A Notorious Proposition

by Adele Ashworth

  Although the shock of seeing Garrett still sent her mind reeling and made her body hot with anger, she had at last begun to calm herself and look at the situation rationally, especially in light of the fact that she was now living in the house where the diamonds were last supposed to be. She would have the time and freedom to search here first, though she doubted the Martello diamonds would just be stuck in a drawer in the master bedchamber. Still, it would be a start.

  Ushering her down a long, darkened hallway, Mrs. Thurman carried her valise to the far east end of the southern wing, then stopped in front of a massive oak door.

  “I thought you might be a bit uncomfortable sleeping in the mistress’s suite, as it’s connected to the baron’s,” the housekeeper informed her, reaching for the door latch and pulling it.

  She didn’t have to say because Benedict Sharon had occupied the adjoining room and so strangely disappeared in the middle of the night. Ivy knew that was what the woman meant.

  “This is the best guest room available,” she continued without pause. “It gets a lovely dose of the morning sun and has a splendid view of the southern shore of the lake.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be perfect for my needs,” Ivy replied, gazing around the room as she followed the woman inside, feeling a draft in the darkness.

  “It’s also the room Lord Rye suggested for you,” Mrs. Thurman added as she placed the valise on the floor at the foot of the bed, then walked to the thick purple drapes that covered the windows.

  A sudden thought occurred to her. “How long have you been in Lord Rye’s employ?”

  “For more than twenty years,” the housekeeper replied without hesitation, tying the drapes on one side of the window as she spoke, squinting from a sudden gush of sunlight. “Started in the scullery back in Rye when I was a girl, then got myself trained by the first housekeeper, Mrs. Castlewaite. I’ve only been in Winter Garden for a month or so, but most of the small staff here came with me from the main house on his estate. We’re all very loyal to the marquess and anxious to have this become his second home.”

  It was more information than she’d expected, or asked for, and for a second Ivy thought the answer sounded…rehearsed. But she tried to shrug that off.

  “I see,” she returned with a smile, taking in the room as Mrs. Thurman moved to tidy up the bed. It looked fluffy and comfortable, and large enough to accommodate more than one person. She noted the tall fireplace with a bronze grate to her right, a rather large lavender satin settee in front of it, and to her left beside the window, a small oak dressing table and mirror. With dark-paneled walls that matched the floorboards, the only other color in the room came from two lavender rugs and an oil painting of lilacs in a still life hanging above the bed.

  “So, you’re aware of why I’m here?” she prodded, walking a bit farther inside.

  “Oh, yes,” the housekeeper answered quickly as she fluffed the pillows under the deep bronze and purple quilted coverlet. “We’re all aware of your reputation, Lady Ivy, and it’s quite fascinating to have a renowned seer visit.” She turned and straightened her apron. “But I haven’t heard a thing that could be construed as a ghostly noise since I’ve been here, I’m sorry to say. Maybe your wayward spirit doesn’t haunt the servants’ quarters, then?”

  “Let’s hope not,” she replied cheerfully. “I don’t think I want to be left completely alone in a house this old.”

  Mrs. Thurman brushed that comment aside with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense. He can’t scare us off. I’ve seen too much in my day.” With a quick change of subject, she walked to the door opposite the window and opened it. “Here is the withdrawing room, and the wardrobe is inside. I’ll have your trunks delivered as soon as they arrive.” She turned and walked back toward the hallway entrance. “Lord Rye said to give you free rein of the property to do your investigation, so we’ll be at your service, and you may call on us at any time. Jamie, my son, tends the stables, and we do have one carriage available, though you probably won’t need it unless you’d like to travel outside the village. Your girl, Jane, has a room set with us below stairs, though she won’t be working for anyone but you unless you choose otherwise. We’ll serve breakfast and luncheon to you at your request. Dinner is served at eight, unless you’d prefer another time, and Mr. Newbury will light your fire thirty minutes before you retire. And of course there’s a lock on your door here for privacy. Is there anything else?”

  Ivy got the distinct impression that she was being rushed—or that Mrs. Thurman had something more engaging to attend to. But, then, so did she.

  “No, that’ll be all, Mrs. Thurman,” she replied with a nod. As the housekeeper turned to leave, she stopped her with, “You will tell me at once, however, if there is any correspondence for me, especially from Lord Rye, or if you should happen to see or hear anything odd?”

  Mrs. Thurman curtsied. “Of course, my lady. At once.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Thurman.”

  Ivy closed the door, listening to the woman’s footsteps disappear as she made her way down the hall.

  Ivy walked to the window and gazed out into the late-morning sunshine. Indeed, the view was lovely from this angle as the tree line edged down to the lake on her left. She could just make out the path that wound around the southern shore, sometimes going very near the now-still water, sometimes curving to disappear into the forest. At the far end of the lake stood the Hope cottage, where Lord Eastleigh and his wife lived, though she could only see a small trail of chimney smoke rising above the brush. And to the left of the cottage, near the town square, she could just barely make out the thatched roofing of the inn where Garrett would be lodging. The thought made her nervous. She had no idea how long he intended to stay in Winter Garden, and he had never said. But he was too close for her comfort. Far too close.

  She closed her eyes to the intense rush of apprehension that suddenly coursed through her and clutched the windowpane until the wood scraped her hands, until the fear passed—

  Help me!

  She stilled. “Ian…”

  Help me, Ivy!

  With a gasp, her eyes shot open and she jerked back from the window—though not before she’d seen Garrett watching her.

  He’d been sitting on a bench across the lake, staring at the house with his piercing eyes. And he couldn’t have missed her standing in front of the glass, gazing outside in bright sunshine.

  …be forewarned…that I’ll be here watching you, tracing your every move, investigating the same people and making my own discoveries…

  “The devil is haunting me,” she whispered aloud to nobody. Seconds later she took a step forward again and gingerly peeked out the window to the bench, now empty, as she knew it would be.

  But her vision had been of Ian. That was what had startled her in the first place. Her brother was in danger, himself missing, and he was far more important than the pain felt by a ruined love affair of days gone by.

  Recovering herself, she quickly moved to her valise at the foot of the bed, lifted the latch, and opened it, rummaging through the contents until she held the letter from Lord Rye in her hands.

  My Lady,

  I bring to you a matter that needs the attention of your particular talents…

  A simple note asking her to investigate a house for a ghost—and the diamonds Benedict Sharon carried on his person the night he disappeared.

  She had been summoned to Winter Garden for a purpose, a purpose that somehow included Garrett. And now she feared for Ian’s safety, and she had no idea why, or how he might be involved. One thing she did know, however: Far more was at stake than recovering priceless jewels.

  Yes, the devil might haunt her, but she would find the diamonds first.

  Chapter 3

  Sarah Rodney quite possibly had the loveliest home in Winter Garden, situated on the northern shores of the lake, directly across from the Rothebury estate—now called the Rye estate by a few of those getting used to the change.

  Mrs. Rod
ney, though not a member of the peerage, counted herself as a widow blessed by the memory of a good husband who had passed her and her children a remarkable fortune along with his very respectable name. Or so she often said. Ivy didn’t remember much about them from her own childhood visits, but she did vaguely remember the house as she’d been inside several times.

  A two-story structure made of pale yellow stone, it was the size of a country manor yet looked like a cottage, with French doors and wrought-iron decor, numerous rooms, and a lush conservatory boasting high windows that faced the lake and allowed for a full day of the southern winter sun to shine and warm the inside.

  But with the cloud cover today, Ivy was surely glad she’d decided to bring her fur-lined pelisse and matching muff, for it was a rather long walk around the lake and through the village. She didn’t see a soul along the way, probably due to the lateness of the afternoon and the chill in the air, though once she neared the lady’s property, she caught a very good glimpse of the tall windows that lined the magnificent ballroom of the Rye estate on the opposite shore. Truly, the view was lovely—and very telling, should something be amiss at the former Rothebury home.

  Now at last she sat in the lady’s luxurious parlor of emerald green and gold, gazing at the walls covered with oil paintings in gilded frames, warming her hands by rubbing them together as she awaited Mrs. Rodney’s arrival. She’d donned her best day gown in rich royal blue trimmed in white lace for the occasion, and loosely braided her hair into two plaits that Jane wrapped around her ears and pinned with pearls after helping her dress.

  Her first night in the manor home had been rather unremarkable, though she’d slept little. Every rustle of the trees outside her window sounded like the scratching of nails on a wooden board, which only reminded her of the ghosts that remained, real or imagined. But after a breakfast of tea and toast, she sent word to Mrs. Rodney that she’d like to visit sometime today, to which the lady replied with a quick invitation for this afternoon. Up until the time she left the house on her trek around the lake, she had explored a few of the various rooms, though, unfortunately, she found nothing of importance and sensed very little in the way of supernatural spirits. Yet there still remained a great deal to see, and plenty more to investigate, something she looked forward to doing again this evening.

  She had also spent far too much time thinking of Garrett, and his unexpected reappearance into her life. Damn the man that she couldn’t escape his dishonest intentions! And yet her own feelings of betrayal and anger where he was concerned were more her fault than his. She couldn’t very well blame him for her feelings. But after careful reflection throughout the day, she decided it would be in her interest to keep away from him the best that she could. She didn’t trust him, and more importantly, she didn’t trust herself when she was near him. Most perplexing was the desire either to tear his heart out with her bare hands or hold him tenderly as she had done once before, kissing away the tension in his jaw and mouth…

  Ivy shook herself from that ridiculous notion and tried hard to concentrate on exactly what questions she would ask Mrs. Rodney. She knew the woman had lived in Winter Garden all her life, and as the town’s unofficial historian, possessed more information about the former Rothebury estate, its house and owners than anyone. And hopefully she’d know as much about the disappearance of Benedict, even if it turned out to be more gossip than not. In her experience, gentlemen detectives didn’t give nearly as much credence to gossip and rumor between ladies as they should.

  The sound of a door closing and deep male voices in the foyer brought her back to the moment, and she straightened in her golden velveteen chair and smoothed her skirts. Then the thought occurred to her that one of the voices might be Garret’s. But that was preposterous. He wouldn’t dare—

  “Lady Ivy,” the old and stately butler interrupted from the doorway, “may I present Mr. Burke, an architect from London who has also been invited for tea.” He stepped to the side to allow him to enter. “Mrs. Rodney will be with you shortly.”

  She didn’t even notice the butler leave as she fixed her furious gaze on the person of her heart’s deceit.

  “Lady Ivy,” he drawled in greeting as he walked farther into the parlor, a wry smile playing across his mouth. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  He didn’t look surprised to see her at all. Suddenly flustered, she wanted to ask how he could possibly know she’d be here, but then it was a small town, and simple reason suggested that visiting the historian would be the first place one might start to learn information about its homes and people. And yet his threat to watch her every move made it more likely that he was following her, perhaps even investigating her, though that notion seemed a bit silly. Still, she could either ignore him, which might actually bring more attention to them as individuals in Winter Garden for a devious purpose, or she could play the innocent. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided she had no choice. She must play along or risk losing every advantage.

  Glaring at him as he approached, she couldn’t help but notice he’d recently bathed and shaved, and dressed in a fine-quality day suit of brown woolen trousers, a beige linen shirt with dark brown cravat, and matching frock coat. He looked irresistibly handsome, and she suddenly wished good manners didn’t preclude her slapping the grin of satisfaction off his face. Instead, she nodded once and lifted her hand to him. “Mr. Burke,” she countered with feigned sweetness, “the surprise is all mine.”

  His eyes flashed with a trace of amusement, and it apparently took seconds for him to decide if he should touch her. When at last he grasped her hand firmly with his own warm, strong fingers and raised her knuckles to his lips, she felt her body go hot all over and her skin flush with color that he certainly had to notice. Her reaction embarrassed and annoyed her, and she fought the urge to jerk away from the contact, however slight it might be.

  “Lady Ivy, and Mr. Burke, how delightful that you both could come for tea,” Mrs. Rodney interjected as she sashayed into the room.

  Ivy pulled away from his probing gaze, and he quickly released her.

  “Mrs. Rodney,” he replied, turning around and giving the elderly lady a gentle bow, “the delight is ours, I’m sure.”

  Ivy almost rolled her eyes. Truly, the man feigned charm better than anyone she knew. Standing, she nodded to her white-haired, fashionably coiffed hostess, the consummate Englishwoman, late in years, who carried herself with great poise. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Rodney. And a respite of tea is sorely needed on such a cold afternoon.”

  “Indeed,” the older woman agreed. “Normally, I’d serve in the conservatory, so we could all enjoy the scent of plant life and flowers, but without the sun, on a day like this one, I’m afraid it would just be too chilly. I thought perhaps we could enjoy the afternoon here near the fire instead.”

  Without objection, Ivy lowered her body into her chair again, and Garrett, rather than choosing to sit on the green velveteen sofa next to the grate, sat on her immediate left, in a matching chair far too small for his large frame. She could only hope he felt as uncomfortable as he appeared to be, especially after catching a whiff of his mild cologne, which made her stir and lean her shoulders as far to the right as she could. The scent of him brought back sharp memories that she didn’t want intruding into her thoughts at a time when paying attention to detail would be vital.

  “So, what brings you to Winter Garden?” Mrs. Rodney asked cheerfully as she lowered her robust frame onto the sofa and spread her full satin skirts daintily around her ankles.

  “Mr. Burke and I are here for entirely different purposes, actually,” she replied, probably too quickly. They both looked at her with raised brows.

  “What I mean,” she amended, “is that I am here at the bidding of the new owner of the Rothebury home, and he”—she shot him a quick glance—“Mr. Burke, is here for something else.” She paused, then added, “Evidently.”

  Feeling utterly foolish for being so disconcerted by his
presence, she grew enormously thankful when, at that precise moment, the butler rapped once on the partially opened door, then moved to his side to allow two parlor maids to enter, each carrying a silver tray topped with a variety of items, which they dutifully deposited on the tea table in front of them.

  “We’ll serve ourselves,” Mrs. Rodney informed the girls, who then each curtsied and left the room without a word. “That will be all, Layton,” she added to the butler, who nodded once, then quit the parlor, closing the doors behind him.

  “Now,” she continued, sitting forward to survey the fare in front of her, “where were we?”

  The conversation began easily enough as their hostess served plum cakes and weak but piping-hot tea. Ivy had the most difficult time listening, or rather concentrating on the exchange about the history of the town, a bit of the scandal that occurred two years ago, and how quiet it had become after Lord Rothebury’s arrest. She had the distinct notion that Garrett had little trouble paying attention, however, as he nodded occasionally and asked his own question or two. She never looked directly at him, though she really didn’t need to. He seemed genuinely attentive and far less affected by her presence than she was of his.

  “So, are you married, Mr. Burke?”

  That question certainly came from nowhere, bringing her attention back to center as if she’d been slapped. Her heart began beating hard and fast as Garrett took his time in answering. Still, she couldn’t look at him, though the warmth of his body seemed to penetrate her.

  “No, Mrs. Rodney,” he replied at last, “my work keeps me rather too busy to consider it as yet. One day, perhaps.”

  “Ahh,” the woman offered with a nod of understanding. “Gentlemen must settle their careers first, I suppose, before they can consider such things.”