Ready Set Rogue

by Manda Collins

  Their eyes met, and she felt a zing of awareness run through her before she quickly looked away.

  But Serena’s next words diverted her attention away from the marquess.

  “Perhaps you can recite one of your translations for us, Ivy?” Seeing the entreaty in her chaperone’s eyes, she gave an inward sigh.

  She hated reciting poetry above all things.

  Not because it was difficult. But because it had been a regular evening entertainment in her father’s house for the children to recite. And her father had been nothing if not demanding when it came to the ability of his offspring to recall every cadence and emphasis of a verse.

  When she was very young, Ivy had suffered from a slight stutter, and it would resurrect itself, it seemed, only at those times when she most needed to be able to speak with confidence and ease. Which, during her childhood, had been those evening recitations.

  Still, she could see that Serena was desperate for some way to divert attention away from Daphne and her inappropriate chatter. And she’d long ago managed to rid herself of the impediment.

  “I suppose I can recall a few of them,” she said, inclining her head toward Lady Serena. “Perhaps a bit of Sappho’s song to Aphrodite.”

  A hush fell over the room, and Ivy felt the attention of the others in the room like a tangible thing. The weight of it almost took her breath away, until she managed to shut everything out but the words, and began to speak.

  “Splendour-throned Queen, immortal Aphrodite,

  Daughter of Jove, Enchantress, I implore thee

  Vex not my soul with agonies and anguish;

  Slay me not, Goddess!”

  And so she began to recite her own translation of the celebrated poet’s only complete work—the rest had been discovered in mere fragments, their complete sentiments left to the ravages of time and the abyss of imagination—which she had laboriously worked on for nearly a year. She’d debated whether the first word was poikilothron or poikilophron—something that hadn’t ever been settled amongst those who had transcribed the lyrics from the original Greek—finally deciding on the latter, which meant “many-colored throne” rather than “many-colored mind.” After all, she’d reasoned, it was far more likely for a throne to be multicolored than a mind.

  As she said the words, aware as she did so of her own role in bringing thoughts and ideas that had first been sparked in the ancient world, she felt a small shiver run through her. As if Sappho herself was bestowing some otherworldly approval from the ether.

  When she’d finished, the room was once again silent, only this time it was a lull before the other occupants erupted in praise and applause.

  “My dear, Ivy,” said Sophia, hurrying over to give her a brief hug, “you must never try to speak of what you do as dull again. It’s breathtaking to think that you were able to wrangle those beautiful sentiments out of the unintelligible squiggles that make up the Greek language.”

  “Sophia was never very fond of languages,” said Gemma wryly as she kissed Ivy’s cheek. “But she’s right. I can actually read Greek but I sincerely doubt my own translation would be anything but workmanlike and prosaic at best. You’ve made the words spring to life.”

  “Shall I ring for some tea?” asked Daphne, standing awkwardly on the other side of the room. Clearly she had not been as moved as the Hastings sisters, Ivy thought wryly. At least she could always count on the mathematician to keep her from becoming too full of her own importance.

  From where she stood beside Lord Kerr, Serena gave the blonde girl a look of exasperation. But rather than chide her, she simply said, “That would be lovely, Daphne. Thank you.”

  The spell broken, they drifted into different corners of the room, and Ivy soon found herself standing with the marquess near the fire.

  “I hadn’t thought about Greek poetry since I was at school,” said Lord Kerr with a wry smile. “And then it was not for the beauty of the language.”

  Ivy felt her cheeks pinken. She knew quite well what this marquess and his schoolmates had found of interest in ancient poetry. There was quite a bit of it—much of which Ivy had read herself in the original—that could be called licentious.

  “I understand that is how many young men become acquainted with the classics,” she said primly.

  He tilted his head. “But not young ladies?”

  “Since the vast majority of young ladies are not taught either Greek or Latin,” she said tartly, “then I would say, no. Not young ladies.”

  “But you were taught both, weren’t you, Miss Wareham,” he said with a grin. “So, perhaps you too spent some time with the classics.” He said the last word with an emphasis that left her in no doubt of what he meant.

  “My father was not very keen on it,” she admitted, not meeting his gaze. “But I was able to convince him that it was impossible to gain a true understanding of the classics without having read everything Catullus has written. Even that which might be considered prurient.”

  She had, in point of fact, made her father’s daily life miserable until he agreed to let her read Catullus. But they had agreed that neither of them would tell her mother about it—ever.

  “How clever,” the marquess said with an approving nod. “And unlike most schoolboys who claim to read Catullus merely to improve their fluency in Latin, you have bolstered your own case by actually becoming a Latin scholar.”

  “Yes.” Ivy fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Years of study and hard work were simply a ruse to allow me to achieve my actual goal—reading the naughty verse of the most celebrated Roman poet of all time. Which, by the by, isn’t even his greatest work.”

  “When you put it like that,” Quill said with a shrug, “it sounds absurd. Which is likely why it isn’t a scheme employed by more people. Far too much trouble.”

  Unable to stop herself, Ivy laughed. Then, thinking about what he’d said, she asked, “You weren’t, by any chance, speaking of your own excuses for reading classics, were you? That explanation seemed far too well-rehearsed to have been invented on the spot.”

  For a fraction of a second—so quickly that Ivy wasn’t even sure it had happened—the marquess’s gaze rested on her mouth. Then he met her gaze with his own. “I was a schoolboy once, Miss Wareham,” he said with a half smile. “Perhaps you can test my knowledge of Catullus some time.”

  It was said in an unexceptional tone. The same way that he might have suggested they go for a ride in the park, or take a turn about the room.

  But his eyes told a different tale, and Ivy felt the blush that had rested in her cheeks for most of their conversation spread to her chest. And lower.

  Before she could respond to his words, they were interrupted by the arrival of Lady Serena, who looked between them with suspicion. “Did I miss something?”

  “Not at all,” Lord Kerr said to his cousin with an easy smile. “We were just discussing various methods of teaching the classics to schoolboys.”

  Ivy could have kicked him.

  At the mention of schoolboys, Lady Serena’s eyes lit with interest. “Oh, indeed? I should very much like to hear your views on the matter, Ivy, since I am considering how best to settle Jeremy’s education. Though he is a bit young yet.”

  “I’ve just remembered I need to speak to York about something,” the marquess said before Ivy could respond. “I’m sure Miss Wareham will be able to steer you right, cousin. She is well versed in the matter.”

  Ivy stared at his retreating back for a moment. She wasn’t quite sure what had just happened, but it had been unsettling.

  “You don’t mind, do you, Ivy?” Lady Serena asked, frowning a little. “I wouldn’t wish to impose.”

  Seeing that the chaperone was, indeed, looking troubled, Ivy sought to reassure her. “Of course not, Lady Serena. Now, what do you wish to know?”

  And the two ladies discussed how best to prepare Jeremy for the rigors of classical languages.

  But a part of Ivy’s mind was still thinking of that m
oment of heat in Lord Kerr’s eyes.

  * * *

  Mindful of the danger in spending too much time in the company of a certain classics scholar, Quill spent the next several days immersing himself in estate matters. Aunt Celeste had left the day-to-day operations of the farm and the rest of the estate business in the hands of a very capable steward. But there was always hard work to be found if one was looking for it. And aware that any more suggestive conversations with Miss Wareham might lead him down a path he wasn’t quite ready for, Quill took advantage of that fact.

  Repairing fences and visiting tenants kept him busy. But not too busy to think about the circumstances that had brought him to Beauchamp House in the first place.

  Now that he’d met and spent some time in the company of all four of the lady scholars his aunt had chosen to bestow her estate upon, he wasn’t as angry about the situation as he’d been when he first set out for Beauchamp House.

  All four ladies were, so far as he could tell, knowledgeable about their areas of study and, far from being the social outcasts or tight-lipped scolds he’d been afraid of, would not embarrass the Beauchamp name—excepting Lady Daphne, perhaps, but she was quite lovely, so she would probably not face too much censure in the ton for her plain speaking.

  Lady Celeste’s decision to leave her home to strangers still rankled, however. And he could not deny that the fact she’d asked Miss Wareham to find the person who killed her stung.

  Then again, he’d known her his whole life yet failed to notice she was in trouble. It was no wonder she’d decided to ask a young woman she’d never even met for help instead of her self-absorbed family.

  He might have kept on avoiding the ladies of the house under the guise of manual labor were it not for Miss Wareham, who found him one afternoon almost a week later, brushing out his grays in the stables.

  “I would have thought a marquess might not wish to dirty his hands with work better suited to a stable lad,” she said from the other side of the stall door. “Though your horses seem to think you do a good job.”

  “You might be surprised at the sort of work a marquess is required to do from time to time,” Quill said without looking up. “I would not ask one of my servants to do something that I myself wouldn’t be willing to do.”

  He felt her gaze on him, and wondered what she saw when she looked at him. A pampered aristocrat playing at being a servant for a day? Or perhaps she saw a man who had been too caught up in his own life to pay attention to his dying aunt? Either way, he had a feeling she wasn’t impressed by him. Which was just as well, since there was no need for them to be friends. There might be some attraction there, but he had a feeling she’d value her independence too much to get entangled with any man. And of all the ladies he’d ever met, she was the least likely to be swayed by his title. It was intellect she valued, and though he wasn’t a simpleton, nor was he the kind of man who spent his days with his nose buried in a book.

  “Even emptying chamber pots?” she asked with gentle skepticism.

  She had him there.

  Unable to resist looking up, he did and saw that her rosy lips were curved in a smile.

  “Perhaps not that,” he amended, standing up straight and giving the horse one last pat before turning to exit the stall.

  As he neared her, Miss Wareham watched his progress, stepping back as he reached the latched gate and allowing him to open it.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” she said when he’d latched it back and turned to face her.

  It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t condescend to her by pretending it was.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Though there has been plenty to keep me busy.”

  “Shall I take your behavior as a confirmation that you won’t help me find out whether your aunt was actually murdered?” she asked, not sugarcoating the question.

  Quill was grateful for her forthrightness. It would make his refusal to work with her that much easier to deliver.

  “You may,” he said with an air of finality he didn’t feel. “My aunt may have chosen to confide her suspicions to you, but I have only known you for a week or so. That is hardly enough, in my book, to prove your trustworthiness. For all I know, you and the other three benefactors conspired to have my aunt killed as soon as you learned you stood to inherit her estate.”

  She looked as if he’d slapped her.

  “You don’t believe that, surely?” she asked, her eyes wide with shock.

  Relenting a little, he shook his head. “I don’t believe it, no. But it’s possible. And until I know you well enough to judge with my head and not my…” He paused, realizing what he’d been about to say. “Until I know you better,” he amended, “I can’t trust you.”

  Miss Wareham looked nonplussed.

  “Is there something about me that you don’t understand?” he asked, growing impatient with her refusal to see reason.

  “Yes,” she said, standing up straighter and stepping closer. “I don’t understand how a man who purports to have loved his aunt more than anyone in the world could possibly stand by and let her murderer go on about his merry way.”

  She took another step.

  “I also don’t understand how, if getting to know me enough to find me trustworthy is your goal,” she continued, her eyes flashing, “you can spend almost an entire week avoiding me.”

  He opened his mouth to respond, but Miss Wareham poked him in the chest with her forefinger. “If you want to know what I think,” she said with a toss of her head, “I think that you, Lord Kerr, are behaving like a spoiled little boy. Your aunt didn’t leave her estate to you, and so you’re punishing her by refusing to search for the person or persons who killed her.”

  “Now just a minute, Miss Wareham,” he began, her words sticking like a barb in his chest, “I won’t allow you to—”

  “Oh, do not tell me what you will or will not allow,” she said with disgust. “You’ve made it clear that you have no interest in finding your aunt’s killer. So, I will simply have to do it myself. Which is hardly a surprise, since if you want anything done well, it’s best to call a woman.”

  She turned and, before he’d judged the wisdom of such a move, he grasped her by the shoulder. “Stop.”

  Turning to face him, she glared. And to Quill’s surprise, there were tears glistening in her eyes.

  “What?” she demanded, holding herself back from him, their only contact, his hand which was now resting softly on her shoulder.

  They were silent for a moment. He reached up, and with his thumb, stroked away the tear that had fallen onto her cheek.

  “Why do you care so much?” he asked hoarsely. “You didn’t even know her.”

  “Because she chose me,” she said in a low voice. “She believed in me. In my abilities.” She looked up and he realized she was utterly sincere.

  “Perhaps you don’t know what it’s like to move in a world where your every decision is scrutinized, questioned, doubted,” she continued. “Where even your father, who taught you himself, doesn’t believe you’re good enough to be a real scholar. Where the associations and societies who should welcome you, keep you out because you weren’t born with a certain ridiculous appendage. But I do. And the one person who believed I could make a difference was murdered. Not only that, but she asked me to find out by whom.

  “Yes, I care,” she said, her voice stronger now, her eyes lit with determination. “Because I owe her a debt of gratitude. I had thought perhaps you did, too, but as with many things, I can see I was wrong.”

  She turned to go.

  “You weren’t wrong, damn it.”

  Once more, she turned back to him, her brow raised in question.

  “I owe her, too,” he admitted with a scowl. He thrust a hand into his hair, feeling more flustered than he could ever remember. “And I want to find out who killed her. But you have to understand, from the time I was a small boy, family loyalty has been drummed into me. And it’s th
e way of the world. Family inherits from family. The fact that Aunt Celeste chose to leave her estate—where I and my cousins spent the best months of our childhood—to four women I’d never heard of before the reading of the will, well, it has been difficult to swallow.”

  At his admission, her gaze softened. “I’m not unsympathetic, my lord,” she said, lifting her hand as if she’d touch him, then letting it fall. “I understand how difficult this must be. But don’t let your disappointment about the inheritance keep you from finding out why your aunt died in the first place. As you say, you owed her a debt of gratitude as well. Don’t make the mistake of failing the one person you should honor above all.”

  Suddenly exhausted, Quill let his shoulders slump a little. “Where do you want to start?”

  The flash of triumph was gone from her eyes before he even realized he’d seen it.

  “As we were going to before the rain set in,” she said firmly, “I would like for us to pay a visit to your aunt’s physician in the village, Dr. Vance. I have an actual letter home to post now, so it won’t even be a prevarication when we give it as our reason for going.”

  “Anyone who underestimates you, Miss Wareham,” he said with a shake of his head, “does so at their own peril.”

  Waving off the compliment, she said, “I would like to set off within the hour. Meet me in the entry hall after you’ve had a chance to clean up a bit.”

  Leaving him to stare after her in exasperation, she hurried off.

  Chapter 11

  “I would rather remain here organizing the collection of mathematics books,” said Lady Daphne in response to Miss Wareham’s invitation that the other ladies join them on their trip to the village. Quill and Ivy had decided that inviting the others to accompany them would go a long way toward alleviating any suspicions that they had any other purpose for visiting the village than posting her letter and purchasing ink. Once there, Ivy would recall that she needed headache powder and Quill would offer to introduce her to the local doctor.