Ready Set Rogue

by Manda Collins

  You will perhaps wonder why I entrust this information to you, my dear Ivy, whom I have never even met. And the answer is quite simple. I have made a study of you—of all of you young ladies whom I have chosen for study at Beauchamp House—and you have struck me as the most, how shall I put this? The most capable of managing more than one task at a time. Do not mistake me. I believe all of the others—and indeed my own niece Serena, to whom I have entrusted you in my absence—to be clever and devoted to finding truth, but you, dear Ivy, are the only one who has been forced to pursue your own studies while also assisting someone else with theirs. And that, I believe, with a father like yours, must have taken some degree of guile. I do not blame you, of course. Indeed, it only makes me admire your abilities more. For not everyone is able to maintain two tracks of thought at once.

  It is for this reason that I tell you all of this. It is most unfair, I know, to saddle you with this task just as you are ready to finally embark upon your own solitary, scholarly journey, but I’m afraid it’s not to be helped. There is too much at stake for me to rest easy knowing that there is a murderer so near Beauchamp House. I know at this point only that they wish to end my life. But I do not know the why of it. Perhaps there is something in the house itself that they seek, in which case now your own life and the lives of the other young ladies are also in danger.

  In thanks for your assistance in this matter, I’ve left a token of my appreciation for you in the library. You will find it inside the glass-front case on the east wall. I’ve already informed Serena that it belongs to you, so do not worry about removing it. It is yours now and I hope it will do you some good in your studies. In return, I hope that you will confide what I have told you in my nephew, the Marquess of Kerr. He will be quite angry that I have left Beauchamp House to you and your fellow bluestockings. But he is a good man, and will do his utmost to help you in this matter. I trust him, Ivy, and so too should you.

  I do so wish we could have met in person, my dear, for I’ve long suspected you of possessing the same inner fire for knowledge that I myself had at your age. But it was not to be. I shall simply have to content myself with the knowledge that we will meet in the afterlife, where we will talk to our hearts’ content about everything and nothing.

  Yours in scholarship,

  Lady Celeste Beauchamp

  Ivy stared down at the letter. Then, more slowly, she read it again. But no amount of rereading would dispel the meaning of the words that Lady Celeste herself had penned for the express purpose of informing Ivy that she’d been murdered.

  When she’d first learned that none other than the renowned Lady Celeste Beauchamp had left a portion of her South Downs estate to her, Ivy had thrilled at the prospect of using the bluestocking’s famous collection of scholarship on ancient Greek and Latin poets and philosophers for her own studies. She lived in Oxford, of course, but the Bodleian Library and its world-class collection was off limits to ladies and even if that weren’t the case, she suspected her father would have forbidden her from going there. He had taught her to write and read any number of languages, but he still considered some of the works discovered in the remains of the Hellenistic world to be improper for a lady—his daughter in particular—to be exposed to. So, the hope that Lady Celeste had collected some of those forbidden works was far too tempting a prospect for Ivy to overlook.

  What she had not considered was that she would find herself called to solve a murder on her first night in Beauchamp House. Or that Lady Celeste herself would beckon to her from beyond the grave.

  Unbidden, the Marquess of Kerr’s handsome face rose in her mind. And despite her earlier annoyance with the man, she knew that she had to tell him about this. Not only because he had clearly spent a great deal of time here at Beauchamp House and could therefore assess better than she could who was likely to have wished his aunt dead. But also because Lady Celeste was his aunt. He clearly held her in great affection and would do his utmost to find out who had killed her.

  And her benefactress had asked her to tell him. That was ultimately the fact that made Ivy don her dressing gown. Hoping that the marquess was still awake and in the library, she squared her shoulders and made her way downstairs.

  Chapter 5

  Too wound up for sleep, Quill remained in the library after Serena had gone up to bed, wishing it wasn’t too chilly for him to go for a swim. As a youth he’d spent many a summer night burning up restless energy that way. He’d been forbidden from doing so alone, of course, but when had that ever stopped him from doing something? On more than one occasion he’d been joined by his cousin, Dalton, Serena’s brother, who had also been a favorite of Aunt Celeste. All three had viewed Beauchamp House as a refuge from the responsibility and strictures of their parents’ houses—somewhere they could behave like typical young people rather than the children of peers, and in both Quill’s and Dalton’s cases, rather than the heirs to two of the oldest titles in England.

  He was staring out the window into the darkness when a noise at the door to the chamber made him turn around.

  “My lord,” said Miss Wareham as she stepped diffidently into the room. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Quill was silent for a moment as he let himself drink her in. Gone was the dull traveling gown. She’d exchanged that for a perfectly respectable white night rail and robe that covered far more of her than an evening gown would have. At least that’s what he told himself even as his heart skipped a beat at the idea of seeing her in such attire. And her shiny russet locks, freed now from their pins, cascaded over her shoulders in a riot of red curls that glinted in the firelight.

  He’d known she was attractive—had categorized her as such almost as soon as he saw her in the Fox and Pheasant earlier that day—but even that observation hadn’t led him to imagine what she’d look like in such dishabille. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he amended. His mind had conjured her in much fewer clothes than this before he’d realized just who she was. But any such imaginings had been snuffed out as soon as he’d known her destination. The reality of facing her here, now, in her virginal bedclothes, however, with her lovely red hair framing her face like a halo was far more tempting than his fantasy had been.

  * * *

  So, yes. She was disturbing him, but likely in a way she didn’t even comprehend.

  Suppressing the urge to tell her just that, he said instead, “I was too restless to sleep. It takes a bit for me to settle in to a new place. So there’s no harm done.”

  Moving farther into the room, she set her candle down on one of the large library tables and wrapped her arms across her chest. “It’s chilly in here,” she said frowning. “I hadn’t expected it this close to the sea. I thought it was supposed to be milder here.”

  Wordlessly, he looked away from her and moved over to kneel before the fireplace, stoking the embers back into a blaze. “It’s still early spring,” he said on standing, brushing his hands together more for something to do than to remove any soot. “The breeze off the channel keeps the air fairly cool until summer.”

  But she wasn’t paying him any mind; instead she scanned the shelves that lined the walls behind him.

  “Looking for something in particular?” he asked, noting the impatience flash in her gaze before she replaced it with polite indifference. “Something to read before sleep, perhaps? Something to steal?”

  Her brow furrowed at his question. He’d meant it to be playful, but her response told him that it had come off more sharply than he’d intended.

  “I’d hoped you’d decided to stop treating me like an opportunist here to steal your inheritance from you,” she said, pursing her lips. “I have it on very good authority that you’ve a great many houses as part of the Kerr estate—ones much grander and more impressive than this one. I do not understand why you cannot manage to accept the loss of this one. Unless, of course, like most boys you dislike sharing your toys.”

  She said this last part dismissively over her shoulder as sh
e stepped past him and openly began to read through the shelves on the far wall.

  Turning to watch her move from shelf to shelf, he sighed. “I suppose I deserve that after the way I behaved this afternoon. But let me assure you that it’s no petty childhood jealousy that made me distrust you and your compatriots, Miss Wareham.”

  This must have surprised her, for she turned and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “No? Then what?”

  He thrust a hand through his hair, fighting the urge to look away. “Have you never faced the removal of a childhood memory?” he asked, finally. “Never wished to hold onto the last bastion of somewhere that gave you comfort?”

  Arrested, she tilted her head. “And that’s what this place was for you?” she asked. “A bastion of comfort?”

  He wasn’t sure why, but Quill felt more exposed in that moment than he would have if he were stark naked. But he knew he owed her an explanation. Especially after the way he’d treated her earlier. “For me, for Serena, and for my cousin Dalton,” he admitted. “Our own homes were not particularly…” He broke off as he tried to think of a word that wouldn’t shock her. He could hardly tell her about the debauchery that had reigned in his own house before his father died. And the circumstances of Serena and Dalton’s upbringing weren’t his to reveal. “Let’s just say that we found our visits to Beauchamp House to be a relief from our own homes.”

  Something flashed behind her eyes. Sympathy? Or something else? Quill wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t fail to note the way she squared her shoulders. As if she’d come to a decision.

  Abandoning her scan of the bookshelves, she turned fully to face him, her hands clasped before her so tightly that her knuckles were white with it. “Lord Kerr,” she began, her green eyes shadowed with trepidation. “There is something I must tell you.”

  Quill felt his stomach drop, and a pang of disappointment ran through him. Now she’d admit that she and the others actually had found some way to trick Aunt Celeste into leaving them Beauchamp House. The whole business of the competition had sounded like a farce, and though he’d known his aunt to possess a playful streak, he’d never guessed it would reveal itself in such a way. Certainly he’d not supposed she would play fast and loose with the disposition of Beauchamp House, where she’d spent so many happy years.

  “Then by all means,” he drawled, allowing every bit of the world-weary ennui that cloaked him in town to settle over him. “Tell me all, Miss Wareham. I confess I am curious to hear how you all managed it, never having set foot in Beauchamp House before. It must have taken a great deal of coordination amongst the four of you.”

  But if he’d expected her to surrender completely, he was to be disappointed. “What?” she asked, her nose wrinkled in puzzlement. “I thought we’d just put that behind us. And yet, here you are with accusations again. You are like a dog with a bone, Lord Kerr. Honestly!”

  “If not that, then what is it you wish to tell me?” he demanded, exasperated. He’d never thought himself to be a particularly emotional man, but since he’d met this chit on the road he’d gone through more feelings than a year in London had elicited from him. He must be sickening for something. “You can hardly blame me for jumping to conclusions when we’ve just been speaking about my earlier suspicions.”

  “I can blame you all too easily,” she retorted with a scowl. “But I will not because I am tired of being at cross purposes with you. And I do not believe your aunt would like it.”

  Indicating with a wave of his hand that she should go on, Quill waited.

  “I found a letter from your aunt waiting for me in my bedchamber,” she said, her fine features marred by worry. “I greatly fear that Lady Celeste was murdered.”

  * * *

  “What the devil do you mean ‘murdered’?” Quill demanded, shocked despite his foreboding at the bespectacled beauty’s pronouncement. “What did this letter say?”

  From the pocket of her robe, Miss Wareham produced the letter. Opening it, Quill recognized his aunt’s hand at once and began to read.

  When she was finished, Quill found himself shaking his head in bemusement. “I must confess, when I suspected someone of doing away with Aunt Celeste, I assumed it was one of you four heiresses,” he admitted with a frown. “It never occurred to me that someone would kill her for any other reason than an inheritance. She simply wasn’t the sort of person who could inspire the sort of enmity that would provoke someone to murder.”

  “I greatly fear that your aunt suspected otherwise,” Ivy said with sympathy in her eyes. “I know it is difficult for us to see our loved ones as others see them, but was there anyone in the village or in her circle of acquaintances who might have resented her for some reason? Or even someone in the household?”

  * * *

  “I’ve been away for long enough that I may not know all of the staff she’s hired in my absence. So it is possibly one of them. Though I can’t imagine it. Aunt Celeste was brusque at times,” he said with a sad smile, “but only with those who attempted to suggest that because she was a female she couldn’t be taken seriously as a scholar. When I was a boy I recall she had a particularly scathing correspondence with the president of one of the Royal Societies about his refusal to publish the findings of one of her bluestocking friends. It was quite a scandal—well, with my mother, at any rate. She was never very supportive of Aunt’s intellectual pursuits. But that was decades ago. And I cannot imagine that fellow held a grudge for that long.”

  “No,” Ivy agreed. “That doesn’t sound like something that would prompt her murder now. I must confess that I cannot imagine why someone would kill her. Though my only understanding of her is as the generous benefactor who chose me amongst dozens of classics scholars as one of her heirs. And from what you and your cousin Lady Serena have told me, she was much admired. It seems mad to think of the lady you’ve both described as being the victim of something so vicious.”

  “That’s a good point,” Quill admitted. “At this juncture we don’t even know if she was murdered or not. After all, from what the local physician said, she died of natural causes. She was rather young, I admit, but it does happen. I wasn’t here at the time, of course, and neither was Serena, so we don’t know what the days were like leading up to her death, but surely if there was something untoward, the servants would have reported it.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t know what was going on,” Ivy said thoughtfully. “I believe there are any number of poisons that can act quickly and without giving away their presence in the body.”

  For what felt like the hundredth time, Quill castigated himself for not rushing to Beauchamp House as soon as he’d learned of Celeste’s death. It had felt unnecessary, since she was the only person he’d cared about there, and her body was to be brought to Beauchamp family cemetery at Maitland Hall, the seat of the Duke of Maitland. His own mother, Celeste’s sister and another daughter of the fourth duke, had been devastated at the loss of her sister—despite their differences—and had insisted upon burying her beside their parents. Now Quill realized that the haste with which it had all been taken care of had made it virtually impossible to suspect anything untoward in his aunt’s manner of death. Certainly neither he nor his mother had suspected murder.

  “It’s too late to know now,” he said with a shake of his head. “Though I could question the local physician, and even Mrs. Bacon, who was here at the time.”

  “What of her maid?” Ivy asked. “I know many lady’s maids know their mistresses’ lives even better than they do sometimes.”

  “I have no idea,” Quill admitted. “I’ll ask Mrs. Bacon when I see her in the morning.”

  The room was silent for a moment as they considered what their first move should be in investigating Lady Celeste’s death.

  Finally, Ivy cleared her throat. “I do not like to remind you, my lord,” she said with a troubled glance. “But your aunt asked that we keep our investigation a secret from anyone else.”

  “Of course we must,”
Quill said nodding. “We don’t wish to alert the killer to the fact that we’ve figured out it wasn’t just natural causes. And besides, that it would put you in danger, which is why you must let me see to all of it. Really it’s the most sensible way to handle things, you must agree.”

  But he was disappointed to see Miss Wareham roll her lovely green eyes. “I most certainly do not agree. I will keep things quiet, of course, but I must insist upon being part of the investigation. Your aunt entrusted this information to me, after all. Not you. If she wished for you to conduct this investigation alone, then she’d have left the letter for you.”

  He disliked admitting it, but she was right about that. Aunt Celeste and her silly bluestocking tendencies. Didn’t she realize the danger she was placing Miss Wareham in by telling her about this? But he supposed his aunt had known what she wanted, and for all that he disliked the idea of Miss Wareham in danger, he had little doubt that she was every bit as courageous as a man would be in her place. Perhaps more.

  “Fine,” he said with a shake of his head. “We will work together. But you will let me question Mrs. Bacon and the physician initially. It will look more natural for me to be the one with lingering questions about her death. And I promise I’ll share anything I learn with you.”

  She looked as if she weren’t quite convinced of his sincerity, but finally Miss Wareham nodded. And with one last wistful glance at the bookshelves, she crossed the room to the door. “I’ll just go back up then. I bid you good night, Lord Kerr.”