by D. M. Quincy
“We’ve been patient,” little Robin said. “Haven’t we, Mama?”
Lilliana laughed, a throaty genuine sound. “Yes, indeed.” Her face was open, her expression guileless and carefree. It was only on the rarest occasions that she allowed herself to be seen in an unguarded moment, and he felt privileged to witness it.
With an admiring smile in her direction, Atlas reluctantly permitted himself to be pulled away and went off to bowl hoops with Lilliana’s children.
Chapter Seventeen
“Perhaps I should just purchase a new watch,” Charlton said to Atlas as they exited the watchmaker’s shop off Berkeley Square. The earl had just left his fob to be repaired for the second time in as many months.
“Surely you own more than one,” Atlas remarked.
“Yes, but that’s hardly the point.”
Atlas wasn’t certain what the point was but did not particularly care to be enlightened. He was just grateful to be out stretching his legs. They’d opted to walk over from the earl’s Curzon Street mansion because the watchmaker’s shop wasn’t far, and it was a rare sunny day, although a relentless spring chill still held the metropolis in its stubborn grip.
They approached Gunter’s Tea Shop, which always made Atlas think of Thea. No one loved lemon ices more than his sister. It was her particular fondness for the icy treat that had prompted her husband, Charles Palmer, to build that icehouse for her.
“I say,” Charlton observed, “isn’t that Mrs. Palmer’s conveyance?”
Atlas looked over at the outdated old carriage parked in the shade under the maple trees across from the tea shop. “Yes, it is.”
“It’s positively archaic,” Charlton said indignantly. “Why doesn’t Mr. Palmer buy something more suitable for his wife?”
“He has tried. Thea won’t hear of it.”
Charlton stared at him. “Whyever not?”
“She views a new carriage as a waste of funds when her current carriage is perfectly serviceable.”
“Ridiculous,” Charlton harrumphed. “As her husband, he should insist she be in the newest and safest of conveyances.”
Atlas shot him a sidelong glance. “Having met my sister, I’m sure you can imagine how much she appreciates being told what to do.”
A smile cracked Charlton’s frown. “About as much as you do.” They came to the front entrance of the tea shop. “Shall we go in and say hello?”
They stepped inside, where the mouth-watering scents of vanilla, orange, chocolate, and cinnamon perfumed the air and ornate towering wedding cakes were on display under vast glass domes. Atlas spotted Thea in one of the shop’s more private corners, engaged in a lively conversation with a well-dressed, auburn-haired gentleman with a strong jaw and twinkling green eyes.
“Who the devil is that with your sister?” Charlton stared at the couple. “Do you know him?”
Atlas smiled. “I most certainly do.”
Thea’s companion grinned widely when he spotted Atlas. “This is a surprise.” He rose to greet Atlas, heartily shaking his hand. “I thought you might be off on another of your adventures.”
“I am just returned . . . a few weeks ago. What of you?” Atlas asked. “What brings you to town?”
“I’m here to visit my lovely wife. Only a foolish man would stay away from Thea a moment longer than he has to.”
“Your wife?” Charlton blinked. “You’re Charles Palmer?”
“At your service.” Palmer regarded Charlton with polite friendliness. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir. And you are?”
“This is Lord Charlton.” Thea made the introduction from her seat at the small round table. “He’s a great friend of Atlas’s.”
“Is that so?” Palmer extended his hand. “Any friend of Atlas’s is most welcome. Lord Charlton, you say?”
“Yes, Gabriel Young.” After a moment’s pause, Charlton reached out to shake Palmer’s extended hand, a gesture usually reserved for men who were well acquainted, but Palmer was a friendly sort. “Earl of Charlton.”
“You two should sit,” Thea said. “My ice is melting.”
“We cannot have that.” Palmer shot an amused look at the other two men. “I’ve brought my wife to Gunter’s for a special treat, and she must be allowed to enjoy it.”
Thea favored her husband with a soft smile. “You are always very thoughtful.”
“How goes the farming, Palmer?” Atlas asked when they were all settled.
“Very well. We’ve enjoyed a good season.” Palmer spent a few minutes speaking about the crops and an improved method of tilling the soil. Palmer was as passionate about farming as Thea was about mathematics.
“You look well,” Atlas said, referring to Palmer’s strong, toned physique. “I gather you still get out in the fields and assist the tenant farmers?”
“A man needs to get his daily constitutional.” Palmer grinned. “I like to keep the blood pumping. And I don’t believe my wife would appreciate it if I ran to fat.”
“Looking at you, one can see there is little chance of that.” Thea swallowed her final spoonful of ice. “But if you insist on continually indulging my partiality to lemon ices, the same cannot be said of your wife.”
Palmer’s eyes glittered with admiration. “Nothing could dim your considerable beauty, my love.”
Charlton, who’d been uncharacteristically subdued up until this point, watched the exchange with a pained expression. “I say, Palmer,” he said in an unusually abrupt manner, “how long will you be in Town?”
Palmer pulled his fond gaze from his wife to give Charlton his attention. “It’s hard to say. I suppose as long as my wife tolerates my presence.”
“Oh, please.” Thea looked skyward. “As if you don’t come and go exactly as you see fit.”
Palmer raised an auburn brow. “I’d like to go home with my wife now and enjoy her company.”
“Well, I’m all through here,” Thea said in her no-nonsense way, “so that can easily be arranged.”
They lingered for a few more minutes before the entire party rose to take its leave. “Atlas,” Palmer said as they exited the shop. “I presume we’ll see you later?”
“Indeed.” Atlas closed the shop door behind them. “Thea has invited me to dine with you this evening.”
“Capital.” Palmer turned to Charlton and gave him a slight bow. “A pleasure, Lord Charlton.”
“Palmer,” Charlton said stiffly. “I do hope you enjoy your stay in London.”
“My thanks,” Palmer said amiably. “I always treasure time spent with my wife.” He offered his arm to Thea. “Good day.”
The farewells were said all around, and Palmer escorted his wife across the road to their waiting carriage. Charlton’s gaze lingered after the couple for a few moments before he and Atlas resumed their walk to the earl’s Curzon Street address.
“You are unusually quiet,” Atlas observed after they’d gone a fair distance in silence.
Charlton’s manner was subdued. “It’s the surprise of meeting Mr. Palmer, I suppose.”
“Why? You’ve known since you first became acquainted with Thea that she is married.”
“Yes, of course. But Mr. Palmer in the flesh is most unexpected.”
“How so?”
“He’s so vigorous. And young.” He looked at Atlas as they walked. “How old is he?”
“A few years older than you and me. I believe he is seven-and-thirty.”
“I envisioned him to be much older. Bald. Rotund. Perspiring profusely.”
“Why would you think that?” Mindful of his friend’s subdued mood, Atlas suppressed the urge to snort. “My sister is widely acknowledged to be a beauty. It is no surprise she would wed an equally handsome man.”
“It’s just that he stays apart from her most of the time, minding that farm of his. It’s dashed unusual.”
“I agree.” Atlas shrugged. “But they seem happy with the arrangement and appear to enjoy each other when they are in com
pany, so who are we to judge?”
“Who indeed?” Charlton agreed, lapsing into silence for the remainder of the short walk home.
***
Atlas borrowed Charlton’s shiny lacquered post chaise to escort Lilliana to the benefit for merchants who’d fallen on hard times. He owned no conveyances of his own, while the earl, who was something of a collector, possessed several. When Atlas requested use of his barouche, Charlton had pressed him to take his newest vehicle, an even more opulent chaise, insisting it would better guard against the stubborn chill than the barouche, which offered less protection from the elements.
Atlas arrived at Somerville House to find the duke himself, impeccably attired in evening clothing, in the marbled front hall preparing to depart. A liveried footman stood at the ready with the ducal outerwear folded over his arm.
“Catesby.” The duke pulled on a pristine white evening glove. “How goes the investigation?”
“Your grace.” Atlas bowed. “We are making progress.”
“It pleases me to hear it, especially considering that this endeavor has cost me more than a few pounds.”
“Your donation to assist the struggling merchants was most generous.”
“Lady Roslyn certainly saw to that,” Somerville said sardonically, tugging on a matching snowy glove, “thus demonstrating that a man does not have to acquire a wife in order for his purse to dwindle significantly.”
“But at least it is for a worthy cause,” Atlas said with humor.
“Indeed,” the duke agreed with a haughty wave of his gloved hand. “It has come to my attention that I stand to lose quite a few more shillings this evening.”
“It seems likely.” Atlas suppressed a smile. “I am escorting Lady Roslyn to a benefit for the merchants.”
“To be held at the arcade, I hear.” He stood perfectly erect as the footman set a billowing black cape, lined with a cream satin, on his ducal shoulders. “Will the murderer be among the guests?”
Atlas thought of Elizabeth Archer, her intimate letters to Davis, and her purchase of arsenic. “It’s very possible.”
“Is it?” Somerville’s brows lifted, his dark gaze intent. “I trust you will keep Lady Roslyn safe from any danger.”
It was a warning. Not that Atlas required one. He would never allow any harm to come to Lilliana. “I will do everything in my power to protect her.”
Somerville donned his ebony silk top hat. “See that you do,” he commanded. Without another word, he swept toward the door, which was hastily thrown open by the attending footman.
“Mr. Catesby?” As the door closed behind the duke, Atlas turned to find the butler at the foot of the grand staircase. “Lady Roslyn asks that you join her in her sitting room. If you will follow me.”
Atlas assumed Lilliana was not yet ready, but he found the lady standing at the center of her sitting room—fully attired for their evening out—anxiously awaiting his arrival. She looked enchanting in a pale-pink gown with a daring décolletage, adorned with beads that shimmered when the light caught them.
As soon as Hastings left them, her eyes lit up. “Come and see.” She hurried to her escritoire, the frothy layers of her dress floating around her lithe form as she moved.
She bent over, smoothing two letters laid on the shiny satinwood surface with a pale fine-boned hand. Atlas came to stand by her side. The subtle fleeting scent of jasmine and cloves drifted over to him.
She pointed to the missive on the left. “This is the note I received from Miss Archer today. I pretended to have some questions about this evening’s benefit, and she responded promptly this afternoon.” Her hand shifted to the letter on the right. “And this is Lady L’s letter.”
He leaned in, his gaze darting back and forth to compare the handwriting. Excitement surged through his veins. “There can be no doubt.”
“Exactly my feeling.” She exhaled in a quick rush. “They were written by the same hand.”
“We have discovered the letter writer’s identity.” Satisfaction settled deep in his core at having slipped this piece of the puzzle into its proper place. “Elizabeth Archer is Lady L.”
Chapter Eighteen
“We did it.” Excitement filled Lilliana’s voice. “We discovered the identity of Lady L.”
They straightened at the same time, and Atlas suddenly became very aware of how close to her he was standing. Lilliana’s eyes glistened as they met his. “We make a good team, you and I.”
“Yes.” He could not look away. “I suppose we do.”
She released a breath, a soft exhalation. Her color heightened as she inched closer until they were almost touching.
He soaked in the pleasure of being so near to her, drinking in the fine-boned loveliness of her face and the unique shade of her eyes—dark, certainly, but touched with a rich jewel tone that reminded him of leaves in the fall. His attention lingered on a faint beauty mark sprinkled just above the delicate arch of her left brow; he’d never noted it before.
Without stopping to think, he touched the dark dot, feathering his finger over her warm skin. His heart beating hard, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lower his face until his lips touched hers.
Her mouth was stiff and untutored against his. Well aware that she had not had an easy time of it with her late husband, Atlas showed a restraint he did not feel, kissing her gently, even as a conflagration of desire burned through his veins.
Her lips softened, tentative yet eager, and when they parted, allowing him certain liberties, exhilaration shot through him. He tasted her with tender care, relishing the privilege, suspecting how difficult it must be for Lilliana to share intimacy with a man after what her husband had put her through.
He indulged for several moments before forcing himself to end the kiss. Pulling back, he set his forehead against hers. “Well,” he said, his voice husky.
“Indeed.” Her voice was thready. It pleased him to know she was not unaffected by what had passed between them.
He cleared his throat and straightened. “Perhaps we should go.”
She nodded, her eyes bright. “Yes, we wouldn’t want to be late.”
* * *
The benefit was held at the Eastern Bazaar, Mayfair’s fashionable new shopping emporium, a stucco-fronted, gold-lettered extravaganza on Oxford Street. Inside, it was one spacious hall with high ceilings, skylights, and a gallery level where paintings were on exhibit.
“I never realized that shopping could involve such pretension,” Atlas remarked.
“Almost everything about the ton involves some degree of ostentation and conceit,” Lilliana said. “Surely you will have noticed by now.”
They strolled among the stalls and open counters, which were organized with precise military-like precision on the main floor. Lilliana paused here and there to study the luxury goods—millinery, gloves, lace, jewelry, and furs—offered by the individual proprietors.
It was a showy place obviously designed to draw the highborn and wealthy, providing them with a luxurious space in which to shop in style and comfort. For this evening’s benefit, a small orchestra played in one corner while well-dressed waiters circulated with champagne on silver trays.
Atlas recognized many of the same faces from the duke’s ball and Roxbury’s garden party. “I do not understand the point.”
“The point of what?”
“Every day there is another party with the same people. The only element that changes is the locale. It seems rather pointless.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“Do the routs bore you?” He was genuinely curious. After all, this was the world she’d been born into, and although she moved within it as seamlessly as she did everything else, he wondered how she viewed the ton after her extended absence from it.
She lifted one elegant shoulder. “This is how polite society passes its time. Perhaps I should be grateful to my late husband for sparing me from the social swirl for ten years.”
He grimaced a
t the thought of giving that bastard credit for anything. She responded with a quiet laugh. He felt relief that they still dealt easily with each other, despite the intimacy they’d shared less than an hour before in her sitting room.
Earlier, on the ride over in Charlton’s borrowed chaise, they had not spoken of it. She did not seem to regret what had passed between them, and he most certainly did not. In fact, satisfaction rifled through him. After sampling the tentative inexperience in Lilliana’s kiss, he felt fairly certain Roxbury, her suitor, had not enjoyed the same privilege.
Lilliana scanned the floor and tilted her head back, looking upward to search the gallery. “I do not see Miss Archer.”
“Nor I.” He looked around as well. “Are you certain she means to attend?”
“Yes, her note to me this afternoon indicated as much.”
“Then I suggest that we enjoy ourselves”—he reached for two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed her one—“until Miss Archer makes an appearance.”
She accepted the champagne and sipped from it. “I find I cannot help but be in sympathy with her even though I should not be, particularly if she is indeed a murderess.”
He understood her sentiment. “We’ve only confirmed that Miss Archer had an affair with Davis. We do not know for certain that she poisoned him.”
“But you believe she did?”
He thought of the no-nonsense, proper young lady he’d met in Clapham, who was well-read enough to be familiar with his father’s works. “I haven’t formed an opinion on that,” he answered honestly.
“My dear Lilliana.” Atlas recognized the voice before he and Lilliana turned to find the Marquess of Roxbury approaching them. Fashionably dressed in a royal-blue evening coat with white breeches, the marquess took Lilliana’s hand in his and bent over it, his lips lingering against her gloved hand longer than Atlas would have liked.
“Roxbury,” she said, “what a delightful surprise.”
“I could say the same. You are a vision this evening.” His eyes shone with adoration but hardened behind a polite veil when he turned to greet Atlas. “Catesby.”