“Make it a brandy.”
“All right, if you wait here for me and promise you’ll never repeat what you just said to your husband.”
“Why would…oh, my.” Victoria blanched, shuddering. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know that. For heaven’s sake.”
Across the room Sin talked with Kingsfeld and Lucien. Thank goodness he hadn’t overheard her advocating murdering someone to alter their point of view. His friend’s callous assertions about worth and his definitions of uselessness had just been so aggravating…
Victoria sat straight up, the blood draining from her face. It couldn’t be. Not Kingsfeld. Not Thomas Grafton’s closest friend. She stared at him as he stood smiling and at ease, saying something to Sinclair. It didn’t make any sense—and yet, in a horrifying, sickening way, it did.
“You look awful,” Lex said, handing her a glass and taking the seat beside her. “Drink your brandy.”
She drank it in two swallows. The brandy burned her throat, and she sputtered and coughed, her eyes watering.
“Victoria, don’t upset yourself so much. You only said it to me, and I know you didn’t mean any of it.”
The sputtering and choking gave her a moment to gather her thoughts into some sort of order. “I know,” she rasped. “My ability to say stupid things just amazes me sometimes.” She couldn’t say anything about Kingsfeld until she’d thought it through, or had some proof—something more than dislike and wild speculation.
“So now he’s got you drinking brandy?” Augusta said, sitting down on her other side. “I knew that boy was a bad influence.”
“He’d have to be the most awful creature on earth to be a bad influence on me.” Forcing a smile, Victoria rose to her feet. “It’s my fault. I need a bit of fresh air, though. Excuse me for a moment.”
“Of course, dear.”
Ignoring the two ladies’ surprised looks, Victoria gathered her skirts and hurried for the balcony overlooking Augusta’s small garden. She drew a deep breath, grateful for the chill night air.
“Even married women aren’t supposed to venture out to a balcony alone.”
Victoria shrieked. Clapping both hands over her mouth, she managed to stifle most of the sound and hoped the orchestra inside had covered the remainder of her squawk. “Marley,” she gasped. “You nearly frightened me to death.”
The chestnut-haired viscount remained where he was, in the shadows at the near end of the balcony. “So I see.”
“What are you doing out here?”
He shrugged. “I’m not drunk enough to go back inside yet. And you?”
“The same.”
“Jesus Christ, Vixen. Of all the men you could have picked over me, you chose Sin Grafton?”
Marley was still a suspect, she reminded herself. It still could be him. She edged back toward the doorway. “I wouldn’t have married you regardless.”
“I know that. I’m not an idiot.”
“So w—”
“You weren’t going to marry anyone, so that seemed fair enough. Then in he walks, and you change the rules.”
“You didn’t have to come tonight, if that’s how you feel.”
“You asked me to come, Vixen. And you’ve spent better than an hour now ignoring me. So what do you want?”
A confession, she thought, though now it seemed that might come from another source entirely. “I wanted to know if we could still be friends,” she improvised.
He straightened. “I don’t think we ever were friends. You wanted someone you could get into trouble with and who wouldn’t mind the damage to his reputation.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And what did you want?”
“You.”
Lionel Parrish chose that moment to stroll out to the balcony. He looked so surprised to see the two of them that he had to have known they were there. “Beg pardon,” he said but made no move to go back inside. “Got too dangerous in the ballroom.”
Victoria stepped closer to him. “Dangerous? How?”
“Liverpool mentioned a new trade agreement with the Colonies, and Haverly spewed port all over the floor. A prelude to bloodshed, I’m certain.”
“I’d best get back inside, then, and dance with one of them,” she said with a swift smile. “Will you guide me in the direction of the battle?”
With a glance at Marley, Parrish offered his arm. “Just keep a watch for barbed tongues and rapier wit. I may faint if challenged.”
“I’ll protect you.”
Purposely not looking back at Marley, Victoria allowed Lionel to escort her back into the ballroom. The viscount hadn’t behaved in a particularly dangerous manner, but even so she was relieved to escape unscathed. In the past he’d seemed content just to socialize with her, with occasional kisses. She didn’t like that he’d expected something more intimate from her, as though her friendship hadn’t been enough.
In the ballroom, despite Lionel’s dire description, everything seemed fairly calm. He looked sideways at her. “Hm. Perhaps I exaggerated.”
“Thank you, Lionel.”
“I saw Marley head out there earlier. I would have intercepted you, but you move quite fast.”
She laughed. “I’ll move more slowly next time.”
Kingsfeld had left Sin and gone on to chat with Lady Augusta. She must be insane, Victoria thought. No one could kill someone and then remain close friends with the victim’s family. Marley made more sense. At least he made no secret of disliking Sinclair.
Lady Jane Netherby glided into the ballroom from the direction of the study. The cool, subdued expression she wore faltered and then reformed. Curious, Victoria followed the direction of the woman’s gaze—right to Lord Kingsfeld. Her breath caught.
“Lionel, have you seen Sinclair?” she asked, looking around for her husband.
“Last I saw, he was in the drawing room. Is everything all right?”
Blast it, she was going to have to learn not to give so much away. She was a terrible card player, too. “Yes. I need to speak to him, though.”
“I’ll relinquish you, then. Lucy’s been bribing the orchestra for a country dance, anyway.”
“Save a waltz for me,” she said, releasing his arm.
“I’m your man, unless war’s broken out by then.”
Halfway to the drawing room Sin appeared in the doorway, Crispin Harding a few steps behind him. Though not obvious, both men had their attention on Lady Jane Netherby. Victoria frowned. Mr. Harding had informed Sin of the woman’s presence, then—which was the most important thing, of course. But she had wanted to be the one to tell him.
Sinclair had opted against an introduction, deciding an accidental meeting would be more productive. Now, putting on a guise of slight drunkenness so realistic that Victoria could only watch and admire, he maneuvered close to Lady Jane, executed a clumsy backstep, and collided with her.
Victoria belatedly realized she was staring, and she whirled around to study a potted ivy. As she did so, though, she caught sight of Lord Kingsfeld. He was also watching the conversation between Sinclair and Lady Jane. His expression remained the same mildly bored one he’d worn all evening, but something in his eyes made her shudder.
She was imagining things. She had to be. Had Sinclair told him they were looking for Lady Jane? And what was Lady Jane so reluctant to talk about?
Shaking herself, Victoria went to find Augusta and listen to some calm reassurances of the uprightness of the Earl of Kingfeld’s character. Their hostess, though, was in the middle of the ballroom floor, dancing a country dance with Kit. They seemed so happy to have Sinclair back, so completely unaware of the intrigue clinging to the shadows all around them.
Then and there, she made a promise to herself. It would kill Sinclair if anything happened to his grandmother or his younger brother. Whether she decided to confide in Sin about her suspicions of Kingsfeld or not, she would see that nothing happened to his family. Nothing.
Sin trailed hot, slow kis
ses from the nape of Victoria’s neck down the length of her spine. She writhed under his ministrations, muffling her moans and throaty laughter in the pillows.
Something was bothering her; she’d been quiet for the entire ride back to Grafton House, and even his teasing questions had only half roused her from her contemplations. He could guess at least part of the problem; she’d spent the evening spying on her friends and acquaintances, and had more than likely discovered one or two things she would rather not have known. That was his fault, and he was determined to draw her out of the doldrums.
“Sinclair,” she said, trying to turn over, “I need to tell you something.”
He kept her pinned on her stomach. “Tell me.”
“I can’t…think with you…kissing me like that.”
That was handy to know. Her brain didn’t function in close proximity to him, just as he seemed to go witless the moment their eyes met. Slowly he slid his palms over her rounded bottom and down the backs of her legs. “All right.” He sighed with mock disappointment, sitting back on his knees.
She squirmed, turning onto her back. “Did you learn anything from Lady Jane?”
Pulling her right foot toward him, he began massaging it with lazy, deep circles. “I thought you had something to tell me.”
“I do.”
The hesitation in her eyes worried him. What did she think she’d found out now? “And?”
“And I want to hear what you have to say, first—to see if what I have to say still makes sense.”
Now his impetuous bride was being cautious. Another worrisome sign. “Lady Jane Netherby knows something. I’ve sent Bates to see what he can dig up at her parents’ country residence, and Wally’s about to become enamored of her personal maid.”
“Poor Wally.”
“He deserves it, after frightening me half to death the other day.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Not much. She was friends with Thomas, and was sorry for our loss. Very sorry. Nothing about bringing anyone to justice, or mistakes he might have made, or anyone he might have angered, or that she couldn’t understand why this happened.” He took a breath, noting the intense interest on Victoria’s face. “All of which indicates to me that she might know the answers to those questions already.” Fairness made him kiss her ankle and smile. “You did a good job, discovering her.”
“I don’t think she and Marley know one another. He’s never looked in her direction or mentioned her name in the last two years, anyway.”
He turned his attentions to her left foot. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?” he asked, trying to keep his tone cool. Every time she defended damned Lord Marley he had the urge to shake her. It hurt, knowing that she liked—had probably even kissed—the man who in all likelihood had murdered Thomas.
“No.” She hesitated again, then sat up, pulling her foot free and replacing it with her hands. “What if I told you that I knew of someone who was acquainted with both Lady Jane Netherby and your brother, and that this same person was in town the day Thomas was killed, knew Grafton House quite well, and didn’t believe in allowing things useless to him to exist?”
His voice caught. “I would want to know this person’s name. At once.”
Victoria took a deep breath, holding his gaze almost defiantly. “The Earl of Kingsfeld.”
Sin blinked. “Astin? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I am not being ridiculous,” she retorted. “He said some very coldhearted things about discarding objects—and people—if they became useless.”
“And what in the world leads you to believe that he thought his closest friend was useless, or that by ‘discard’ he meant ‘murder’?”
Yanking her hands free, Victoria slid off the edge of the bed and stood. “You’ve asked me to consider Marley a suspect, and I have. I start…shaking whenever I set eyes on him. It just seems to me that someone as suspicious as you wouldn’t want to rule out anyone. I’m not saying Kingsfeld did it, I’m just saying…don’t turn your back on him.”
“So now you’re the expert? I’ve known Astin Hovarth for twelve years. He would not—”
“How much have you seen of him over the past five years? I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him.”
He stood as well, shamelessly using his height to force her to look up at him. “You’re the one who’s been telling me I should be more trusting. Or did you only mean that I should trust your friends and your judgment, and not my own? This is not a game, Victoria. You can’t just pick someone you don’t like and accuse them of murder.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I know this isn’t a game,” she snapped, swiping at her wet cheeks. “If it makes a difference, pretend someone whose judgment you trust was warning you.” She stalked to the door adjoining their bedchambers. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”
He clamped his jaw shut over his angry retort as her voice broke and she disappeared through the door, slamming it closed behind her. Damnation. He’d been about to make love to a beautiful woman who, despite his boorishness, had evidently decided she cared for him at least a little. And he had all but called her a fool.
Perhaps the argument would make her realize, though, that he hadn’t just come up with his list of suspects overnight. For two years he’d been pondering, and seeking information where he could. Not all the fingers pointed at Marley; if they did, Marley would be dead or imprisoned by now. He’d seen enough, though, to want a much closer look. The evidence wasn’t anything like the string of coincidences Victoria had used to conjure Astin Hovarth, of all people.
Grumbling, he climbed back into his large, empty bed and yanked up the covers. A squawk made him look up, to where Mungo Park perched in his favorite spot at the peak of the headboard.
“‘Now, Sin. I want you inside me,’” the bird mimicked.
“Oh, shut up,” Sin returned, and buried his head beneath the sheets.
First thing in the morning, Victoria sat down and made a list. The page had two columns: friends she could trust to keep their silence, and friends who would carry tales of anything she said to the rest of London. When she finished it, the list was alarmingly one-sided. For someone who claimed to dislike gossip, she’d certainly managed to acquire a great many chatty friends.
As she reread the trustworthy names, she crossed out Sinclair Grafton, his three spy friends, and his valet. They wouldn’t carry tales, but based on Sin’s reaction last night, neither were they going to allow her to continue her own investigation of the Earl of Kingsfeld.
She then sent a note to her friend Emma Grenville, inquiring if there might be any records at Miss Grenville’s Academy that would indicate whether Lady Jane Netherby had attended or not. Emma’s aunt, Miss Grenville, had kept meticulous records, including the names of any visitors or unusual occurrences. She knew that because she’d once seen her own file, practically two inches thick. It should appease Sinclair to see that she was investigating in an extremely safe—and useless—manner.
That done, she gave the missive to Milo and strolled into the downstairs office. Sin would be at Parliament this morning, so she didn’t have to worry about him discovering her. According to Jenny, Roman had left on an errand as well, so for the moment Grafton House was spy-free. Nearly.
Closing the office door, she slowly took in the room. A slight shiver ran down her spine. A man had died, violently, in this room. If he had known the killer, he might also have known his life was in danger. Why this room? Why that night? Some clue must remain.
Though Sinclair had already looked through the desk for incriminating letters or notes, the killer would have had the first opportunity to do so. And from her experience, people did not necessarily keep private information in public places. Her husband had no doubt considered that already, as well, but it was a large room. He might have missed something—particularly if he was searching for different evidence than she was.
She started with the bookshelf beside the door. No dust cl
ung to the shelves or the books, but she doubted any of the servants had moved or opened anything.
Most of the books were law tomes or listings of property and taxes and trade charters. Thomas had taken his duties in the House of Lords very seriously, but she already knew that about him. One by one she took down the books, flipped through the pages looking for any notes or markings the late Marquis of Althorpe might have made, and then replaced them again.
If his death had surprised Thomas as much as it had his family, he probably wouldn’t have hidden anything away. As intelligent as she’d known him to be, though, she couldn’t believe that he would have been completely astonished that night. He might have put something aside, just in case.
Two hours later, as she removed Culpeper’s Herbal Guide from the shelf beside the window and flipped the heavy book open, several sheets of yellowed paper fluttered down to the carpet.
For a long moment she just stood looking at them. Her tired back, smudged fingers, and wounded feelings all ceased to matter. Thomas Grafton had left this for someone to find, and she had found it.
“Steady,” she whispered, gathering her skirts and sinking to the floor. “It might be nothing. It’s probably nothing.”
It wasn’t nothing. She realized that almost immediately. Writing filled the three pages, meticulous writing couched in legal terms and accompanied by notations and statistics. Words here and there had been scratched out and replaced with others, while nearly indecipherable notes lined the margins and inched in to overlap the main text.
The office door clicked and opened. “Victoria, what are you—”
Sin stopped, taking in the sight of her seated on the floor with Culpeper open beside her and the pages clutched in her hands. She raised them toward him. “I think I found something,” she said, her voice unsteady.
He strode over to her and knelt down. “What is it?” he asked sharply, taking the papers from her.
“I think it’s a proposal,” she said, watching his intense expression as he scanned through the pages. “Something about trade and France.”
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