller, he didn’t think Lady Gresham could.
“I saw Madame Sybila just the other day,” Lady Gresham said, clearly surprising his mother. “I also found her to be very kindhearted. In fact, I visited one of the charities she supports and was delighted to donate to their cause.”
Looking very pleased, Harry’s mother grinned at Lady Gresham. “Which one was that?”
“The Home for Wayward Children. A wonderful couple has taken in many children and are doing their best to provide a home and comfort so the children do not fall victim to the streets.”
“Good for you for going to visit,” Harry’s mother said. “Perhaps we should coordinate an excursion to this home with Madame Sybila. Several of my friends see her and donate to her causes, and I know they’d love to contribute more.” Enthusiasm gleamed in her tawny-brown eyes. “I’ll speak to Madame Sybila when next I see her.” She inclined her head to Lady Gresham. “You should do the same.”
Lady Gresham looked briefly at Harry. “I’ll do that.”
Harry’s father was going to be furious. But if this was a legitimate endeavor that was about to be further legitimized by a group of Society ladies, what could he do? It seemed Harry was going to have to talk to his father about this—but not tonight.
Turning his head, Harry smiled at his mother. “Perhaps I’ll come along.”
Mother’s brow creased, and she blinked in surprise. “Will you?”
“Probably, to make sure it’s not a fraud,” Rachel said.
Harry slid a look toward Lady Gresham, who seemed to be taking care not to make eye contact with him. It would become apparent the moment he—and Lady Gresham—went to Winter’s that they’d been before, because the Winters would surely say something about them having already paid a visit.
Which meant he ought to just admit it right now, but then he’d have to explain why he’d gone there. Not to mention his sister would take great delight in the fact that he’d gone with Lady Gresham.
No, he wasn’t sharing that now, and maybe not ever. He’d talk to Lady Gresham about them both not joining this excursion. What a bloody tangle it was to keep secrets, especially in this family.
Rachel abruptly turned to Lady Gresham. “Excuse me, I’ve just remembered I wanted to tell Miss Whitford something.”
“And I need to speak with Delia,” Harry’s mother said.
They both extricated themselves and went to the settee. Harry stared after them, nonplussed by their lack of subtlety.
“Your family is very…large,” Lady Gresham noted.
He turned to her. “I thought you were going to say obvious.”
She laughed softly, the light of amusement dancing in her
eyes. “You seemed surprised when we arrived. The countess didn’t tell you we’d been invited?”
“No.”
“Would you not have come?”
His family probably thought so, and if they’d invited any other woman, he would not have. “My attendance would not have changed.”
She just barely nodded, and the light from the chandelier above caught on the jeweled comb tucked into her honey-brown hair. “That’s…nice.”
Looking about, Harry saw his sisters pairing off with their husbands, while his father offered his arm to Miss Whitford. Mother left the library first, leading the procession, which meant Harry was to escort Lady Gresham. That was, of course, not an accident.
Resigning himself to his family’s manipulations, he offered Lady Gresham his arm. “May I escort you to dinner?”
The barest smile flitted across her lips. “It seems you must.”
Harry would be annoyed with his family’s efforts if he didn’t like Lady Gresham so much. And what did that say?
* * *
“Where might I find the retiring room?” Beatrix asked as the ladies gathered upstairs in the drawing room after dinner.
“Go on upstairs and turn to the right,” Lady Aylesbury said. “Follow the short corridor, and my personal dressing chamber is just through the door on the left.”
Well, that was too perfect. Selina gave Beatrix a stare that—she hoped—clearly conveyed Don’t steal anything else!
With the barest inclination of her head, Beatrix departed the drawing room with Lady Aylesbury’s emerald necklace tucked safely into a hidden pocket in her gown. Beatrix had continued to express remorse for stealing the jewelry, which always happened after she stole something. She promised she would work harder to rein her bad habit under control.
Besides, if she took something else, Selina wasn’t certain she could garner another invitation to the Aylesburys’ in order to return it. Selina had facilitated that by sending a thank-you for the invitation to the soiree, stating what a wonderful time they’d had, especially Beatrix. Selina had also noted how lovely it had been to be so welcomed by their family and that she and Beatrix looked forward to seeing them again soon.