by Shana Galen
“I admitted my mistake.” Swinging his leg back over the arm of the chair, Ethan set it on the floor with an audible thud. Alex threw him an exasperated look, and Ethan curled his hand around the arm of the Chippendale, restraining the impulse to pummel Alex senseless.
“When word of this leaks, you’ll be linked to the Dashing girl.”
Ethan dug his fingers into the chair arm. “The gossip will die if I don’t fuel it.”
Alex did not look mollified. Ethan released the chair and laced his fingers behind his neck. Attempting a casual air, he stared at the portrait of a reproachful ancestor hanging above the fireplace mantel. The ancient earl watched him with fierce blue eyes.
“I’ll look into her identity further.” He leaned back, suddenly liking the way everything was coming together, liking the notion of seeing the girl again, ensuring she was safe. There was little he could do at present if Skerrit suspected him, but at least he could find out more about her. “I’ll investigate.”
“We don’t have time for that, Winter,” Alex argued.
Ethan dropped his gaze from the portrait to his brother.
“Oh, dear,” Pocket murmured.
“I need your help with Skerrit.”
“You have it,” Ethan said, voice edged with annoyance. The two brothers locked stares.
“Oh, dear!” Ethan heard Pocket moan. “Not again!”
“Stop your ‘oh dears,’ Pocket,” Ethan snapped. “I want you to uncover something about this girl so I can locate her tomorrow.”
“Oh, dear,” Pocket muttered again.
“Find out what village she lives in and what her father does, whether he’s a farmer or a merchant—anything you can.”
“I shall do my best, my lord.” The valet closed the wardrobe’s door with a snick. “But I wonder if you might be referring to one of Viscount Brigham’s daughters? If I am not mistaken, their family name is Dashing, and I believe their estate is in these parts.”
Alex’s head jerked up. “Tanglewilde? It’s only a mile or so from Skerrit’s farm.”
Ethan thought back to the girl and shook his head. “No, she’s not gentry. She was plain. A country miss. Probably just a coincidence.” But Ethan felt a sliver of doubt lodge in his mind. Was he mistaken or had her accent been too refined for a simple country girl? And she had carried herself rather well...Of course, any well-trained servant could ape her betters.
A tap on the door interrupted them, and Ethan discarded the whole asinine notion. Pocket went to answer the knock, and while he spoke quietly to one of the servants, Ethan returned to staring at the frowning relic of the man in the portrait. Ethan was accustomed to disapproval and scorn, but he was also accustomed to having his way. The Miss Dashings of the world had never caused him serious problems before. Why should this one nosy chit be any different? He wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to interfere with his plan to snare Skerrit.
“My lords?” Pocket said, closing the door again. “I am afraid I have some disturbing news. One of Mr. Skerrit’s servants found him with his throat slit.”
“What?” Ethan rose. He’d left the man very much alive no more than three hours ago.
“There’s more,” Pocket said. “It seems a card bearing Lord Selbourne’s name was on the body. The magistrate”—he consulted a card—“a Squire Gravener, is downstairs, and he has requested an interview with both of you.”
“A card with my name?” Alex stared at Pocket. “How the hell did he come by that?”
“Damn.” The deeply lined mouth of the man in the portrait now seemed to smirk. Ethan closed his eyes.
Perhaps everything wouldn’t go as planned.
Three
“I’m almost done, miss,” Helen, Francesca’s lady’s maid, said, stifling a yawn before pinning another curl.
Francesca stole a look at her maid in the mirror, feeling a pang of guilt at waking the already harried servant so early. But she had to run to the stables to see Thunder before her father heard the news of her latest addition.
“I’m sorry to squirm so, Helen, but the weather is perfect today. I must be out in it.”
In the oval mirror of the tulipwood dressing table, her eyes left Helen’s face and strayed to the reflection of the Hampshire countryside surrounding Tanglewilde. When she’d bounced out of bed and pulled the pink silk drapes from the window a mere half an hour earlier, the horizon had been just tinged with gold, but now the sky was streaked with fast-fading pink and orange. For a November morning, the weather was exquisite—bright sunlight beaming through a pale blue, cloudless sky. She couldn’t wait to escape the stuffy house and enjoy the sunshine.
And perhaps the fresh air would keep her thoughts from the past and, most especially, from Winterbourne.
Helen tied a red ribbon into place and stepped away to admire her work. Half an hour from now, Francesca’s hair would once again be a tangle of curls, the ribbon lying forlorn and forgotten in a patch of clover. But Lady Brigham demanded her daughters adhere to the rules of Society even in the country, which meant Francesca’s hair and dress must follow the latest styles. Francesca considered it a monumental waste of time.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror then looked quickly away again. Her features were still plain and uninteresting, and even the most fashionable coiffure wouldn’t change that.
A quick rap sounded at the door, and Lucia burst inside, wearing her blue mantle and a bonnet with blue ribbons trailing from one hand.
“Cesca! I’m so glad I caught you. I thought you might have already gone.”
“I’m leaving this minute,” Francesca answered, turning to her maid. “Thank you, Helen. That will be all for now.”
Helen gave a quick curtsy and exited. Francesca turned back to her dressing table, taking a moment to straighten her matching ivory comb and brush. “What did you want to see me about? Isn’t Miss Russell waiting for you?”
“Miss Russell!”
In the mirror, Francesca saw Lucia drop her mantle and bonnet then flop onto the large pink-canopied bed, her blond curls bouncing. “What do I care for Miss Russell?” Her sister leaned eagerly forward. “I heard from my maid who heard from one of the grooms that you brought Mr. Skerrit’s horse home last night. Is it true?”
Francesca whipped her head around. “You’ve already heard?”
When Lucia nodded, Francesca turned back to the table and squeezed her eyes shut. Bracing herself, she wrapped her fingers around the first object in front of her. The ivory comb’s teeth bit into her palm. “Do you think Daddy’s heard as well?”
“I don’t know.”
Francesca opened her eyes in time to see Lucia shrug her shoulders. “Only one way to find out.”
At fifteen, Lucia had no worries except how to avoid the day’s French lesson. Francesca wished her life were so simple. Or so charmed.
Lucia’s exuberant personality made her popular. The fact that she was already showing signs of growing into a blinding beauty didn’t hurt either.
Lucia: tall, willowy, golden-haired, and ivory-skinned. A glittering summer sunrise. Francesca: short, round, brown, and drab. A cloudy January day. No man would ever forget having met Lucia.
“So,” Lucia piped up. “Can I go with you to the stable to see Skerrit’s horse?”
Francesca laughed. Impulsive, persistent, beautiful Lucia. How could anyone not love her? But that didn’t mean Francesca wanted to spend the day with her. “That’s not a good idea.” Francesca pushed her chair back and stood. “You’ll miss your morning lessons. Miss Russell, not to mention Mamma, will be furious.”
“Oh, I knew you would say that!” Lucia flopped onto her back, sending two pillows bouncing off the bed.
“If you knew what I would say, then why did you come in here?” Francesca scooped up the pillows and sat next to her.
“Well, I had to try, didn’t I?” Lucia put an arm over her eyes in a perfect imitation of her mother, and Francesca tried not to grind her teeth. Instead, she sa
id a silent prayer that her sister’s theatrics were only a phase and not a permanent state—as her mother’s were.
“You just don’t know how much I suffer, Francesca. I hate Miss Russell, and I hate my lessons.”
“I had my share of governesses and lessons as well,” she reminded her sister. “And I survived. You will too.”
“But it’s not the same,” Lucia wailed.
Francesca couldn’t help sliding her gaze back to her bedchamber windows. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and she was losing the morning.
“It’s only for a few more years, Lucia.”
“Years, Francesca. Years! ” Lucia collapsed again. “Oh, I can’t wait until I marry. Then no one will tell me what to do!”
Francesca snorted. “Your husband will tell you what to do. Men like ordering women about.” And they weren’t always nice about it.
Lucia gaped at her, and Francesca realized her words had sounded harsh and bitter.
“Don’t you want to marry, Francesca?”
Francesca met her sister’s azure gaze. “No. I’ll never marry.” She’d never allow any man that much control over her.
Lucia scrambled to sit, dislodging yet another pillow, much to Francesca’s annoyance. “Never marry? You’ll be a spinster. An old maid!”
“Better an old maid than at the mercy of some man’s whims and fancies.”
Lucia blinked. “What do you mean?”
Francesca bit her lip and looked away. She’d said too much. Of course her sister would want to marry. What girl didn’t? And not every betrothal ended the way hers had. Francesca forced a smile. “I don’t mean anything. Forget it.”
“But last year you wanted to marry the Earl of Roxbury. You were even betrothed to him.”
“Well, we ended the engagement.” Francesca hopped off the bed and went to gather her mantle and gloves. As she bent over the pink-and-white striped chair, she could feel Lucia’s hurt stare boring into her back. Throwing the mantle over her arm, she turned around. “I’m sorry, Lucia. I didn’t mean to snap. I”—she swallowed—“I don’t like to talk about Roxbury.”
“I know.” Lucia traced the pattern of the bedclothes she’d rumpled with a finger. “I shouldn’t have mentioned him. But you’ve never said why—”
“Perhaps when you’re a bit older.”
Lucia grabbed a pillow and hurled it at her, hitting her armoire but missing Francesca by a good three feet. “I will scream the next time someone tells me I can do something when I’m older. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
Francesca gave her a sympathetic look. She could remember feeling much the same, longing for her presentation at court and her first Season in London. Only none of it had lived up to her expectations.
She crossed to the bed and gave Lucia a quick hug. “I know it’s hard to wait, but you’ll be all grown up and an old maid like me in no time.”
Lucia laughed. “You’re hardly an old maid!”
“Well, that’s a relief to hear!”
“And I’m sure Mamma and Father will give you another Season in London. Meanwhile, I’ll be locked away with a stuffy governess.”
“Well, there you are wrong.” She wrapped the mantle around her shoulders. “I have no intention of returning to London for another Season. Two is enough.” More than enough.
Lucia’s jaw dropped, her blue eyes widening. “You’re hoaxing me.”
Francesca swatted her. “Where did you hear that expression? Oh, never mind. I don’t want to know. Just do not use it in front of Mamma.”
“After she hears you won’t go to London for the Season, she won’t care what I do or say.”
Francesca couldn’t argue with that, but she would argue if her parents tried to force her to go to Town. And perhaps it was time her sister grew up. She scooted back onto the bed, next to Lucia.
“Lucia, you think the Season is all about gowns, balls, and the theater, but that’s only a part of it.”
“An important part!”
Francesca smiled. “Yes, and at first the outings are wonderful. I went to Almack’s and Vauxhall, Covent Garden and Hyde Park.”
Lucia gave her an irritated look. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”
Francesca put a hand on her arm. “No, because what you don’t know is that it’s only wonderful for a little while, then you realize that everything everyone does—everything you do—is dissected and discussed and disparaged. You see the countess who was so polite to you at Hatchard’s watching you and whispering behind her fan about you at Gunther’s.”
“That happened to you? Because of what the Marquess of Winterbourne did to you?”
“Yes, and really it was nothing.” Or should have been to everyone but me, she thought. “But the ton loves gossip. For weeks afterward, every time I entered a room, I knew people were talking about me. I hated it!”
Lucia balled her fists. “Just give me five minutes with Winterbourne. I have a few choice words for that scoundrel.”
Francesca squeezed her sister’s arm. “That’s not my point. I’m not even angry with him anymore.” Well, not very angry, she amended silently.
“Oh, Cesca, you never stay angry at anyone—not that I mind—but you really are too nice! Winterbourne doesn’t deserve it.”
Francesca shrugged. “I doubt he cares what I think of him.”
“My point exactly. The man is a rogue!”
“Maybe he has his reasons. People only gossiped about me for a week or so, and it was the longest week of my life. Each and every time he enters a room, people stop and stare and whisper about him. I can’t imagine what that must be like.”
“I hadn’t considered that,” Lucia said, chewing her lower lip. “Still, he doesn’t have to treat people so rudely, especially you. You didn’t do anything to deserve the way he behaved, which just proves that his bad reputation is not entirely rumors and lies.”
“No doubt he’s made mistakes like the rest of us.”
“Mistakes! You call shooting his best friend—”
“Lucia!” Francesca dug her nails into Lucia’s arm. She wasn’t about to discuss that sordid topic with her innocent little sister.
Lucia shook her head. “You are too good, Francesca. Now be nice to me and let me go with you to see Mr. Skerrit’s horse.”
Lord! She’d forgotten all about Thunder. She had to go to the stables as soon as possible and didn’t need Lucia tagging along. But with half the morning already wasted, Francesca wouldn’t argue the point.
“Fine.”
Lucia clapped her hands in excitement.
“But”—Francesca took hold of the hands, stilling them—“You’ll have to make your own escape. If Mamma sees either one of us, we’ll never get away. If you manage to elude her, I’ll meet you at the stables.”
“I’ll be there,” Lucia promised. With a bounce, she was off the bed and out the door.
Francesca was passing the dining room and almost to the freedom of the front door when her mother’s piercing voice hit her between the shoulder blades.
“And just what do you think you’re doing, mia figlia?”
Francesca skidded to a halt.
“Nothing, Mamma.”
Francesca recognized Lucia’s voice echoing through the open doorway. Poor Lucia. She should never have detoured for breakfast, though Francesca could see why her sister had thought herself safe—Lady Brigham was never about this early. She’d always claimed anyone who rose before ten was utterly unfashionable. And her mother considered it a fault worse than death to be unfashionable, though she herself failed to realize that her frequent use of her beloved Italian phrases had gone out of style a good ten years before.
“I was only fetching a cup of chocolate before I start my lessons.” A good excuse, but Lucia sounded too guilty.
“Oh really? Then why are you wearing your cloak and bonnet?”
Francesca closed her eyes in sympathy. Lucia was caught, but Francesca still had a chance to escape
. She inched her way past the dining room, her mother’s voice echoing around her like a soprano singing off key. “Impossibile! We pay a fortune for la professoressa, and you run away from her at every opportunity!”
Francesca crept closer to the doorway, careful to step around each creaky floor board. She gripped the doorknob, turning it soundlessly. After all, escape had been her plan for the day as well. The crisp morning air and vast Hampshire countryside were waiting for her. Taking a deep breath in anticipation of her freedom, Francesca threw open the door and found herself staring straight at her father’s scowling face.
Four
“Good morning, Daddy.” Francesca resisted the impulse to slam the door and run back to her room. Instead she gave her father a falsely bright smile and kissed his smoothly shaved cheek.
“Good morning, yourself, young lady.”
Young lady? His use of that address didn’t bode well. Neither did the vein popping out on his forehead.
“Do you know where I’ve been?” His voice rose sharply, and Francesca reached back and clicked the door shut. If her mother heard his bellowing, Francesca would have to deal with two dragons instead of one.
“I imagine you’ve been to the stables.” Francesca tried to keep her tone cheerful, innocent. But it wasn’t easy with her father’s already red face turning that distressing shade of mulberry.
“Correct. And do you happen to know what I found there?” He tugged at his cravat, and she saw the veins in his neck stood out too.
“Thunder?” Francesca dislodged a sparkling white pebble from the walk with her boot and scooted it around.
“If Thunder is the name of that ragged colt cowering in the back stall, then you are correct again.”
Francesca glanced in the direction of the stables. “Cowering? You didn’t scare him did you, Daddy? He’s very sensitive right now.”
“By God!” Her father’s voice exploded, and the gray hair at his temples seemed white compared to his purple face. “Am I now to concern myself with whether or not I’ve damaged the feelings of a horse?”
“Daddy, I didn’t mean—”
“I told you last week, no more animals!” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “None. Not one.”