by Anna Bradley
Lady Felicia sighed. “Dear me. I’m a shocking creature, aren’t I? I do beg your pardons.”
“No, no. It’s quite all right.” Lucy wasn’t one to pry into others’ secrets, having a great many of her own she’d rather not discuss, but there could be little doubt Lady Felicia had just invited them to pry to their heart’s content. “Does Lord Markham know you’re in love with him?”
Lady Felicia sighed again, this one bleaker than the last. “If he doesn’t, then he must be remarkably dim. I haven’t been very good at hiding it. He’d fond of me, of course, but he persists in thinking of me as Sebastian’s troublesome younger sister.”
Lucy tapped a finger against her chin, considering this. “Well, Lord Markham is here with you again this season. Surely that means there’s still hope for the two of you?”
Lady Felicia’s face was glum. “I’m afraid not. Edmund isn’t here with me at all. He only came because Sebastian wheedled him into it. I did mention Sebastian is quite good at wheedling, did I not?”
Lucy glanced at Eloisa. “You did, yes.”
“Either Edmund’s on the hunt for a wife, which means I’ll be obliged to watch him dance and flirt with every eligible lady in London, or else he’s come to keep an eye out for Sebastian. Either way, I’m in for a grim time of it. Indeed, before I met you both, I’d half made up my mind to insist Sebastian take me back home to Lewes at once.”
Eloisa frowned. “Why should Lord Markham have to look after Lord Vale? Does he need looking after?”
Lady Felicia shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Well, Sebastian was involved with a rather unfortunate incident last season.”
“What sort of unfortunate incident?” Eloisa pressed.
“The whole thing was rather absurd, really. Sebastian fell out with Lord Feckham over something to do with Lady Needham, who was Sebastian’s chère amie at the time.”
Eloisa gasped. “Lord Vale has a mistress?”
“Not anymore, no, but he did then. Sebastian ended up calling Lord Feckham out, and he, ah…he shot him in the foot. It caused quite a scandal.”
“Lord Vale participated in a duel, over his mistress?” Eloisa looked horrified. “I don’t understand. I thought he was…he seems so…”
“He’s a terrible rake,” Lady Felicia said matter-of-factly.
“A rake!”
“I’m afraid so. Please don’t misunderstand me, Miss Jarvis. He’s a very good brother, and I’m tremendously fond of him, but there’s simply no denying Sebastian’s as wicked a gentleman as you’ll find in London.”
“My goodness.” Eloisa fell back against her chair, her mouth open in shock.
None of them seemed to know what to say after that, and they lapsed into silence.
Lucy was the first to rally. “Well, what a sad trio we are, to be sure.”
Eloisa frowned. “Nonsense. What’s sad about us?”
“Unrequited, poor, and mad.” Lucy pointed to Lady Felicia, Eloisa, and herself in turn. “Not quite the cream of London society, are we? It’s not any wonder the three of us spent most of Lady Ivey’s ball as wallflowers.”
“What an awful thing to say, Lucy!” Eloisa huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
“But true, all the same.”
Lady Felicia was staring at her. “Mad? Who’s mad? You’re the last lady in London I would call mad, Lady Lucinda.”
“Oh, I’m not, I promise you, but it hardly matters. My father was the Earl of Bellamy, you see. Damning proof, isn’t it? Most of London has already drawn their conclusions about me.”
It wasn’t the least bit funny, but a grin was stealing across Lucy’s lips. It was just so dreadful. What else was there to do but laugh? Surely their prospects were the most dismal of all the young ladies in London.
Not that her own plans had anything to do with the marriage mart. When her uncle had proposed a season she’d agreed to it for Eloisa’s sake, and because she’d always wanted to visit London. But a husband? No. A husband didn’t figure into her plans. She wouldn’t change her mind about that.
Whether her Uncle Jarvis would try to force her to change it, well…that was anyone’s guess. “Ironic, isn’t it? Of the three of us I’m the most likely to be saddled with a husband, and I’m the only one of us who doesn’t want one.”
She’d said it more to herself than her companions, but Eloisa and Lady Felicia jerked their attention back to her at once.
“You don’t want a husband, Lucy?” Eloisa asked, at the same time as Lady Felicia said, “What husband? Who are you going to marry?”
Lucy hesitated. She’d lain awake for hours last night, her brain jumping from Uncle Jarvis to Lord Godfrey to Ciaran until she felt as if a terrified mouse had been let loose inside her head. She’d woken bleary-eyed, but by the time breakfast was over and she, Eloisa, and Aunt Jarvis were cozily installed in the drawing room, she’d convinced herself Ciaran was exaggerating the danger.
What did they really know about Uncle Jarvis’s intentions? Only that her uncle had met Lord Godfrey in Brighton, and likely spent time at the gaming tables with him wagering money he didn’t have. They didn’t know if he’d actually lost substantial sums. That is, it was likely he had, since one didn’t usually win when they wagered while in their cups.
That aside, they didn’t have any reason to suspect Uncle Jarvis would go so far as to try and force Lucy to marry Lord Godfrey. Yes, Lord Godfrey had turned up in London out of nowhere, but that wasn’t so very suspicious. It was the season, after all.
She’d been quite comforted by these reflections, right up until this morning, when Lord Godfrey had appeared on the doorstep of their lodgings in Portman Square, all politeness and insincere charm. He’d paid particular attention to Lucy during the call, hardly sparing a word or a glance for Eloisa.
He’d behaved, in short, very much like a man embarking on a courtship.
The very idea sent a shiver of dread down Lucy’s spine.
For his part, Uncle Jarvis didn’t even appear to notice Lord Godfrey’s rudeness to his daughter. He’d squeezed his bulk into a chair before the fire, a satisfied smirk on his face as Lord Godfrey flattered Lucy and preened like a peacock.
Something was wrong with this business. Lucy could feel it in the pit of her stomach. Uncle Jarvis was as smug as a cat who’d got the cream, and Lord Godfrey wasn’t making a secret of what he wanted.
And what he wanted was Lucy.
He wanted to marry her, and he’d begun courting her with her uncle’s enthusiastic approval. “Well, there’s a chance—just a possibility, mind you—that my uncle means to…”
Lucy trailed off, biting her lip. She didn’t want to upset Eloisa by accusing her father of such a loathsome scheme, but as it happened, she needn’t have been concerned. Eloisa didn’t know about the wagering, but she’d already come to her own conclusions.
“Marry her to Lord Godfrey,” Eloisa finished, her face grim.
“Lord Godfrey!” Lady Felicia’s voice was shrill with horror. “But that’s abominable! He’s far too old for you!”
“Three times her age, and with the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen.” Eloisa’s lips were tight.
“We don’t know for certain, Eloisa,” Lucy said. “We may be mistaken about the whole thing. Perhaps we’re doing my Uncle Jarvis a disservice.”
“We aren’t.”
Lucy turned to her cousin, surprised at the icy note in Eloisa’s voice. Lucy knew well enough Eloisa didn’t love her father. Indeed, she had no reason to. But she was devoted to her mother, and in the past the loyalty she’d felt toward one parent translated into, if not love, at least the appearance of respect for the other.
Not anymore.
“My father likely does wish to marry you to Lord Godfrey. No doubt his lordship has offered him something in return for delivering a young, beautiful, weal
thy bride into his clutches. The only question is, how far will my father go to achieve his ends? If you refuse Lord Godfrey, will he try and force the marriage? If so, how?”
“I don’t like the sound of this at all.” Lady Felicia lowered her voice. “Perhaps we’d better learn a bit more about Lord Godfrey.”
Lucy leaned closer, and her friends followed until all three of their heads—dark, fair and red—were huddled together. “But who can we ask?”
Eloisa turned to Lady Felicia. “Don’t you know anything about him? You never heard even the faintest whisper about him last season?”
Lady Felicia shook her head. “I’m afraid not. As far as I know, he wasn’t even in London last season. If he was, there was no gossip or scandal about him.”
The three of them were quiet for a moment, considering this. Even if Lord Godfrey had done something perfectly awful, it was quite possible there hadn’t been a scandal over it. The ton might not hesitate to hold young ladies to a brutal standard of propriety, but they were far more forgiving when it came to the gentlemen, especially the titled ones. The fact that Lady Felicia hadn’t heard a whisper to Lord Godfrey’s discredit was no guarantee he wasn’t an utter scoundrel.
“What of your brother?” Eloisa asked. “Lord Vale is quite the fashionable gentleman about town, and you said he has many acquaintances in London. Might he know something about Lord Godfrey?”
“He might, yes. I can ask him, but I warn you both. If Sebastian suspects there’s some kind of mischief afoot, he’ll tease mercilessly until he finds out what it is.”
“Very right and proper.” Eloisa said, trying once again to give Lord Vale credit. “A brother should do his best to protect his sister.”
Lady Felicia snorted. “It’s more like if there’s any mischief to be had, he wants a part of it.”
“Oh.” Eloisa’s face fell. “Well, never mind Lord Vale, then. What of Lord Markham?”
“I’ve never known a man less likely to listen to gossip than Edmund. He’s a terrible disappointment in that regard. Even if he did know anything about Lord Godfrey, I doubt he’d tell me.” Lady Felicia’s tone was bitter. “After all, I’m a mere child, aren’t I? I must be protected from anything unpleasant.”
“This is absurd.” Lucy threw her hands up, disgusted. “Here’s poor Felicia with a broken heart, Eloisa with a tyrannical father and not enough funds to escape into a decent marriage, and me, about to be forced to marry a man three times my age who makes my skin crawl. No, it simply won’t do. Something must be done.”
“Lucy’s right.” The dejected look fell from Lady Felicia’s face and a new, determined light shone in her eyes. “We don’t have to let ourselves be tossed about like pieces on a chess board. I’ll see what I can get out of my brother, and for Lucy’s sake, I’ll even try and squeeze some information out of Edmund. Meanwhile, you two must do what you can to discover what Mr. Jarvis means to do.”
“But how?” Eloisa worried her lip. “My father’s always been secretive, and never more so than when he’s doing something wicked.”
“I’d start with Mrs. Jarvis. See if your uncle has let anything slip about his plans to see Lucy wed. A little eavesdropping might be helpful, as well. See if you can overhear any of his conversations with Lord Godfrey. Villains always discuss their plans with each other.”
Lucy and Eloisa were quiet for a moment, absorbing this, then Eloisa asked, “What of Lord Markham? What shall we do about him? We can’t let Lady Felicia wither away from a broken heart.”
Lady Felicia tossed her head. “Perhaps it’s time I stopped pining for Edmund. There are dozens of handsome gentlemen in London. I’ll simply fall in love with one of them, instead.”
“And one of them will simply fall in love with Eloisa. Never mind the lack of fortune. We only need to put you forward a bit. Someone is sure to fall victim to your charms. You’ve all the makings of a belle, cousin.” Lucy took Eloisa’s hand and gave it a fond squeeze. She was determined to see her cousin safely married. Surely not every gentleman in London was chasing an heiress.
“Oh, nonsense.” But Eloisa flushed, pleased at the compliment.
As for Lucy’s own problem with Uncle Jarvis and Lord Godfrey…she’d find out what she could from Aunt Jarvis, but she hadn’t the least intention of ending it there.
Her idea to have Ciaran pretend to court her had been a good one. A bit reckless, yes, but brilliant all the same. It was a perfect solution to her temporary dilemma. She simply needed to find another gentleman willing to help her.
And she knew just who to ask.
She sighed. If only Ciaran would remain in London a little longer, he could—
No. Lucy cut the thought off before its roots could spread. She couldn’t ask that of him. Not when she knew so well how it felt to be trapped and helpless—to want freedom so badly, and see it dangling just beyond your reach.
She cared too much for Ciaran to subject him to that.
He’d waited long enough to return to Scotland. A true friend would wish for him to have everything he wanted.
Even if what he wanted wasn’t her.
Chapter Twelve
“It looks like we got here just in time, Markham.” Lord Vale strolled into the study and threw himself into a chair in front of the massive oak desk. “What is the trouble, Ramsey? You look a bit green about the gills.”
Ciaran grunted. He felt green. After his encounter with Lucy in the carriage last night, he’d come home and drunk half a bottle of his brother Finn’s very good port. By the time he’d sat down to write what he now imagined was a very incoherent letter to his sister Isla, demanding to know everything she’d ever heard about Godfrey, he could barely keep his eyes open.
Until he’d stumbled into bed, that is. Then he’d lay there staring into the dark, his thoughts in turmoil.
Isobel. Scotland. London. Lucy.
Lucy.
She’d tweaked him about his heroic instincts again last night. She’d reminded him she’d never needed him to save her. Not from drowning, and not from the brawl. But this business with Jarvis and Godfrey…Ciaran couldn’t shake the notion that this time, she truly did need him.
She needed him, and he was abandoning her.
On the day of the bout in Brighton, Lucy had insisted a friendship between them was inevitable. She’d said fate had decreed they become friends, whether they liked it or not. Ciaran didn’t believe in fate, but he couldn’t deny it was odd, the way they kept finding each other. Thousands of people in London, and she’d dropped right into his lap.
That is, not his lap. She hadn’t a thing to do with his lap.
They were friends, nothing more.
Still, he was starting to believe there was no such thing as coincidence. That there was something inside him that recognized her, no matter the occasion or setting, as his final destination.
Like a bird returning to its nest.
“Well, Ramsey?”
Ciaran had been staring out the window, but he looked around to find Vale watching him with an infuriating smirk on his lips. “My green gills—or the reasons for them—aren’t any of your bloody business, Vale. Who the devil let you two in here, anyway?”
“A short, roundish fellow. Pleasant enough. I think he said his name was Travers. I believe he’s your brother’s butler.” Vale grinned. “Good thing we’re here, too. Ramsey doesn’t look quite himself, does he Markham?”
Lord Markham perched on the edge of a chair, folded his hands over his walking stick, and regarded Ciaran in silence for a moment. “Not a bit. You look a wreck, Ramsey.”
Ciaran was a wreck, but not for the reasons his friends supposed. He dropped into the chair behind the desk, his brow lowering in a scowl. “What do you know about Lord Godfrey, Vale?”
Vale’s eyebrow rose. “Godfrey? Bit dry and creaky, isn’t he? Not terribly amusing, ei
ther. Aside from that, not a blessed thing. Is he the reason you’re scowling? What’s he done?”
Nothing yet, and Ciaran wanted to keep it that way. “He was at Lady Ivey’s ball last night. He asked Lady Lucinda to dance and I didn’t like his manner toward her, that’s all.”
“Ah, so that’s it.” Vale balanced an immaculate buff-colored leg over his knee. “You know what I think, Markham? I think Ramsey here is preoccupied with Lady Lucinda. I’d wager the guineas in my pocket on it.”
Ciaran blinked. All right, then. He was a wreck precisely for the reason his friends supposed.
“That’s absurd. I’m not preoccupied.” Still, Ciaran couldn’t forget the look on Lucy’s face when he’d told her he was leaving for Scotland in a few days. Her disappointment, the slight trembling of her lips, the way she’d slid her hand into his as if she’d keep him with her if she could…
He dragged a hand through his hair. If there were another bottle of port to hand, he’d be emptying it right now.
All right, then. He was preoccupied.
“Mind you, I don’t blame Ramsey a bit.” Vale plucked a heavy marble lion off the desk and pretended to study it, but the sly grin was still hovering at the corners of his mouth. “Lady Lucinda is lovely enough to throw any man into a hopeless passion, even an oblivious fellow like Ramsey here. She’s good fun, too. What say you, Markham?”
Lord Markham didn’t appear to say much at all unless he was prompted, but this time he answered with surprising enthusiasm. “Lovely, indeed, though I prefer dark-haired young ladies to fair ones.”
Ciaran lifted an eyebrow, impressed. It was the longest sentence he’d ever heard Markham utter in one breath.
Vale, however, dismissed Markham’s declaration with a derisive snort. “Ah, so it’s dark-haired ladies is it, Markham? How curious. I would have said it was just the opposite. I suppose we’ll see, won’t we? For God’s sake, Ramsey, what the devil is this thing?” He scowled down at the marble lion.
“It’s a paperweight, you simpleton.”
“Hmmm.” Vale turned the lion over in his hands, looking at it from every angle, then plunked it back down on the edge of the desk with a sniff. “Damned ugly one, if you ask me, but never mind. Go fetch your hat and stick, Ramsey. We’ve come to take you to Old Bailey with us.”