by Anna Bradley
His coachman sprang to the ground to open the door, and Lord Haslemere handed her in, his hand firm and strong. Georgiana was obliged to suppress a shiver at the warm press of them around her fingertips. “No, not at all.”
He fell into a sprawl on the bench across from hers. “What made you think he’d see you, then? Draven’s a private fellow. He’s not the sort who’d welcome a strange lady who appears on his doorstep in the wee hours of the morning. Did you suppose he’d simply let you stroll into his drawing room and begin quizzing him?”
“It’s nine o’clock. That’s hardly the wee hours of the morning, Lord Haslemere.”
“Close enough.” He stretched, and the tip of his boot brushed the hem of her skirts.
Georgiana jerked her feet away from his and tucked them under her seat. A sly grin curved his lips, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of commenting on it. “Since you ask, I intended to speak to Lord Draven’s housekeeper.”
“There’s no need for that now. I’m acquainted with Draven. He’ll likely agree to see me, even at this ungodly hour.”
Georgiana shook her head. “No, we’ll do better with his housekeeper.”
He frowned. “Why should you bother with his housekeeper when you can speak to the earl himself?”
“Has it occurred to you, Lord Haslemere, the earl might not care for the accusation that he’s insulted your sister’s honor? We don’t need a duel between two foolish noblemen.”
Georgiana thought he’d take offense, but instead he barked out a laugh. “Has anyone ever told you, Miss Harley, that you’re exceedingly ill-tempered?”
She gave him her sweetest smile. “I suggest you don’t try my patience, then. Or better yet, if you don’t like my manner, you can leave me to take care of this business by myself.”
His grin actually widened, the scoundrel. “I never said I didn’t like it. On the contrary, I find it rather refreshing.”
If the gossip were to be believed, Lord Haslemere could charm his way into the good graces of any lady in London. “Does it weary you, my lord, always having your way in everything? I suppose it would become tedious.”
If he noticed the touch of acid in her tone, he didn’t react to it. “It’s the truth.”
Georgiana searched his face for any sign of mockery, but he appeared sincere. Perhaps it did grow dull, being the ton’s favorite rake. “Ladies who don’t find you charming and irresistible must be as rare as pearls in oysters.”
“Well then, I’ve found the right lady, haven’t I?” A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. “My very own pearl.”
His very own pearl? Georgiana’s mouth fell open. That had almost sounded like…an endearment. A dozen set-downs rose to her lips, but Lord Haslemere looked just as surprised as she did, and not altogether pleased, so perhaps the less said about it, the better.
Still, it was worrying. The last thing she wanted was for him to become endearing. No matter how engaging his smile, no matter how twinkling those eyes, she couldn’t allow herself to fall victim to his charms.
She cleared her throat. “Lord Draven doesn’t have any reason to reveal the intimate details of his life to you, my lord. In my experience, gentlemen are apt to guard their secrets, and aristocratic gentlemen more so than most. We’re far better off bringing this matter to his housekeeper.”
Lord Haslemere didn’t appear to have heard her. He was lounging against the squabs, his foot jiggling as his gaze roved over her face. “That color flatters you, Miss Harley.”
“I…what?” Dear God, was she blushing again?
“The color of your dress. It’s difficult to tell with the way that cloak swallows you, but it’s looks as if it’s nearly the same color as the gown you wore to Lady Wylde’s ball last night. Brown, or bronze, or whatever the modistes are calling it this season. Rich colors bring out the threads of gold in your hair.” He frowned at her hat. “What I can see of it, anyway.”
Georgiana reminded herself she didn’t find him charming, and pursed her lips. “What does the color of my gown have to do with Lord Draven?”
Lord Haslemere, who was no doubt far more accustomed to paying compliments than she was to receiving them, gave a careless shrug. “Nothing at all. I noticed the color suited you, and so I remarked on it. That’s all.”
Why, what was to be done with the man? Was it possible he flirted with whatever woman happened to be in his path, without realizing he was doing it? “We’re nearly to Curzon Street, Lord Haslemere. Have we agreed we’ll bring our business to the earl’s housekeeper rather than the earl himself?”
“If you insist on it, I don’t see what choice I have. I’m a gentleman, Miss Harley, and therefore yours to command.”
Georgiana snorted. “Not half an hour ago you informed me I was obliged to follow your every command.”
“That does sound more enjoyable, doesn’t it?”
“For you, perhaps.”
The mischievous grin once again quirked the corners of his lips. “Indeed.”
Georgiana eyed him warily. She didn’t trust Lord Haslemere not to do just as he pleased when they reached the door, but she couldn’t see any way to prevent it. They’d come to a stop outside Lord Draven’s townhouse. There was nothing for it now but pray he’d hold his tongue.
In the end, neither of them was given a choice.
Georgiana was distracted by Lord Haslemere’s antics, otherwise she might have noticed right away that a commotion was unfolding in front of the Earl of Draven’s townhouse.
Despite the early hour, there were two vehicles waiting in the drive, one of them a carriage, and the other a traveling coach with Lord Draven’s crest emblazoned on the side. There were a great many servants running about as well, their arms full of baskets and boxes and various other packages, and a trunk was waiting on one side of the door, seemingly abandoned.
“My goodness. Do you suppose the earl is leaving London?”
“I don’t know.” Lord Haslemere frowned at the parade of servants. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
No one paid them any mind as they approached the entrance, but just inside the door they found a tall, wiry lady standing in the midst of the chaos, directing the servants who were scurrying up and down the stairs. She had gray-streaked hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head, and an air of authority that marked her out at once as Lord Draven’s housekeeper.
“No, Lizzy.” She was lecturing a quivering housemaid who was holding an arm full of blankets. “Not the trunk. Take them to his lordship’s coach, in case he—” She broke off when she caught sight of Georgiana and Lord Haslemere hovering in the open door. “Lord Draven isn’t at home to visitors.”
“I beg your pardon for the intrusion.” Georgiana took another step into the entryway. “Are you his lordship’s housekeeper?”
The woman brushed a straggling hair away from her forehead. “Aye, I’m Mrs. Bury.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Bury? My name is Georgiana Harley, and this gentleman is Lord Haslemere. I wonder if we might have a quick word with you in private.”
Before Georgiana even finished speaking Mrs. Bury had opened her mouth to refuse, but when she heard Lord Haslemere’s name she went still, a strange expression on her face. “The Earl of Haslemere? Brother to the Duchess of Kenilworth?”
Lord Haslemere exchanged a puzzled glance with Georgiana, then gave the housekeeper a brief nod. “Yes, Mrs. Bury. The same.”
She stared at him, then turned abruptly on her heel. “Aye. I suppose we’d best have a word, at that. This way, my lord, Miss Harley.”
She led them down the hall to a drawing room. It was beautifully appointed, the furnishings fine, but the grate was cold, and the drapes had been pulled tightly closed against the morning light. “We’re in a bit of a frenzy this morning, I’m afraid. I haven’t much time, but I’ll do what I can for yo
u. Please do have a seat.”
Mrs. Bury gestured to a plush settee done up in extravagant yellow silk. Georgiana perched on the edge, and Lord Haslemere took a seat beside her. “As Miss Harley said, we’re sorry to trouble you,” he began. “But we’ve come on a matter of some importance—”
“I know why you’ve come, my lord.” Mrs. Bury sank down on a chair opposite the settee with the air of one who was weary to her bones. “You’re here because of that nonsense about the duchess and Lord Draven.”
Georgiana, who hadn’t expected such frankness, was taken aback. “You believe it to be nonsense, then? The rumor that Lord Draven and the duchess are…well, that they’ve been—”
“Adulterous sinners? I know it to be nonsense, Miss Harley. I’ve been Lord Draven’s housekeeper since he inherited the title, and I was his father’s housekeeper for fifteen years before that. His father was a decent, God-fearing gentleman, and so is his son, the current earl.”
Georgiana studied Mrs. Bury for any signs of deception, but the woman’s gaze was steady, and she spoke with utter conviction, as if she hadn’t a shadow of doubt. “You, ah…you seem quite certain, Mrs. Bury.”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. It’s nothing but a vicious rumor meant to hurt his lordship and the duchess.” Mrs. Bury turned a sharp eye on Lord Haslemere. “I suppose you’ve come to pry into the business, and take Lord Draven to task. Well, you should be ashamed of yourself for asking, my lord. Lord Draven is a gentleman, and the duchess a respectable lady. They both deserve better.”
Lord Haslemere held up his hands. “I didn’t come here to accuse Lord Draven of anything, Mrs. Bury. I merely wish to speak to him. Surely, you can understand why I might be concerned for my sister?”
Mrs. Bury’s green eyes remained as hard as stone. “And I’m sure you can understand my concern for my employer, my lord. I won’t sit here and allow his good name to be maligned. Not while I still have breath left in my body, leastways.”
Georgiana cleared her throat. Her next question wasn’t likely to endear them to Mrs. Bury, but it was one that must be asked. “The gossips claim the duchess was seen leaving this very townhouse, unaccompanied, at night. Did you ever happen to see her here at odd hours, or here alone with Lord Draven?”
“Well, I…I can’t say I never did see her, because lying is a despicable sin, but it was once or twice only, and the two of them as innocent of any wrongdoing as two babies. Why, they never left Lord Draven’s study!”
Georgiana thought the sins Mrs. Bury was referring to might be committed as easily in a study as a bedchamber, but she kept that opinion to herself. There was no sense in further offending the housekeeper. Mrs. Bury had already given them something useful. The Duchess of Kenilworth had been here in Lord Draven’s townhouse, alone and at night.
That part of the rumor was true.
“But you see what comes of such ugly, wicked rumors, Miss Harley.” Mrs. Bury rose to her feet, her face flushed with emotion. “Someone must have believed them to be true, and now look what’s happened to his poor lordship!”
Georgiana glanced from the tightly drawn drapes to Mrs. Bury’s grim face, and a cold prickle of dread started at the base of her spine. “Has, ah…has something happened to Lord Draven, Mrs. Bury?”
“You mean you don’t know?” All the anger seemed to drain from Mrs. Bury then, and she half sat, half collapsed onto the chair. “Lord Draven was set upon by a half-dozen villains several nights ago, and beaten to within an inch of his life. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.”
“Several nights ago?” Georgiana’s voice emerged in a faint whisper as all the breath fled her lungs. “When exactly?”
“Three nights ago.” Mrs. Bury let out a broken sigh.
Three nights ago? That meant…
Lord Draven had been attacked the same night the Duchess of Kenilworth came to the Clifford School. If it was a coincidence, it was a strange one. “We didn’t know,” Georgiana managed, her head spinning.
At least, she hadn’t. She glanced at Lord Haslemere and saw the same shock she felt reflected on his face.
“Poor Lord Draven was left for dead.” Mrs. Bury shot an accusing glare at Lord Haslemere. “Mark my words, my lord. Whoever’s responsible for such a wicked, wicked act will be called upon to explain themselves to their Maker sooner or later, no matter how high they might think themselves.”
Lord Haslemere went very still. “Are you saying, Mrs. Bury,” he asked quietly. “You believe I’m responsible for the attack on Lord Draven?”
“Well, someone did it, didn’t they? The way I see it, there are only two people in London bound to defend the duchess’s honor. One of them is her husband—an honorable man with a spotless character—and the other?” Mrs. Bury forgot her place entirely then, and pointed a shaking finger at Lord Haslemere. “The other’s her rakehell brother. Which of the two do you suppose is the most likely to have done such a thing?”
Georgiana stared at Mrs. Bury. Lord Haslemere was a rakehell, to be sure, but a murderer? “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bury, but it’s terribly unjust of you to accuse his lordship of such a heinous act.”
Mrs. Bury’s face went tight. “Mayhap it is, but I know this much. The Duke of Kenilworth never had a hand in it. He and Lord Draven went to school together, and you’ve never seen two boys who were closer friends than they were. I can’t tell you how many times the duke has visited at Draven House. All of London might believe what they like about Lord Draven and the duchess, but His Grace knows better.”
Lord Haslemere was silent, and Georgiana, who felt as if she’d tumbled down a dark rabbit hole and was still falling, struggled for a response. “What will become of Lord Draven? Will he…does the doctor expect him to recover?”
“The doctor has ordered him off to his country estate for fresh air and quiet. I warned him his lordship hasn’t been to Draven House in years, and most of the old servants are long gone, but the doctor insists on it. So, we’ve got a housekeeper and housemaid from London to tend him, and another housemaid from Herefordshire who happened along at the right time. As to whether or not his lordship will ever regain his senses…” Mrs. Bury shook her head. “The doctor can’t say. So, we pray for Lord Draven, and hope for the best.”
Mrs. Bury dragged herself to her feet, looking as if she’d aged a decade since she’d entered the drawing room. She paused when she reached the door and turned back to say, “I beg your pardon if I offended you, Lord Haslemere.”
And then she was gone, her weary footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Chapter Eight
I beg your pardon if I offended you, Lord Haslemere.
Offended him. The woman had accused him of setting a half-dozen murdering ruffians on Draven, then she had the gall to beg his pardon for offending him?
Benedict closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, but it did nothing to ease the heaviness pressing down on him. He’d long since accepted that all of London believed him to be a rakehell, but the leap from rakehell to utter villain was a great deal shorter than he’d imagined.
“I hope you’re not taking Mrs. Bury’s accusations to heart, Lord Haslemere. She was upset, that’s all. Once she’s had time to reflect, I daresay she’ll regret what she said.”
These were the first words Miss Harley had uttered since they left Lord Draven’s drawing room. Benedict was lost in his own thoughts, and since he’d never known her to hold her tongue for long, he’d nearly forgotten she was there.
He glanced at her now, and his eyebrows flew up. She was wedged into a corner of the carriage, her face troubled. “You look distressed, Miss Harley. Dare I hope it’s on my account?”
She darted a glance at him, then looked quickly away, down at her hands clasped in her lap. “Naturally, I’m distressed. I would feel the same for anyone.”
Benedict studied her, a trickle of warmt
h loosening some of the tightness in his chest. For such a flinty woman, her eyes were suspiciously soft. “I confess your distress on my behalf surprises me.”
Her brows drew together. “I don’t know why it should. I don’t like to hear of anyone unjustly accused of such an ugly crime, my lord.”
Ah, there was a beating heart under that tweedy exterior, then. How…disconcerting. Benedict didn’t like it, really. He preferred to think of her not so much as a tender woman, but more a bundle of ill temper and thorns wrapped in layers of heavy, coarse brown wool.
It was easier that way.
“That is, not anyone who’s innocent,” Miss Harley went on. “London is cursed with any number of aristocratic scoundrels. Still, for all your many, many flaws, Lord Haslemere, I can’t quite convince myself you’re a murderer.”
Ah, yes. That was much better. That was the stone-hearted Miss Harley he knew and…barely tolerated. Still, she had been quick to defend him to Mrs. Bury. “I think you’re fonder of me than you let on.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m precisely as fond of you as I let on, my lord, and no more than that.”
Benedict started, his gaze lingering on her face.
Hazel. Her eyes weren’t brown at all, but hazel.
They looked brown in dimmer light, but this morning, with the sun shining through the carriage window, they were light green, rather like late-summer pears.
Her eyes changed color depending on the light.
It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter, only he had a bit of a weakness for changeable eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder if her eyes were like so many other hazel eyes he’d seen, with dozens of different shades of green, brown, and gray at once. Looking at them now, he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever thought them brown.
Well, what of it? So, she had pretty eyes. Beautiful eyes, if the truth were told, but her tongue was as barbed as it had ever been.
Not that Georgiana Harley’s tongue was any concern of his.
Benedict pushed the thought from his head and cleared his throat. “All right then, Miss Harley. Let’s see what we have, shall we? Rumors of an adulterous affair, a pair of noblemen who were friends at Eton, and an earl who’s been beaten into unconsciousness. What do you make of it?”