Cloaked in Danger

by Jeannie Ruesch

  “He talked for a few minutes, but he’s exhausted. He was in so much pain that I did not want to push him.”

  “Emily, he was there.” Aria strode into the parlor off the left of the entryway.

  Emily followed. “Now? You wish to interrogate him in the middle of the night? He needs his rest.”

  “He’s been here a month, and this is the first time he has been able to answer anything. We need to know what he remembers.” She continued up the staircase.

  The shuffle of Emily’s footsteps followed her up the stairs, into the corridor and to the set of doors on the left. Aria stopped in front of one and offered a gentle knock. No answer.

  “He’s sleeping,” Emily reminded. “Good heavens, it is morning. We all need some rest.”

  “Go to bed, Emily. You must take care of yourself and the babe.” She placed a hand on the doorknob.

  With a shake of her head, Emily waddled down the corridor.

  Aria turned the doorknob and gently pushed the door open. Darkness filled the room inside, so she stood a moment to adjust. Once the shadows of furniture grew clearer, she ventured toward the bed, her steps hesitant, her lungs struggling to catch hold of a breath of stale air.

  She didn’t need light to know what she’d find, and she steeled her shaky limbs against the visage that lived in her mind like a violent crime witnessed and never forgotten.

  John Dobson, her father’s business partner and dearest friend, the man she called Uncle John, lay still. His prone body was thin and fragile now, a stark contrast to the robust, strong man she had worked beside.

  The dim light cast shadows on his skin, mottled with aging bruises, a muddy mixture of fading yellow and black. Scabbed-over scrapes and cuts framed his right eye, which had been swollen shut when he arrived. A bandage was wound around his hair to protect the still-healing wound above his ear.

  Aria unlaced her slippers, then sighed. She sunk into the nearest chair, weary in every inch, but itching to demand answers. To know more.

  But she wouldn’t wake John, no matter what she’d said to Emily.

  Not when the even keel of his breathing was the first thing to settle her all day.

  She reached up and pulled the pins from her hair. The curls bounced out of their restraints, and after she set the pins down, she ran her fingers over the achy parts of her scalp.

  She stood and moved to the window, pushed open the pane to watch the spires of red-hued morning light that slashed across the buildings.

  “I miss you, Papa,” she said to the icy wind. The now-familiar ache oozed like an open wound inside her chest.

  “Scamp.”

  “Uncle John.” Relief buckled her knees. It was startling to realize how deep her fear had gone that she would lose him.

  She hurried to the chair by his side, her feet sinking into the plush Turkish rug. “I was starting to worry, old man.”

  He gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. “God Almighty, my head feels like it split in five parts. And not one of them filled with spirits, shame.”

  Her gaze lifted to the bandage wrapped around his head. “It was. Split, that is. The doctor was here again today. The blood has stopped—he said ’tis a good sign.’”

  John winced. “No talk of blood. Ye know I can’t stomach it.”

  Her lips twitched. “I recall a bloody knee of mine you had particular issues with.”

  “I failed ye.” Somber regret and pain was etched in the set of his brow, the downturn of his mouth.

  She placed a hand on his arm, squeezed. “You couldn’t fail me. Or Papa.”

  “I’d been drinkin’. We all had, to be certain. Celebrating, as it were. But it was my job to protect him and I failed.”

  “Tell me what happened. The man that brought you home told us nothing.” Not that she hadn’t tried to demand answers.

  “I told him to keep his mouth shut, for your own good. I didn’t want you getting involved and getting into trouble.”

  “Papa is missing.”

  “I know. But this isn’t for you, dearie. You leave it alone.” He reached up, grabbed her hand. “Promise me.”

  She squeezed back, alarmed at his lack of strength. “I can’t, Uncle John, and you know that.”

  The single light in the room dimmed. “What trouble have you found?”

  Aria stood, walked to the desk in the room, pulled out another candle. “I have done naught but attend parties.”

  “I don’t believe you. These people are not to be trifled with. I need your word.”

  She held the candle to the stub that remained lit and watched it flare with light. John turned his head away from the small flame, and Aria realized he was in more pain than he let on. “Let me get you some laudanum.”

  “No.”

  “I love you, but you look like hell. Take the damned medication.”

  “Watch your language, young lady.” He sucked in a slow breath. “No medicine. And I’m not telling you a thing. I’m not getting better, and I can’t go chasin’ after ye.” His words came out in dry croaks.

  “Why are you talking that way?” A painful lump ballooned in her throat. “You need to rest, reserve your strength. Take the medicine, John.”

  “Damn female.”

  “You’ll do what I say eventually. Might as well give in now.”

  The quickness with which he surrendered added to her fear. But she quickly administered it, before he regained a burst of energy.

  She sat back in her chair. “Tell me about that night.”

  “Forget it.”

  “John, where was my father when you last saw him? What was he doing?”

  “I’m not answering your questions, scamp.”

  “Did you find the treasure?”

  “We found two crates of antiquities. And one contained jewelry, Cleopatra’s style. We’ll obviously need to do more work to confirm our beliefs... Damn it, they took it all didn’t they?”

  Aria’s nod turned into a sympathetic shake of her head. “Nothing returned with you.”

  A flash of anger burst across his features. “Damn them to hell! If I get my hands on them...” Anger flashed out and a determined sadness flattened the lines of his grim-set jaw. “We are not talking about this. The night is all a bit of a blur, anyway. I’d been partaking liberally that night.”

  “You and Papa coveted the idea of this find for years. Ancient belongings of Cleopatra? Who wouldn’t celebrate that?” Aria leaned back, pretending a mild interest when she wanted to shake him for answers.

  “When Gideon discovered the journal of that pirate ship captain discussing their booty...” John’s voice took on the familiar, revered awe whenever he and her father had gotten on their hours’-long discussions of digging things up.

  “It would have been a great find,” she replied, with a sigh of regret. “And you had great investors backing you. I saw the list on Papa’s desk. Do they know what happened yet?”

  John shook his head in slow motion, and the wince that followed was just as awkward. “Who would’ve told them? Your father always handled the money portion of things. Except the damn bastard who came to the site.”

  Aria tensed, sitting straight up. The man who’d done this was in Egypt when it happened? He’d gone to the encampment?

  She forced herself to lean back in her chair, appear relaxed. The drug was lowering John’s guard, and Aria wasn’t opposed to using that to find out what she needed to know.

  “Who was he? How did he know where to find you?” Her foot furiously tapped the inside fabric of her gown. Her father had always kept their location quiet to avoid competitors and locals, but he’d felt his investors had paid for the right to know. It’s why she had believed the answers would be found in those names.

  And she had
been right.

  “I didn’t see the man. Was too in my cups to remember much, but the man’s voice was of London. Your father knew him—argued with him. And hell, if they’d been in throwing distance, anyone could have heard us.” He paused, pulling in a long, noisy breath that made Aria’s heart ache. “Plenty of drinkin’ and merrymaking going on.

  “We’d brought the chests back to camp. Jewelry, pottery, embroidered linens. One item—a necklace. You’ve never seen anything so irresistible, Aria. Cleopatra must ‘ave endowed it with some of her fire.” His words had begun to slur, and the glassy look of pain had started to fade.

  “And Papa? What was he doing?”

  A corner of John’s mouth lifted. “Toasting to every single thing in those chests and telling stories—a lot of them about you.”

  “Me?”

  “The adventures he took you on. The mischief ye caused as a child.”

  Nostalgia coated her throat, making it hard to speak. “Anything else?”

  “‘E talked ’bout the Mrs. and the babe.” John’s words were losing form with each syllable, his head sunk further into the pillow propping him up. “After we found the caverns, tha’ very night, all ‘e could talk about was comin’ home to ‘is family. With Mrs. Whitney being with child and you in London, your father believed it was time to settle home for a while after that.”

  Her heart contracted. Her father had planned this to be his last expedition? Had he been less diligent? Not as careful as usual?

  And if he planned on staying in London, did that mean she was stuck here, too?

  The desire to know more warred inside Aria with the need to let John rest, regain his strength. One of her father’s investors had been there. Had caused the destruction.

  She just needed a name.

  “John?” she said softly. His breathing hitched, and hers halted.

  When his eyes slid open, gentle accusation flared in their depths. “Shame on ye, girlie. Takin’ a’van’ge of me.”

  She could barely make out the words, but understood the context.

  The game was up.

  Aria shoved aside the guilt. She had new information. If the bastard John had referred to had been in Egypt, he couldn’t have been in London at the same time.

  And every man on her father’s list was in London right now.

  It was a small space to share with the man who had attempted to murder the two people she loved most in the world.

  The hand that landed on hers made her jump.

  “Stay out, Sprite. Please,” he pleaded.

  Before she had to answer, his breathing grew steady and even and the hand over hers slackened.

  Aria pulled in a long draft of air and slowly exhaled, trying to ease the tension curling like bad milk in her stomach. She pulled the blanket up around John’s chest and leaned down to place a gentle kiss against the gristle of his unshaven cheek. As she did, a tear dropped to his face, and she quickly reached up and realized she was crying.

  With a last look at him, Aria left the room and clicked the door shut. In the corridor, she leaned back against the door and let the tears fall.

  He meant so much. They’d been a team, the three of them. He had been there for her since she was a little girl. Constant. Sure.

  Sprite. Scamp. His multitude of nicknames had been one of the many games started upon that very first trip after her mother’s death. Uncle John had wanted to keep her mind off her sadness. The more she’d hurt, the sillier his nicknames became.

  She supposed she could take heart at that. He hadn’t started making up words as nicknames yet, so somewhere inside, John still held hope.

  As long as he maintained that, she would continue fighting for answers.

  “How is he?”

  At Emily’s soft words, Aria quickly scrubbed her face and inhaled a long breath, giving her time to tuck away all the emotions. When she turned, she aimed for serene and calm, but all she felt was exhaustion.

  “He’s resting.” She stepped away from his door.

  Emily stifled a yawn. “And did he provide any further information?”

  “The man responsible was in Egypt at the time Papa disappeared.” A yawn of her own escaped. “It gives me a focus. It should be simple enough to find out who on Papa’s list was not accounted for during the time it would take to travel there and back.”

  Including the two men she had met tonight. The duke, and the Lord of—no. The Earl of Merewood.

  His face flashed in her mind, that breathless moment he’d been inches away from her, as he’d lain atop her. A wave of prickly warmth washed over her. Would it have been so awful if she had kissed him? For all her adventures, she’d never been kissed, and he’d tempted her in a way no one ever had. Now, it was as if her body had woken up from a long sleep. She was acutely aware of every tingle and twitch she felt when his handsome, aggravating face came to mind.

  Which was entirely too frequent.

  In other circumstances, maybe she could have enjoyed the feelings he brought out in her. In other circumstances, she would have gladly done more than enjoyed. Reveled. Indulged. Those feelings were definitely worth a ruined reputation....

  She shook her head, and after bidding Emily good night, headed to her chambers. Foolish thoughts. She had no want of his title, his wealth. His life.

  She had no want of him. He had nothing to offer her but heartache.

  Aria closed her door. Most important, his name was on her father’s list of investors. That was all that mattered.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Adam entered the corridor to the low hum of male voices, likely all suitors waiting for his ever-fashionably late sister, Cordelia, to show. He mustered the strength not to turn on his heel and head back upstairs. This did nothing to improve the pounding on both sides of his head.

  But neither a headache nor the lack of sleep that had induced it was reason enough to shirk his duty. So what if he’d been unable to stop thinking about Miss Whitney?

  Which was ridiculous. In other circumstances, maybe, but she had fixed her sights on Ravensdale, and the devil be damned if her goals hurt one of his sisters.

  His sisters were all that mattered.

  And since Cordelia would possibly marry one of the men waiting in the parlor, Adam would be damned if she got a chance to blink at one until he was satisfied the man was good enough.

  Adam spied his butler. “How many?”

  “Six, my lord.”

  “Six?” He sighed. “Has Lady Cordelia been informed?”

  “Three times.” The butler’s put-upon expression mirrored Adam’s sentiments exactly.

  Couldn’t they have started with one? Even two would have been acceptable. But six? He glanced at Higgins. “There is coffee?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Adam studied his inscrutable expression. “Truly?”

  “Coffee, as you wish.”

  “I will not find tea in the pot?” Adam believed he’d put a stop to the blatant disregard for his preference. But one never quite knew with Higgins.

  “Not today.” Higgins walked toward the study. “It would not do to challenge your abject authority in front of suitors.”

  “Heaven forbid.” He could obviously expect tea tomorrow, the day after, and every day until he surrendered. Or drowned in it, which seemed the more likely option.

  Finding ways to spar with Higgins always lifted his mood, and with a lighter step, Adam veered into the parlor and surveyed the young men he had the task of browbeating. At least there were some perks to this.

  Silent, he moved toward the sideboard where his coffee awaited, and the boisterous conversations came to a halt. Adam poured, took a sip, and turned back to lean against the sideboard.

  Six faces, ranging from portly to
babyish to—

  Coffee spewed from his mouth. “Halton? What are you doing here?”

  The man stood, shoulders back. Unapologetic. “I am calling on Lady Cordelia.”

  Adam’s cup clattered to the sideboard. “She is forty years your junior.”

  “She invited me.”

  “She—” Adam stopped. Of course she had.

  His sister, ever aware of the best match she could make, would not give a fig for the man’s age. She would not care what she looked like to society.

  She was the epitome of ambition.

  Adam glanced at the other five, and though none overly impressed him, they were at least born in the same decade as his sister.

  Cordelia’s voice echoed in the corridor.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me.” Adam headed to the staircase to cut off her path as she descended the stairs. Every strand of her dark hair was perfectly coiffed, her trim figure set off by the flattering yellow gown. Her face held a haughty aloofness the men would trip over themselves to conquer.

  “Adam, do get out of my way. I mustn’t keep them waiting any longer.” Her hand flicked at him as if swatting at a bug.

  “The Duke of Halton, Cordie?”

  “He’s a perfectly eligible candidate for marriage.”

  “By eligible, you mean his accounts and his title.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Of course. I asked around. I know what he is worth.”

  “And that is all you care for? Money?”

  “No, the title is important, too. Do not pretend to be shocked. Marriage is not about love, dear brother. It is about power. Who has it and who wants it.” She glanced at the open doors. “He has it. I want it.”

  He imagined most guardians or parents would be thrilled with Cordelia’s attitude. Find the largest pile of money, with the biggest influence and gain, and send her away.

  Except that very thought went against everything they had been raised to believe.

  Adam looked for some indication in her face to explain how she could think so differently from the rest of their family. “Our parents loved each other. Don’t you want an inkling of what they shared?” Years after their father’s passing, their mother still spoke of him with love.