There's Something About Lady Mary

by Sophie Barnes

  Ryan tapped his fingers restlessly on the table next to him. He sighed, got up, walked to the window, and sighed again before returning to his chair. Where the devil were they? He’d told them earlier that it was a matter of great importance.

  He decided to take another sip of his tea.

  A few minutes later, the sound of the front door opening and closing could be heard. Hutchins’s voice rang out loud and clear, there was a pause, and then the soft tread of approaching footsteps. The parlor door opened.

  “So sorry,” William exclaimed upon his arrival. “I was out with Jennings—had to hurry over to White’s so he could place his bet against Cummings.”

  “Ah, yes, I had forgotten about that poor devil,” Ryan muttered.

  “Mmm. . .better he than I—that is all I can say,” William said and chuckled.

  “Still not ready to set up that nursery of yours, I take it?”

  “No, especially not now that you have clearly snagged the only available woman worth having.”

  Ryan laughed. “That may well be, though I have to say, the tongue on that woman leaves much to be desired.”

  “Oh, come now; it cannot possibly be any worse than Alex’s.”

  “She called me a malodorous milksop, right in the middle of Oxford Street, for all the world to hear.”

  “Well, you must have done something to deserve it,” William told him, jumping valiantly to Mary’s defense.

  “I shall remember that when you find yourself carted off to the altar by a willful chit with a mouth more foul than a Covent Garden nun,” Ryan said, glowering at his brother for good measure.

  “Speaking of which, you will never guess who I saw this afternoon,” William remarked, directing the subject smoothly away from himself and the topic of marriage.

  “Who?”

  “Stephanie Maplewood. It appeared as though she was leaving the office of the Mayfair Chronicle.”

  Christ!

  “Jennings was quite taken with her, you know,” William added.

  “The man is a damn fool if he falls into that trap,” Ryan muttered.

  “I thought exactly the same thing; told him so too, in fact. Yet, upon further consideration, I am not so sure about which of them would be the one getting trapped—if they were to wed, that is.”

  “What do you mean?” Ryan asked for the sake of asking. He really couldn’t care less about Jennings or Stephanie Maplewood, least of all now when he was trying to focus on helping Mary.

  Where the hell were Bryce and Percy anyway?

  “He breeds dogs, you see,” William said and snorted as if he’d just said the funniest of things.

  Ryan served him a blank stare. “Who?”

  “Jennings, of course. Have you not been listening? I told him about Lady Stephanie’s transgressions, I warned him of her conniving nature, and do you know what he told me?” William chuckled with glee. “That he would like to put a muzzle on that vixen and make her heel.”

  Ryan’s lips began to twitch. A moment later, both men were in stitches at the prospect of Lady Stephanie being bound by marriage to a man who would treat her precisely as she deserved.

  They were so amused with themselves, in fact, that it took a while before they noticed Bryce and Percy standing in the doorway, staring at them as if they’d just escaped from Bedlam.

  “Oh, there you are.” Ryan grinned as he strode toward Percy to shake his hand. He gave his father a warm smile. “William was just telling me about Colonel Jennings’s plans to woo Stephanie Maplewood.”

  “Well, if there is a man in all of creation who might be able to discipline that woman, then he is certainly the one.” Bryce smirked. “He has one very simple rule: reward the good behavior and punish the bad.”

  “And you think that will work with Lady Stephanie?” William asked.

  Percy was the one to answer that question. “She has been spoiled in every which way imaginable since the day she first opened her eyes on the world—a common mistake made by parents with only one child, I’m afraid. But really, she has been allowed to get away with far too much, and her recent behavior has been quite despicable, to say the least. She needs a firm hand to guide her and someone to tell her no every once in a while.

  “I know Jennings well; he is tough as nails. She will not be able to wind him around her little finger, and in the end, he will be doing her a favor—if she will have him, that is. . .there is, of course, that little detail to consider.”

  “And while we are on the topic of Lady Stephanie,” Ryan added, “William saw her earlier this afternoon leaving the office of the Mayfair Chronicle.”

  “What the devil is that woman doing, going to the press?” Bryce barked.

  “Not sure,” William told him. “But I doubt that she was merely paying a social visit.”

  Ryan shuddered. “Perhaps we ought to go over there ourselves and try to discover what she has been up to.”

  “An excellent idea,” Bryce said as he sat down in one of the chairs. “But first, why don’t you tell us why you have asked us all here to meet you.”

  Ryan lifted the teapot from the table in front of him. “Tea, anyone?” he asked.

  “Do I look like a woman to you?” Bryce growled. It was a known fact that he hadn’t had a cup of tea since his wife’s death. He’d taken great pleasure in watching her pour, but he’d never been particularly fond of the drink itself. Now that she was gone, he really didn’t see any point in the British custom of afternoon tea, which was, in his opinion, highly overrated. “Give me a brandy instead,” he said as he pulled a cigar from his pocket.

  “Percy?” Ryan asked, his hand still on the teapot.

  “Go ahead and pour me a cup,” Percy told him.

  “Me too,” William added.

  “Right then,” Ryan remarked once he was done. “You all know about the threats against Mary and that there are men out there who want to get their hands on her father’s journals.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Well, I believe that we may have determined why.” Ryan took a sip of his tea; it was already cold. He winced. “Her father was conducting an investigation into what he considered to be medical malpractice cases.”

  “That would certainly explain a lot,” Percy muttered.

  “Yes. In fact, the findings are rather astounding.” Ryan eyed his father. “Apparently, Mr. Clemens and Sir Bosworth were both very much involved. Each was responsible for roughly thirty or so unnecessary deaths.”

  “Good Lord,” Bryce murmured as he stared at Ryan in disbelief. “Are you quite certain of this? It is a rather large accusation to make if. . .I mean, both of these men are very well respected and—”

  “I am sorry. I know that Bosworth in particular is a good friend of yours. Unfortunately, it is true: the evidence is all in Lord Steepleton’s writing.”

  Ryan went on to tell them about his and Mary’s visit to the hospital, the records they’d found, and the initials that matched each of these men.

  “Now, there are still a few initials that I have not been able to decipher. That is why I have asked you to come. I was hoping that you might be able to help me discover who they are.”

  “Very well,” William told him. “Let us hear them.”

  Ryan pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and cleared his throat. “There is MH, whom we have discerned to be Dr. Jack Helmsley, a close friend of Mary’s father.” He paused for a moment before moving on. “MT appears quite frequently, as do a few others, but the most prominent initial of all is VR.”

  “And the first letter of each initial denotes the man’s title?” William asked with mounting interest.

  “I presume so, judging from the fact that MC stands for Mr. Clemens, while SB stands for Sir Bosworth. If Lord Steepleton was consistent, as I believe he was, judging from his meticulous notes, then, yes, the first letter denotes the title.”

  “The MT could be Mr. Thornfield.” Percy’s voice was distant when he spoke. “I hate to th
ink it; the man is a good friend of mine, but he must be considered. He is one of London’s most prominent surgeons, after all.”

  “And VR?” Ryan asked expectantly.

  Bryce and Percy glanced at one another knowingly. Neither of them said anything, though, as if they each hoped the other might embark upon that topic.

  “Well?” Ryan persisted.

  “It seems that Lady Steepleton has been stirring up quite the hornet’s nest.” It was Bryce who’d finally decided to enlighten his son. “Not only does she have spirit, but she has tremendous courage to take on the most prominent physicians and surgeons this city has to offer.”

  “Who is he?” Ryan asked with growing concern. His voice was low and quiet as he stared across at his father.

  “Only one man comes to mind, I am afraid: the Viscount of Ravenwood.”

  “Who?” Ryan and William voiced the question simultaneously.

  Percy looked as though he’d much rather be elsewhere, while Bryce merely took another sip of his brandy, smacking his lips together as he swallowed. Concern marked his aging eyes.

  “You probably know him better as the Earl of Woodbridge— the master of the College of Surgeons himself.”

  Bloody hell!

  Ryan and William both stared at their father in dumbfounded disbelief. They didn’t move—they simply couldn’t. They just sat there while they tried to absorb the enormity of what he’d just told them.

  “That is not possible,” Ryan eventually managed to say. “He is the Earl of Woodbridge; you just said so yourself. It doesn’t make sense for Lord Steepleton to refer to him as VR.”

  “It does if that is how he remembered him,” Percy said. “You must not forget, Woodbridge and Croyden were friends for years—since they were lads, in fact, and long before Croyden decided to spurn his heritage. And though both of you are too young to recall, Robert Finley was known as the Viscount of Ravenwood in his youth. He did not inherit the title of Earl of Woodbridge until his uncle passed away about twenty years ago.”

  Ryan was nothing short of stunned.

  Dear God—Mary!

  “William, come with me this instant.” Ryan was out of his seat and across the floor in two bounds. He paused at the drawing room door while he waited for William to follow. “Mary is having tea with Lord Woodbridge as we speak,” he explained. “I think it might do rather well if we hightailed on over there to see what the blazes is going on and more to the point, make sure that she is all right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  * * *

  After the incident in the park, Mary went straight home. She’d considered stopping by Summersby House to tell Ryan about what had happened but had thought better of it. After all, this was precisely the sort of thing that would prove his point and have him hover over her like a mother hen in no time at all.

  Instead, she hurried upstairs to her room with Emma on her heels and a troubled Thornton staring after her. Emma at least had the decency not to inquire as to why her mistress’s gown had been torn and covered in dirt. She quietly helped her wash up instead and change into a clean dress so she would look respectable once her guest arrived. The Earl of Woodbridge would be coming for tea at any moment.

  Mary now waited anxiously in the parlor for Robert to arrive. She’d asked Thornton to ensure that some tea and cucumber sandwiches would be made ready, but now she wondered whether she ought to have added some crumpets with jam since Robert had always been fond of sweets.

  She sighed as she placed her hands loosely in her lap. Her encounter with Helmsley had rattled her more than she cared to admit. She’d actually tried to shoot him. No, she had shot him; what she’d tried to do was kill him. And what now? He was still alive and would almost certainly come after her again. She wasn’t safe, not even in her own home.

  Her thoughts went to Ryan and everything he’d told her. Damn it if he hadn’t been right. She wasn’t able to protect herself as well as she’d thought she could—Helmsley had just proven that.

  But was she going to run crying into Ryan’s arms like the stereotypically feeble female? Not bloody likely. Her stubborn pride would never allow her to follow that course of action, even though it was exactly what she wanted to do most. No, she’d argued with him and insulted him on the basis that she was strong enough to take care of herself, and so she would.

  “My lady,” Thornton remarked in a drier voice than usual, “Lord Woodbridge has arrived. Shall I show him in?”

  “Yes, please do,” Mary replied. “And please ask one of the maids to bring us the tea.”

  Thornton raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Do you seriously think I need reminding?” Instead he merely nodded and backed out of the door.

  “Robert!” Mary exclaimed as her father’s longtime friend strode into the room, his cane thumping loudly against the floor as he went. “It is so good to see you again. Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Robert told her with a cheerful smile. He remained standing until she’d sat down again, then took his seat in the pale blue armchair that stood next to the fireplace. A maid entered carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. She placed it on the table, bobbed a curtsy, and left.

  “I would have invited you sooner, but Lady Trenton and her husband were kind enough to let me join them in the country for a few days.”

  “I completely understand,” Robert told her smoothly. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Oh, yes. It was lovely to get away from the city for a while, especially with everything that has been happening lately.”

  Robert took a sip of the tea that Mary had just poured for him and frowned. “Yes, I understand that you have been quite busy since your return. And with Lady Stephanie so intent on seeing you ruined. . .well, I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for you.”

  “I was rather hoping that nobody would have heard about that little incident.”

  “What can I say?” Robert spread his arms wide as he leaned back against his chair. He crossed his legs and smiled. “Gossip has a remarkable way of reaching those who are interested in it, and I must admit that I have been very interested in keeping my eye on you and everything that you have been up to.”

  Mary felt her cheeks flush from embarrassment. “I do not suppose that you have also heard that I have an uncle I never knew existed.”

  “Hm. . .come to think of it, your father did have a brother and a sister, I believe, though I have not heard any news about either one of them in years.”

  “Well, my uncle showed up a few days ago. He is terribly ill, I’m afraid, and in dire need of immediate medical attention. He wanted to know if my father might have come across an alternative treatment for a sarcoma than the one his surgeon is currently suggesting: amputation.”

  “I see. That does sound rather serious.”

  “Unfortunately, he will not allow me to help him any further. He insisted that a man attend to him.”

  Robert chuckled. “You must try to understand that for a gentleman—an older one, in particular—well, it really would be quiet unseemly to allow a young woman to perform any sort of examination requiring the patient’s state of undress.” He seemed to consider his next words with great care. “That is not to say that you are not perfectly capable; I know that you are, Mary. Your father trained you very well.”

  “You are right, of course,” she said. “I just wish that there was something more I could do for him. He seemed so desperate.”

  “I imagine he would be if he had a sarcoma.”

  Mary nodded ruefully. “He wanted to see my father’s journals, but I wouldn’t let him. I did not trust him, Robert. He showed up so unexpectedly, and with everything that has happened, the threats and the thefts. . .”

  Robert frowned, leaning closer as if he expected her to explain.

  “I have not told you, have I?” He shook his head, his dark eyes filled with interest. Considering his longtime friendship with her father, Mary was confident that he woul
d do whatever he could to help her. “Since my arrival in London, I have received multiple threats to abandon my practice. My bedroom has been broken into, both here and at Whickham Hall during my stay there. All of my father’s work—every single one of his journals—stolen.”

  “That is very unfortunate,” Robert murmured with a hint of gravity.

  “To say the least.” Mary sighed dejectedly. “Did you know that my father was murdered? No, of course you did not.” Her eyes were beginning to burn. “The worst of it is that I know who did it.”

  “You do?” Robert shifted in his chair as if he weren’t quite ready to hear what she had to say.

  Mary slowly nodded. “It was a whole group of physicians and surgeons that my father had been investigating for malpractice. Mr. Clemens and Sir Bosworth, whom you introduced me to at Glendale House, are among them. So is Helmsley.”

  Robert’s eyes widened, and Mary realized just how shocking this news must be for him. After all, these were all men whom he knew rather well— friends, in fact.

  “And even though Helmsley does not appear to have been as involved as the rest,” she continued, “I know that he is the one behind the threats, the thefts, and worst of all, my father’s murder. He simply knew us too well for it to have been anyone else, and he took advantage of that knowledge in the worst possible way.”

  Robert frowned, giving Mary the impression that he was finding all of this quite difficult to digest. It was to be expected, considering that she’d just accused some very respectable members of society of murder. She watched as his expression eventually relaxed into one of sympathy. He let out a ragged sigh and slumped back against his seat. “I am so sorry,” he told her. “I had no idea. It is. . .incomprehensible, to say the least.”

  They sat in silence for a while, contemplating the issue, before Robert eventually spoke again. “But if your father intended to make all of Helmsley’s errors and careless mistakes public, then Helmsley could have not only lost his license, he could have gone to prison for a very long time.”