They said little more than pleasantries to each other along the way. But after spending so much time in his company of late, Ivy had begun to feel a new and unusual attachment to him, coupled with a growing annoyance at being so aware—of his large and muscled form, his skillful hands and handsome face, his beautiful, dark eyes as they gazed at her with a kind of unfocused confusion and a trace of deception. And for the first time in ages, she allowed herself to remember what he’d looked like next to her in bed as he’d made love to her two years ago. She had touched him intimately and reveled in his marvelously male body, yet suddenly she wished that particular memory would simply disappear from her mind forever. If nothing else, forgetting the past would allow her to work with Garrett on terms of civility for the remainder of their stay in Winter Garden. Except she knew that each time he looked at her he also drew on the memory of her, undressed and willing and needful in his bed. And knowing he no doubt thought of her in such a way each time he looked at her kept her rather embarrassed in his presence, especially each time she found herself so physically close to him as they’d been in the tunnel last night. Really, she couldn’t find the diamonds soon enough. Time was getting desperately short.
As they neared the property, it became apparent that the Bennington-Jones cottage home, although once obviously cared for, now showed signs of neglect, as dried brush hadn’t been cleared in quite some time. Window boxes were empty and hanging loosely, and scratches and splinters could be seen on the shutters. Garrett held open the waist-high fenced gate, and she entered in front of him, walking swiftly down the cobblestone path to the front door. It took nearly a full minute after he rapped with the brass knocker for the door to open a crack. A girl of no more than fifteen peeked out, eyeing them curiously.
“Mr. Garrett Burke and Lady Ivy Wentworth to see Mrs. Bennington-Jones and her daughters, if you please,” he said in his most charming voice as he handed her his card.
The girl looked at the card, then surveyed their appearance. “Sorry, Mrs. Bennington-Jones isn’t receiving callers,” she informed them hesitantly, “and I’m not sure if Miss Hermione or Miss Viola is at home.”
“Of course,” Garrett replied with a gentle nod. “It’s no trouble. Would you then please inform them at your convenience that we have information regarding property of theirs found on the former Rothebury estate?”
The girl’s brows rose almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps I’ll check on Miss Hermione’s whereabouts. Wait here.”
Ivy smiled. “Thank you.”
She closed the door on them for a few moments, then reopened it, this time wide enough for them to enter. “Please come in,” she said meekly.
They walked into a small foyer, a dark enclosure smelling oddly of boiled onions and furniture polish. The house was uncommonly warm for this time of year as well, feeling stuffy and…lifeless, she decided. Remarkably sad. A home of social outcasts without the means to relocate to another community where they’d be less noticed, or known.
The maid who had answered the door promptly walked to her left and guided them to a small parlor.
“Please be seated,” she directed. “Miss Hermione will be with you momentarily.”
Without a word between them, she and Garrett did as requested, sitting in matching wing chairs of faded peach brocade, both facing a velveteen settee of the same color. With their backs to the low fire in the grate, she felt perspiration break out on her neck and wished she’d been given the option of removing her pelisse. Apparently the Bennington-Joneses no longer had a butler, or the maid had been told to allow them to enter with the unspoken understanding that they would not be welcome long. In either case, she felt uncomfortable, and assumed Garrett did as well, although he’d loosened his twine coat before adjusting his body in his chair.
They waited in silence as they’d already decided he would take the lead in questions, and she would remain especially observant. Already she’d come to the conclusion that the Bennington-Joneses had little money remaining and didn’t receive guests on any regular basis. The parlor, as with most families of modest means, would no doubt be their best room in the home, allowing visitors to believe them wealthier by appearance. In this case, Ivy noted small areas of peeling wallpaper, little artwork on display, and a wooden floor that hadn’t been refinished in years. Rugs, furniture, and decorations were sparse, and even the draperies, drawn across every window, had faded from years of use. The house was similar in style to Mrs. Rodney’s, though not quite as large, and not nearly as well-appointed or filled with quality items. For a moment she wondered if they would be offered refreshment, then decided probably not. Even tea could be considered a luxury.
A minute or two later she heard the quick tapping of heels on the foyer floor. With a quick glance at Garrett, she sat straighter in her chair, her hands folded neatly on top of the muff in her lap as Hermione Bennington-Jones swept in with an air of confidence Ivy didn’t sense in her at all.
A tall and sturdy woman, she wore a day gown of plum satin, probably her best attire, cut in an attempt to hide a thick middle and widening hips, though white lace at the long sleeves, neckline, and bottom of the skirt only managed to address them. She had fine, blond hair swept high on her head, small blue eyes, and a rather undefined round face that one could only describe as homely. Ivy’s first thought was that if she had been lovelier, she might have attracted a husband regardless of her social standing or lack thereof. Without a sizable dowry, and with her somewhat unappealing appearance, she could only hope for spinsterhood now that her family had been disgraced. And just that knowledge left her feeling dismayed and filled with an uncommon sadness for someone who might only be twenty years of age and had little joy in life to look forward to.
Garrett stood at her entrance. “Good morning, Miss Bennington-Jones,” he said courteously, a pleasant smile on his mouth. “Thank you for taking the time to welcome us on such short notice.”
The woman tossed a quick glance at Ivy, then turned her gaze directly on him, her eyes narrowed shrewdly as she continued toward them.
“I enjoy callers in the morning,” she replied, “though I suppose Millie informed you Viola isn’t home and Mother isn’t well.”
“She did,” he acknowledged, “so we’ll only take a few minutes of your time. I hope she’ll be feeling better soon.”
Hermione said nothing to that standard response as she lowered her body gracefully on the settee, then spread her skirts out daintily around her legs as good breeding dictated. Garrett returned to his chair.
For a moment an awkward silence filled the room as Hermione shifted her gaze to Ivy, candidly taking in her full appearance, her brows drawing together negligibly.
“You’re the seer, aren’t you?”
The blunt question caught her a little off guard, though she hid it well, smiling satisfactorily. “I am, yes,” she replied. “I have been asked by the Marquess of Rye, the new owner of the Rothebury estate, to investigate it for unusual occurrences.”
The woman didn’t even blink. “How very interesting.”
Hermione continued to gaze at her shrewdly, though her voice, Ivy noticed, seemed very small coming from a person of such a large stature. And she didn’t sound interested at all, she sounded bored. Detached.
Hermione turned her attention back to Garrett. “So what may I do for you, Mr….?”
“Burke,” he informed her. “I’m an architect from the city, Miss Bennington-Jones, and as such, my employer has asked me to investigate the former Rothebury home and catalog the various structural changes that have been made to it through the years.” He paused, then lowered his tone to add, “Including the tunnel system.”
If Hermione was shocked by his disclosure, she didn’t show it, though the tiny smile she’d feigned beforehand seemed to fade.
“I’m not at all clear what a smuggler’s tunnel has to do with me,” she said seconds later.
Ivy sat forward a little in her chair. “I’m sure you understand we wou
ld never be indiscreet—”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” the woman cut in matter-of-factly.
She’s clever.
Ivy offered her most understanding smile. “We are not unaware of the scandal in Winter Garden two years ago, Miss Bennington-Jones, and under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be mentioned in your good company.”
The younger woman said nothing, just continued to look at her candidly, though Ivy detected a tiny twitch of her upper lip—and the slightest shift in mood within the parlor.
“However,” she continued, “as Mr. Burke and I have both been employed to investigate the house—under completely different circumstances, of course—we’ve chanced to come upon something peculiar and thought to bring it to your attention.”
Hermione’s thin blond brows rose negligibly. “Again, I’m not sure what anything found on or near the Rothebury estate has to do with me.”
It become obvious that Hermione had chosen to remain particularly vague, and yet Ivy sensed an intensity in the woman, a resentment or inner turmoil that simmered just below the surface, held in check by rigid etiquette she’d probably been taught since birth.
Suddenly, Garrett asked, “Have you been on the property lately?”
“No,” she answered at once, looking back at him. “When Lord Rothebury returned several months ago, he took no callers. I did hear that a few villagers of quality attempted to welcome him back to the community, but he was rather inhospitable to all of them.”
“How so?” Garrett asked, as if surprised by the news.
Hermione rubbed her thick thumbs together in her lap. “Apparently he accepted no invitations and refused callers at every turn. I heard…somewhere, that he preferred solitude, and the company of only his cats.”
“His cats?” Garrett repeated.
“Evidently he had several of them.” She shivered. “Nasty creatures.”
“You don’t like cats?” Ivy asked innocently.
The young woman looked at her frankly. “Nor do I like dogs. Animals smell, and Mother has always reminded us that nobody of quality should own them as pets, allowing them to wander through a clean household where they leave their fur and droppings indiscriminately.” She drew a long breath and sat up straighter on the settee. “All animals belong on farms.”
Meaning, she supposed, that people of quality don’t live on farms.
Garrett chuckled. “At least on farms they’d be useful in catching the rats.”
Hermione almost smiled. “Exactly, Mr. Burke.”
Ivy had to give him credit for his ability to engage her, a woman she suspected had never experienced attention from any man as handsome as Garrett.
“Were you surprised to hear that Benedict Sharon had disappeared?” Ivy asked, returning to the subject at hand.
Hermione tipped her head slightly to the right and stared at her blankly. “No, not particularly. But then I stay rather busy taking care of Mother’s needs, so I haven’t given his arrival or disappearance much thought.”
“I’m sure every task is daunting when a family member is under the weather,” Garrett said sympathetically.
Hermione smiled faintly and nodded once. “Indeed.”
Ivy wished she could actually meet Penelope Bennington-Jones but didn’t broach the subject. Now didn’t appear to be the time. She suspected the lady was listening in to their conversation from behind a closed door anyway.
Finally, Garrett adjusted his body in the small chair, sitting up a little as he reached into his jacket pocket.
“The reason we’ve called on you today, Miss Bennington-Jones, is because we found something interesting, and of value, in one of the passages on the property.” He pulled the necklace out slowly. “We wondered if perhaps you know if it belonged to your sister.”
Ivy watched the woman closely. Although he’d not said her name aloud, just the vague mention of Desdemona brought a change to the woman. Hermione’s face seemed to harden very slightly, her eyes grew cold and flat, and she even bristled in her seat almost imperceptibly.
Garrett held the pendant out in front of them by only his index finger, watching it dangle above the small oval tea table between the settee and wing chairs. It spun very slowly, the polished silver reflecting the light from the fire.
Hermione stared at it, unmoving at first. Then, as if to avoid speculation of any kind, she exhaled in exasperation and leaned over, reaching for it with a plump hand.
“I’m sure I’ve never seen this before,” she confessed at last, as the heart lay flat in her palm, “and I’m certain it didn’t belong to any member of my family.”
Ivy noticed an edge in her small voice, a note of anger she could no longer repress. “You’ll notice the initials on one side—R.S. We’re assuming it belonged to the baron, but strangely, we found it in the tunnel,” she revealed quietly, purposely neglecting to mention that it had been found in a smaller passageway in the house itself. “We know your sister had been inside at one time—”
“That is a fact we have chosen to forget, madam,” Hermione interjected, her tone and expression frosty as she released the pendant and sat back once more. “And you’ll note these are not Desdemona’s initials. I’m quite certain Lord Rothebury had numerous paramours enter his home in such a disgraceful manner, and it could have belonged to any of them. He was a very deceitful man who took advantage of two or three of Winter Garden’s finest young ladies.”
A long and awkward silence ensued. Then Garrett returned to the subject at hand as he dropped the necklace back into his pocket. “Would you have any idea who the pendant might belong to if not to your sister?” he asked ruefully.
“No,” she replied at once. “But I will say it would be unusual for Lord Rothebury to give gifts to anyone while he lived in that house. The man hoarded his possessions and looked upon ladies as playthings.” She raised her chin a fraction to add, “I have my doubts that the man would purchase anything for a mistress.”
“I see,” Garrett remarked. “Then I suppose there’s nothing more we can do here. I’m sure at some point its owner will come forward or it will remain as Lord Rye’s property as it rightfully is now, I suppose.”
Hermione’s lips curled. “No doubt.” Suddenly her gaze shifted to Ivy. “Have you found the ghost, madam?”
She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I beg your pardon?”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Of course I’ve heard the rumor of why London’s renowned seer is back in Winter Garden after all these years away.”
Ivy offered the woman a light smile, which was not returned. “As yet, no, I haven’t seen or heard anything remotely like a spirit presence. But I’ll continue investigating the house if it’s Lord Rye’s wish that I do so.”
“And do you find such work satisfying, Lady Ivy?” she asked coolly.
Ivy suddenly didn’t know how to read the woman. For all the sincerity in her words, her voice, low and soft, revealed more than a shade of contempt.
Sighing, she said, “It can be. Are you aware of any other ghostly sightings in town? Unusual occurrences or strangers who seem out of place?”
Without hesitation, Hermione replied, “Many people come from the north for the winter months, and each year they differ. As far as ghosts are concerned, I don’t believe in such nonsense.” She stood abruptly, effectively dismissing them. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m certain Mother needs me.”
“Then please don’t let us keep you,” Garrett said good-naturedly as he stood and offered the woman a gentle bow.
Ivy stood as well. “Thank you for your time, Miss Bennington-Jones.”
Hermione glanced from one to the other, then smiled faintly. “Millie will show you out. Good day.”
“One more thing?”
Hermione turned and looked her up and down. “Yes?”
“I am in contact with the new owner of the property, Lord Rye, and I believe he’s planning another Winter Masquerade,” she revealed with a pleasant smile.
“Naturally, we’d like to extend an invitation to you, your sister, and your mother.”
For the first time, Hermione exhibited an honest expression. Her eyes opened wide as her mouth dropped open in a shock she couldn’t hide. Then placing a palm on her stomach, she blinked quickly and glanced around the room as if unsure how to respond to what would surely be the only invitation she’d received in two years.
At last, her voice tight and low, she replied, “I—I’m certain we’d enjoy that, Lady Ivy.” Recovering herself, she straightened, and added, “If, of course, Mother is feeling up to attending the ball.”
“Of course I understand,” she replied.
Hermione nodded once, her cool demeanor returned. “Now, forgive me, but I must attend to duties.”
With that, she turned and walked from the parlor, leaving Ivy both confused and somewhat annoyed by a frank if not rude dismissal and a gathering of information that told them almost nothing. Except for the fact that Ivy sensed the woman’s prevarication.
She was hiding something, and at that moment Ivy shivered, feeling the perspiration on her neck and between her breasts turn to ice.
Without a word between them, she and Garrett stepped from the house into the cold gray morning.
“She’s lying,” Garrett said, after they’d walked through the village square toward the lake.
Ivy squeezed her hands together in her muff and lifted it to warm her nose. “I’m not so sure she’s lying but rather evading, or…hiding something specific she knows.”
“Mmmm.”
“What does that mean?” she asked with caution.
He chuckled. “Nothing insulting, I assure you.”
“Do you think she knew Benedict more than she admitted? She did seem to know of his cats.”
He shrugged lightly. “I’ve no idea. I can’t imagine why she would want to do him harm, though. He’d been gone for years and had nothing to do with the ruining of her sister.”
“True…” She waited, then braved the question, “So what do we do now?”
A Notorious Proposition Page 13