Odd how Miss Haywood stood out. “Your Awful Graciousness,” indeed. He chuckled to himself, remembering the teasing glance he caught in her eyes as they gleamed up at him through her lashes.
“Your Grace?” the mama asked.
He realized to his dismay that he had actually laughed out loud, and he had no idea what had been said. As if that wasn’t bad enough, an entire division of mamas and daughters surrounded him, all staring expectantly.
There was no escape.
He smiled at all the women despite the thin trickle of cold sweat running down his back. The droplets itched. Then one slipped past the waistband of his pants and continued on a meandering path downward.
Retreat! Strategically, of course, in search of reinforcements.
“Will you excuse me, ladies? I see my uncle and need to have a word with him. Boring business, I am afraid.” He turned, totally unable to find his uncle or aunt but determined not to remain where he was.
A temporary break in the crowd revealed the French doors standing open. Beyond them, the terrace stretched out into the cool darkness.
He strode toward door, aware that the women watched him closely, searching for any weakness, any opening in his defenses. He walked faster.
Finally, he dashed through the door. Several other men and women slipped off the terrace into the shadows just as he stepped into the cool darkness. A flash of white caught his attention. Lady Beatrice twigged him and followed at a leisurely pace, sure of her quarry.
She would certainly relish the thought of catching him out here alone. He had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. If he didn’t jump out just as quickly, he was going to be singed rather badly by the matrimonial leg irons.
Where was Miss Haywood? Had she left already?
A shadow on his right caught his attention. With relief he recognized Miss Haywood’s tall form, still studiously watching the insects flitting about the paper lanterns.
“Miss Haywood! You must help me,” he called, striding in her direction.
“I must?” Her cool reply sounded vaguely annoyed. “Again?”
At the soft sound of her voice he paused, intrigued by her accent. He’d noticed earlier that certain words, particularly the “I,” were drawn out: “Ah must?” The warm, soft accent reminded him of the curiously drawled speech of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire.
The long, lean line of her body and the curve of her neck were silhouetted against the dark shade of a yew at the edge of the garden. His gaze lingered on her, his heart pounding with sudden awareness.
Silence. She seemed oblivious to his tense interest.
“Will not you show me those moths you’ve discovered?” he asked at last, breaking the spell.
“You are truly interested in moths?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I am positively fascinated.”
“Somehow I doubt that, Your Gracious Dreadfulness.”
Her teasing tone made him smile, but as he moved closer, he faltered, glancing quickly over his shoulder.
Lady Beatrice slid through the French doors with a determined stride. He grabbed Miss Haywood’s elbow and maneuvered her down the shallow slate steps to the garden path.
“There must be some of those buttoned tigers out here.”
“Garden Tigers or Buttoned Snouts. There are not any buttoned tigers and even if there were, they would not be out here. It is too dark in the garden.”
“Well, yes. It is frequently dark at night,” he answered distractedly, casting quick glances over his shoulder.
Lady Beatrice stopped at the edge of the terrace. Her head tilted gracefully as she searched through the shadows, getting nearer as if sensing his presence. He pulled Miss Haywood around a topiary shaped like a giant’s tear. The boxwood’s spicy, green scent was sharp in the damp night air and served as counterpoint to the rose fragrance he’d noticed clinging to Miss Haywood’s gleaming hair.
A soft giggle surprised him. Then, he realized what he had said, and he chuckled. Miss Haywood stopped, stared at him for a moment, and then they both broke out into a series of smothered laughs.
“Yes,” she gasped. “I have often noticed that as well: how dark it gets at night, Your Horrible Highness.”
He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and was surprised when Miss Haywood plucked it from his fingers to daub at her cheeks. “You know, you are frightfully disrespectful, Miss Haywood.”
“So I have been told.” She didn’t sound the least repentant. In fact, her voice throbbed with repressed laughter. “I am also a bad influence, particularly on women. I suppose it comes from being an American.”
Ah suppose…. He leaned closer, breathing in the scent of her hair and waiting for the soft, languid flow of her voice. Her expression was all but invisible in the shadows and the faint silver light from the moon glanced off the curve of her cheek and brow, leaving her eyes shadowed in mystery. When she smiled at him, he realized he had miscued and it was his turn in their peculiar conversation.
“Your Grace! Has anyone seen the duke?” Lady Beatrice’s voice pursued them, interrupting before he could speak. “His uncle is looking for him.”
Nathaniel pulled Miss Haywood further down the path.
“Your uncle is looking for you,” Miss Haywood said. “Don’t you think we should go back?”
“Not until I have seen this moth. The buttoned mouth or whatever you said it was.”
“Buttoned Snout, Your Mindless Exaltedness, Buttoned Snout. It has an extended, bulbous proboscis so it is called the Buttoned Snout. Try to concentrate.”
“The Buttoned Snout,” he repeated meekly in response to her mocking tone. A giggle greeted his words and he smiled, his heart bumping again in his too-tight chest.
“Very good. Oh, did you find your lapis fob?”
He shook his head. “It seems to have disappeared, although I am still hoping it may turn up in my carriage.”
“Yes, that would be lucky, would it not?” She paused. “Who is your uncle, anyway? The Prince of Wales? The Duke of Northumberland? Is it not true that all of you dukes are related somehow?”
He couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious. He adopted a light tone, hoping to strike the right note. “Not at all. We are not related to the best of my knowledge, although if you should happen to meet any of the aforementioned personages, you might remember the phrase, ‘Your Grace.’”
“Do you think it at all likely I will need to remember that phrase?”
“Well, I cannot predict the odds on that occurrence.” He remembered Archer’s four aces. “Although stranger things have happened. I would be prepared, just in case.”
“If your uncle is not a fellow duke, then who is he?”
“Mr. John Archer.”
“Mr. Archer?” Her voice sounded as if her fist were jammed down her throat. “Mr. John Archer?”
“Yes. I thought you knew.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. There was silence for a few seconds while she studied his face, the corners of her mouth drooping. Then she looked away and sighed. “Are we related, then, as well?”
“Related? Good G—uh—that is—” It hit him that he couldn’t tell her they were strangers and his uncle had won her in a bet. “I don’t exactly know,” he finished lamely.
“Are we cousins?”
“Cousins?” Without the least warning, his mind suddenly ran through the prohibited degrees of marriage. Definitely not on the list. Definitely. “No,” he replied. “No, we are not cousins. We are very distant relations.”
He turned away on the pretext of glancing along the path to see if Lady Beatrice had followed them.
“I see,” Miss Haywood said. Although her voice was mild, it had a matter-of-fact quality that made him uneasy. “So, we are out here in the dark, stumbling through the shrubbery, and we are not closely related. It is a good thing, Your Grace, that I don’t fear being compromised. Don’t you think we should return?”
“What about the Buttoned Snout?”
“You will not find them out here, they are attracted to the light. Such creatures are always attracted to bright, glittery objects that aren’t good for them.” When they reached the edge of the terrace, she turned to face him, clasping her hands in front of her. “Enjoy your evening, Your Grace. Don’t get caught out here alone.”
In silence, she strode up the steps to the terrace.
When she got to the French doors she paused for a moment. He watched her, waiting for her to turn back and wave. But she merely straightened her shoulders and walked forward, disappearing amidst the dazzling throng.
Feeling as if he had somehow disappointed her, Nathaniel stared after her and reviewed what he had said. Suddenly, the sound of a loud scream startled him. Turning on his heel, he ran through the topiary in the direction of the sound.
He nearly missed his step when another shrill cry tore through the shadows. Several other men joined him. In a loose herd, they converged upon a woman clasped in the arms of a slender young man.
Nathaniel grabbed the shoulder of the man and yanked him away from her. “Enough of that! What were you thinking to accost a woman out here?”
“Your Grace!” the man replied, holding the woman’s wrist. “It’s not what—that is—she’s dead!”
The woman wailed anew and flung herself back into the embrace of the slender young man. She buried her face in his shoulder and wept.
“What?” Nathaniel replied. His hands knotted into fists at his sides as he glanced around.
“Your Grace, over here,” another man said, crouching next to a pale form. White silken skirts edged in black billowed over the damp grass, fluttering in the light breeze. “I am afraid they are right. She is dead.”
“Is that you, Jackson?” Nathaniel bent to peer over the man’s shoulder.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Lord Jackson eased the body over, exposing a woman’s white face. “It is Lady Anne.”
Her black eyes were open, staring up at the haloed moon. The mists swirling over the grass left her pale skin dewy with moisture and clung to her lashes in large droplets. While Nathaniel watched, a bead of water rolled down her cheek like a final tear falling from her wide eyes.
Kneeling on one knee, he reached out and closed the dark eyes. With gentle fingers, he wiped the moisture off her cheeks. Her flesh still felt soft and faintly warm although he could already feel the change. He stood, wiping the dirt and leaves from his breeches.
Then he remembered the walk he had taken earlier, before meeting Miss Haywood for the first time.
“Oh, God!” he murmured bitterly as a sense of responsibility for Lady Anne’s death hit him.
He had heard Lady Anne calling to him, asking him to wait while he strolled down the cool, dark paths. She had been one of his most ardent and determined pursuers, made more persistent by his foolish actions this evening. He had lost count and danced with her three times: a stupid, thoughtless action he regretted as soon as he realized it. Then he had compounded the error by fetching her a glass of punch and escorting her to supper.
Even Lady Beatrice had noticed his actions. He had caught her frowning at him while they ate, although she soon covered the expression with a sweet smile.
He had excused himself immediately after the meal and gone out onto the terrace. When he heard Lady Anne calling to him, he had bolted down the stairs into the gardens.
He should have waited for her like a gentleman instead of fleeing. And when he finally returned, he ran into Miss Haywood on the terrace. He had promptly forgotten Lady Anne.
It never occurred to him that he had not seen Lady Anne again.
Now he knew why.
While he flirted with Miss Haywood, Lady Anne lay here dead, glassy eyes fastened on the moon.
He gazed at her blank face and shifted uncomfortably.
“Were you not in the gardens earlier?” the slender gentleman asked. “My wife remarked upon it when we came out to get some air.”
Wife? Nathaniel glanced at the sobbing woman, who raised her head long enough to stare at him and say, “Yes, I saw you, Your Grace. You came running through the shrubbery as if the devil himself were after you!”
Studying the pair, Nathaniel realized he had no idea who they were. He turned and found the crowd staring at him. He glanced over at one of the few men he recognized, Lord Jackson. Nathaniel couldn’t remember much about him other than the fact he liked to play faro at White’s.
Jackson stood up, brushing off his hands. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but were you here earlier?” When he caught Nathaniel’s expression, he added, “I beg your pardon, I meant that if you were here earlier, you might have seen someone.”
Ah, the privileges of a duke. He could stand over a corpse with a bloody knife in his hand and still be considered innocent.
“I took a brief walk to get some air, but I spent most of my time speaking with my uncle’s ward.”
Lord Jackson nodded. However, another gentleman stepped forward, his heavy features distorted by a frown. Nathaniel recognized the short, stout man as Sir Henry, Lord Westover’s friend.
Earlier that evening when Nathaniel had escorted Lady Anne to the buffet table, he had noticed Bolton standing nearby, frowning at them. Nathaniel had ignored him.
“It wouldn’t take long to bash someone on the head.” Bolton gestured toward a small marble cherub lying next to Lady Anne. A dark, wet stain covered the stone cheeks. Bolton stood in front of Nathaniel, staring at him with accusation, but apparently not daring enough to give voice to his doubts.
“There were plenty of others out here,” Nathaniel said, keeping his voice steady and easy. “I am sure many saw me and a few may have even noticed Lady Anne. We must question the rest of the guests and find out who was in the garden during the past hour or so.” He studied the dead woman, angry with himself at having avoided her.
Why had she foolishly followed him?
He should have escorted her to the terrace and left her there. Except everyone knew she’d been trying to fix his interest for the last two months. He didn’t want to be seen returning from the garden in her company. Honor and her sharp-eyed parents would demand he marry her.
God, what a tangled mess. Why couldn’t these women leave him alone?
“Let me by. We need to bring her back to the house,” Nathaniel said at last, shouldering his way past the other men.
Stepping in front of Nathaniel, Lord Jackson picked up the body and turned to face the small crowd. “I’ve got her, Your Grace. If you would go ahead and speak to her parents—someone must speak to them.” He caught Nathaniel’s expression and added, “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but it might be best coming from you.”
Nathaniel nodded. “I will inform them and then send word to Bow Street. Her parents will wish it, and this must be investigated.”
“Someone must investigate, indeed,” Bolton replied, his voice sneering. “And they will, Your Grace, they certainly will.”
Chapter Six
Conspiracy is where two or more persons combine together to execute some act for the purpose of injuring some third person or the public, and is a misdemeanor at common law. —Constable’s Pocket Guide
“Did you enjoy yourself, Miss Haywood?” Lady Victoria asked as they settled themselves in the carriage.
“Lovely.” Charlotte sat back with her eyes closed, feeling immensely tired. “Thank you for locating that footman.”
“Yes—Tom Henry. We can always use a good man,” Mr. Archer replied. “He seemed like a fine specimen.” He eyed Charlotte. “A strapping young fellow.”
Did he think she was fascinated by a servant? She had only the vaguest idea of what he even looked like. If it had not been for the cut on his hand, she wouldn’t have known him from any other unemployed man in London sitting on the edge of the street, staring at his dusty feet in the gutter.
Then she stopped, horrified. How could she consider him unacceptable simply because he was a servant? He had been born poor to the “wrong” parents
through no fault of his own.
God, please let her get away from England while she still retained some sense of equality. It was absurd to judge a person based solely upon the accident of their birth. A person’s actions, not their birth, revealed who they were.
“I really had not noticed,” Charlotte replied, trying to suppress a yawn. “Since you were kind enough to offer me your home and therefore have another person in your household, it seemed like an excellent notion to expand your staff. He seems suitable.”
“That is true,” Lady Victoria said. “Which reminds me, I noticed you don’t have an abigail, either. You will need one of those, as well.”
“I suppose. But she must be an older lady interested in travel.”
“Travel?”
“Yes. I am sure your lawyers have gone over the terms of my father’s will. When I am four-and-twenty, I will be free to manage my inheritance. Then I intend to—” Both the Archers stared at her, incredulous expressions on their faces. Suddenly, she felt foolish blurting out she intended to travel to Egypt to excavate the tombs of the pharaohs. How could she tell them she wanted to do something other than get married?
But she could not face a future where her most difficult decision would be whether to have lobster bisque or baked haddock for the fish course at supper.
“You intend to travel?” Lady Victoria asked.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“We will see what we can do about an older abigal, then,” Mr. Archer said.
Was it really going to be that easy?
Lady Victoria nodded and changed the subject. “I am disappointed we were unable to introduce you to our nephew, the Duke of Peckham. He was supposedly in attendance, however we did not see him.”
“Well, you were in the card room most of the—” Charlotte said before she caught herself. How her guardians chose to entertain themselves was entirely their own affair. “That is, perhaps he was not there after all,” she amended. They would find out soon enough that Charlotte had met him and proceeded to insult him.
At the time, she thought she was being clever and amusing while saving him from the Lady Beatrice. It was only after reflection that she realized how she must have sounded to him: gauche and ignorant. Lady Beatrice would never have done anything so ridiculous. She was always perfectly behaved—when in public.
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