A Notorious Proposition

by Adele Ashworth

  Ivy sighed and turned away from the painting, her back to the fire, her woolen day gown beginning, finally, to absorb some of the heat.

  Love had been an elusive thing for her, a feeling she’d only once begun to grasp before it had been smothered in her heart by a man who had used her for personal gain before discarding her. In the two years since she’d lost herself in the treacherous arms of the dashing, elusive Garrett Burke, a brilliant and deceitful investigator for the Home Office, she’d renounced romance where she was concerned, deciding she and a lifetime of love were not compatible. Her short time with Garrett had given them a whirlwind week of desire unmatched, lust unbridled, and in the end, for her, a humiliation that would remain until the end of her life. But at least, with their secret love affair quashed so suddenly after a disastrous end to his investigation at the time, she had managed to keep her dignity intact by staying far away from him. Nobody knew that she’d had any acquaintance at all with Garrett aside from the professional, if one could call it that. Nobody knew the depth of the passion they’d shared, how reckless they had been, how far she had allowed him to peer into her soul. The remorse she felt would never leave her, and she would always keep it to herself, though with it came a certain caution that made her stronger, a spinster who, at twenty-six, knew her place. The only times her memories made her melancholy were those spent with couples like Madeleine and Thomas, witnessing firsthand the joy they found in each other’s company.

  A rattling of china brought her back to the present as Madeleine entered the parlor through a swinging door, a silver tray in hand, her eyes shrewdly focused.

  “So what brings you to Winter Garden on such short notice?” Madeleine asked pleasantly, walking toward her.

  Ivy forced a smile and moved forward to help her host by clearing a space on the oval tea table. “A rather complicated reason, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah,” the Frenchwoman acknowledged, placing the tray on the hard wooden surface and arranging cups, saucers, and tiny linen napkins. “I daresay there have been some rather odd goings-on here lately. Frankly, I’m not surprised to see you. The town could use your particular expertise.”

  That comment grabbed her attention. “Goings-on?” she repeated, sitting at last in the armchair and absentmindedly adjusting her skirts around her ankles.

  Madeleine gave her a half smile and a quick glance before lifting the pot and pouring the steaming liquid. “Perhaps you should tell me why you’ve come first.” Seconds later, she politely asked, “Milk and sugar?”

  Again, Ivy sensed a veiled guardedness in the Frenchwoman’s manner, almost an evasiveness in her words. She sat back in the chair, her elbow on the armrest, eyeing her speculatively. “Two spoons of sugar, if you please.”

  She watched the woman measure the sweetener into a white china cup inlaid with purple tulips, then lift it with a saucer and spoon and offer it to her. Then she moved around the tea table to take a seat on the couch, quickly adjusting her own skirts before reaching forward to pour herself a cup.

  “Does this have to do with one of your dreams?” she continued, her gaze on the teapot.

  Ivy forced herself to relax a little, catching a whiff of jasmine in the upward swirl of steam. In truth, to anyone else, she would probably not admit the unconventional reason for returning. But Madeleine had known about the unusual work she did for the government for more than two years now, trusted her gift, and asked the question honestly, without any ridicule at all.

  “There is a dream involved, at least partially,” she admitted after a moment. “But there’s more.”

  The Frenchwoman’s sculpted eyebrows rose with growing interest. “Indeed. Then don’t keep me in suspense.” She lifted her own cup to the level of her chin, pursed her full lips, and blew gently across the brim.

  Ivy glanced down at the light brown brew in her own cup. “Five days ago I received a visit from a Mr. Heathrow Clark, a London solicitor. A client of his gave him my name as a person who helps the Home Office with unusual circumstances, and due to that experience, wondered if I might be able to help him with a matter here in Winter Garden.”

  In a wary voice, Madeleine asked, “Who is Mr. Clark’s client?”

  She drew a deep breath before muttering, “The Marquess of Rye.”

  The Frenchwoman’s brows rose along with her intrigue. For seconds she said nothing, then she gave a half smile, “The Marquess of Rye?”

  She nodded.

  Madeleine took a sip of her tea, watching her closely. “I suppose you’re aware that the mysterious marquess recently purchased the Rothebury estate.”

  “Mysterious marquess?”

  “That’s what some of the townspeople are calling him because nobody has met him yet,” she revealed contemplatively. “It’s been rumored that he’s been on the Continent for the last year or two, and has now returned, though we have yet to see the man.”

  “Which definitely adds to the mystery of why I’m here,” she replied.

  Madeleine took another sip of tea. “And why are you here, Ivy? What does the marquess want you to do?”

  Sinking into the leather chair, she lowered her voice. “Mr. Clark gave me a package that contained three things: the key to the manor home on the estate, a substantial amount of money to cover traveling and living expenses, and a letter from Lord Rye with instructions, informing me that although he wouldn’t be here, he’s arranged for a new staff at the house and wants me to move in, investigate and search it.”

  “Investigate the house?”

  Ivy smiled again. “Apparently it’s haunted.”

  Madeleine sighed, then slowly leaned forward and placed her cup and saucer on the tea table. “Well, most people from Winter Garden have believed this for years, especially after Lord Rothebury was arrested,” she said. “And you know as well as anyone that the estate is old and has numerous passageways within, as well as secret tunnels that have been used over the centuries for smuggling. I doubt that its reputation will change anytime soon.”

  “True,” she acknowledged, sipping her tea at last, relishing the warm brew as it slid down her parched throat. Thomas and Madeleine were both aware that as a girl she had spent several summers in Winter Garden on the Rothebury estate, when her family and the late baron’s were the best of friends, before the elder baron’s untimely death. Nobody, however, was aware that she and her twin brother Ian were bastard children of this same Baron Rothebury, which made her a half sister by birth to Richard Sharon, Winter Garden’s infamous smuggler, arrested and charged two years ago. Thankfully, this had been a well-kept secret. To her knowledge, her legal father had never learned the truth; she and Ian had only learned of it on their mother’s deathbed, a confession that had stunned, even devastated, her brother, who soon after inherited the Stamford estate, but which left her only mildly surprised. Somewhere deep within she had known, perhaps from her unusual senses, perhaps only from female intuition after watching her mother’s face at the baron’s funeral. And aside from the handful of family who knew by necessity, it was a secret she would take to her grave.

  “Honestly,” she continued, brushing away the thought, “I think I’d be a bit wary of the whole affair, except that the night before Mr. Clark’s visit, I had a very vivid and frightening dream wherein I saw a man standing in an upper window of the manor house, silently…begging for my help. Needless to say, it’s left me with a strange sense of anxiety.”

  Madeleine’s eyes widened. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, lacing her fingers together in front of her and resting her chin atop them. “Did you recognize the man?”

  Ivy shook her head, feeling an inner gratefulness that the woman didn’t even blink at Ivy’s confidence in her own visions.

  “I’m not sure,” she replied, “and I don’t have any more information about him. I didn’t concern myself with it too much until the following day, when I was asked to return to the very same house on the Rothebury estate.”

  The grooves betwe
en the woman’s ice-blue eyes gradually deepened as she sat silent for a moment or two.

  Ivy frowned. “What is it?”

  Several more seconds of silence passed before the Frenchwoman gradually sat up and replied, “I mentioned the goings-on?”

  “Yes.”

  Madeleine rubbed her thumbs together in her lap. “About four months ago, with little fanfare, Benedict, Richard’s younger brother, returned to Winter Garden and moved into the house. It caused quite a flurry of speculation, as one might imagine. He kept to himself and didn’t travel with anyone, in fact, refused callers at every turn.”

  Ivy remained silent while Madeleine paused in thought, though she could feel her pulse quicken. Benedict Sharon was Richard’s half brother from the former baron’s second wife, and not related to Ian and her, but she still perceived the sudden ominous warning that sliced through her. Part of the reason she’d returned to Winter Garden was because of Benedict, though she had no intention of telling that to anyone yet.

  Madeleine continued, “It almost seemed as if the man were in hiding, or…staying away from the village purposely. I can’t say he appeared fearful exactly, just…suspicious of something.” She paused, then added, “Or someone.”

  “Did Eastleigh notice this? Anyone else?” she asked quickly.

  Madeleine nodded slightly. “Eastleigh, yes, though I’m not sure of others in the village. I think they were all more or less offended that he didn’t socialize, despite the scandal caused by his brother.” She drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “Three weeks after he arrived, he disappeared.”

  She blinked, and her heart sank. “Disappeared?”

  “Yes, and I don’t mean he just left town, he vanished without a trace, leaving his prized steed, his clothing, his valet, who has since moved to Portsmouth in search of employment, and even his jewelry. His valet claimed he retired one evening after dinner and brandy, and the next morning when the butler went to awaken him, he was gone, his bed untouched.”

  For a moment, she found herself speechless, her mouth opening a little as she stared at the older woman.

  Left without his clothes, his jewelry…

  Ivy shook herself mentally, and asked, “Did anyone contact the magistrate?”

  Madeleine shrugged and reached for her teacup again. “Yes, at his housekeeper’s request. After several days of investigation, the local authorities found no evidence of violence or even mischief, and so they were forced to conclude that Benedict Sharon left willingly without word, as any grown bachelor is free to do.”

  “In the middle of the night without personal belongings?” she interjected sharply. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t, but since he’d only been here a short time and kept to himself, nobody in the village could offer a clue as to the man’s habits and behavior, whether he was rash by nature, even his general demeanor. Frankly, there was little else the magistrate could do with no evidence of a crime.”

  She imagined that was so. Reaching for her tea again, Ivy tried to evaluate this news in light of her own memories of Benedict. She didn’t really remember much about Lord Rothebury’s second son, much younger than Richard, and three years her junior. It wasn’t long after he was born that his father, Robert, died, and she and her family left Winter Garden for the final time, returning to their estate in Stamford, where she and Ian lived until her mother’s death. Benedict Sharon couldn’t have been more than three or four years old the last time she’d seen him, which to her meant she could say good day to him on the street tomorrow and not recognize him. But her memories were beside the point. All that mattered now was the house—and its contents.

  “There’s more, Ivy,” Madeleine said, interrupting her thoughts. “About a month ago, Eastleigh got word from an associate at the Home Office that Benedict Sharon may have been involved in some nefarious dealings of his own, and it’s likely this is the reason he sold the house.”

  “Financial reasons?”

  “Possibly,” Madeleine replied. “He disappeared shortly after the papers were signed.”

  She took a swallow of cooling tea and licked her lips. “That certainly adds flavor to the mystery.”

  Madeleine smiled as her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Indeed. At the Marquess of Rye’s request, they’ve sent someone from London, clandestinely, to try to solve the mystery of the man’s disappearance. Eastleigh is at the inn right now talking with him.”

  “I don’t know,” Madeleine returned without hesitation. “But I should say it is rather interesting that these particular things should happen to bring you back to Winter Garden after all these years.”

  “And coincidental,” she added, straightening in her chair. She planted a pleasant smile on her lips. “But for now, I look for ghosts. I was told a new staff are in the house, and they’re aware I’ll be moving into it tomorrow—”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Afraid?”

  Madeleine offered her a crooked smile. “That it’s haunted.”

  She grinned in return. “No, but I do sense a certain…apprehension that I can’t explain. I had planned to stay no more than a week, perhaps a fortnight at most.”

  Madeleine reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “It’s so good to see you, Ivy, and a week or two will give us plenty of time to chat.” With a graceful air, she stood and began to pick up the dishes.

  Garrett Burke leaned his shoulders back against the inn’s brick wall and stared up at the southern night sky, his twine coat wrapped around him like a wool blanket, in his bare hand a pipe of sweet tobacco, which he smoked to ward off the chill in his bones.

  The sharp ache in his head had finally begun to dissipate, probably due to breathing fresh air, though even fresh air often didn’t work when the pain was most acute. It had actually been more than two weeks since his last attack, yet he tried not to think about that too much. He could find no use in hoping that he’d begun to heal and the frequent suffering would lessen. Every moment he agonized in pain brought his greatest personal failure to the forefront. He could not allow that to happen again, and it was this determination—to catch the thief who had altered his world years ago—that brought him now to Winter Garden.

  His quiet discussion with Lord Eastleigh this evening had proved more than satisfying. He and Thomas had met at the tavern just before sunset to discuss the very reason he’d come to the village—to pursue the case of Benedict Sharon, the man he suspected of stealing priceless diamonds. The trail ended here, in this sleepy village, where someone right now withheld the information he sought, either about Sharon’s whereabouts or the whereabouts of the diamonds. As is, they couldn’t be easily sold, and he’d heard nothing of them since the man’s disappearance. But instinct alone told him that a growing threat lay ahead for him, especially when he now knew he’d once again be coming face-to-face with the intriguing Lady Ivy Wentworth, London’s famous seer, who’d arrived in Winter Garden this evening.

  Just hearing Thomas mention her arrival tonight brought a quick explosion of emotions to the surface, not one of them good. The week they reluctantly worked together two years ago had been fast and heated, with temperaments that both clashed and excited, though that was about all he recalled of it. The night he left her to meet his contact was the night of the attack that had nearly caused his death.

  Still, the image of Ivy as a beautiful woman lingered strong and arousing to this day, and in a dark and reckless manner, he looked forward to seeing her again. She exuded a sensuousness that defied definition, and he absolutely remembered her dark auburn hair, honey brown eyes, and full, luscious lips tipped up into a secretive smile. But most everything else that happened between them was a blur; the details of their week together remained vague at best. Even the passion her name and memory provoked in him now were confusing, disturbing, and beyond his understanding. Sometimes, when the ache in his head became so severe he couldn’t leave his bed, he blamed her—for his loss of perspective where she was c
oncerned, for trusting her brother in his attempt to find the diamonds, for the assault on him that still caused him so much physical pain, and especially for haunting his dreams with mystery since their last time together. Even now he believed she’d somehow been involved, and although he remained reluctant to trust her, he needed her help.

  Garrett tapped his pipe on the wooden railing to empty it, then stuffed it back into his coat pocket. The night was getting colder, and he shivered, taking one last, long look toward the darkened cottage at the end of Farrset Lane, where Ivy now slept peacefully, unaware of his nearness, ignorant of the impending storm of intrigue and the clash of passionate wills that was about to bring them together again. Then, pulling up the collar of his coat and taking a final deep breath of frigid air, he turned and walked back into the inn.

  Chapter 2

  Ivy stopped at the tall, rusted, iron gate, unlocked and open, as she stared up the driveway to the manor house on the former Rothebury summer home, the property now owned by the equally elusive Marquess of Rye. The sun shone brightly this morning, and yet a freezing wind stirred bare tree branches along the edges of the property, scraping the windowpanes and dark brown brick on the sides of the old, south-facing structure.

  From the front, the house looked neither frightening nor sinister, but rather just empty. Lonely, if one could say that of a home. She knew the minimal staff arranged by the marquess would be awaiting her inside, but they would probably know less about the history of the property than she did. A disadvantage in that, though she would, at least, have most of the rooms to herself. She would need it that way if she were to sense anything unusual inside.

  As a whole, she didn’t necessarily believe in ghosts that haunted dwellings, though she would be the first to admit there were many strange, mystical occurrences that defied rational explanation. But she had more to do here than simply investigate the house for wayward spirits. She felt a certain keen anticipation at the thought of exploring the various tunnels and secret rooms rumored to be inside, despite knowing far more was at stake, and she had a much more important thing to do.