Sweet Enemy

by Heather Snow

  But he could tell by the way Mother gripped her stemware coupled with the calculating gaze she aimed at Liliana that the silence would not last much longer.

  “Tell me, Miss Claremont,” Mother asked with deceptive idleness, “was it your father who encouraged your unconventional education?”

  A distinct lull in the conversation around them became noticeable as eager ears tilted in their direction.

  Liliana’s golden skin went white. Geoffrey clenched his hand into a tight fist.

  Liliana’s aunt, Lady Belsham, raised a finger in defense. “Oh, I can assure you that Liliana received an entirely proper education for a young lady.” The woman smiled at Lord Aveline when making her statement, a fact Geoffrey noted with irritation.

  Mother slanted a glance at the marchioness and gave a slight twist of the lips. The countess would not be overtly rude to a woman who outranked her. But Lady Belsham had been a baron’s daughter before marrying a marquess. Geoffrey knew Mother considered her own superior bloodline enough of a buffer to excuse a touch of spite.

  “I’m certain you made sure of that, as best you could, Lady Belsham,” the countess conceded, but her tone conveyed her doubt that the lessons took. “It must have been a challenge, taking on a girl practically grown and untutored. But who could expect her to be properly trained when she was raised by a bachelor father?”

  Damn his mother. Geoffrey had insisted Liliana stay at Somerton Park largely because he knew her reputation would suffer if it appeared she’d been asked to leave. Not her moral reputation, of course, but the gossips would have enjoyed spreading how she’d earned the disapproval of the house of Stratford. Now Mother was making sure the scandalmongers would still have their fodder.

  He tossed his napkin aside, ready to put a stop to this.

  “Widowed,” Liliana clarified, forestalling him. She eyed his mother with a steely gaze, her jaw firm.

  Mother’s feral smile widened, threatening to rip the girl to shreds.

  “Ah yes,” Mother said, steepling her fingers and tapping the indexes together. “Your mother passed when you were quite young. A gentleman’s daughter, was she not?”

  The pitying glances being tossed Liliana’s way proved that his mother couldn’t have done more damage to the girl had she stood up and screamed, “Unfit to be at this table!”

  “Yes, and a gifted healer, one who gave her life helping others,” Liliana countered, “which in my view is the true definition of being a lady.”

  The countess laughed, a trill that grated Geoffrey’s nerves. Others within earshot joined in with their own nervous titters. “How very progressive of you, my dear.”

  Liliana’s eyes narrowed, but Lady Belsham cringed, looking as if she wished to melt from her chair into a puddle and drip through the floorboards. This had gone far enough.

  “I, for one, agree with Miss Claremont,” Geoffrey stated. Several pairs of shocked eyes turned in his direction as he countermanded his mother. He’d hoped to avoid a scene, but he would not allow any more damage to be done. He reached for a cut-crystal wineglass, then stood. “As am I quite impressed with her resourcefulness and quick thinking, two traits I hold in the highest esteem.” He angled his body toward her and raised his glass, looking out over the assemblage with a raised brow until all, save the countess, had followed suit. “To Miss Claremont.”

  “To Miss Claremont,” came the response, not heartily, but well enough. He’d done what he could, short of starting a very public war with the countess. Diners returned to their conversations, and he resumed his seat.

  Liliana stared at him, her eyes seeming to take his measure. He glimpsed uncertainty in her gaze, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to view him. She gave him a slight nod before turning away to respond to something Aveline said.

  Geoffrey took another sip of his wine, aware that others continued to watch him. His words might be seen as defense of a guest, but some would guess at his true feelings. How he detested the pervasive attitude that the more highborn one was, the better class of person. He’d been raised to believe that, as well, but his years in the military had turned his values on end. He’d seen highborn men cut and run while the lowliest common soldier stood bravely until the end, and knew damned well that birth had little to do with one’s character.

  Still, something else the military had taught him was to choose one’s battles. Geoffrey regarded his mother from beneath his lids. She fairly seethed. Toying with Mother by squiring Liliana around today had been enjoyable, but since he couldn’t offer for a girl like her, the best thing he could do for Miss Claremont would be to steer clear for the remainder of the party and thus spare her from the countess’ wrath.

  Chapter Ten

  S

  atin slid around Liliana’s calf as she rolled out of a twirl. A sigh escaped her as the rousing cotillion came to an end and her skirts settled back around her ankles. She immediately smiled, hoping Aveline perceived her exhalation to mean she’d enjoyed the dance instead of what it truly meant—that she wished he had stayed home tonight. After all, it wasn’t his fault the two days since “the Major’s Wager,” as people had taken to calling the shooting match, had left her ready to weep in frustration.

  She still hadn’t found a way into the study. Nor was she closer to discovering a link between her father and the late earl. Two days of searching hadn’t even produced so much as a handwriting sample to compare with the killer’s note.

  Worse, she still didn’t know what to think about Stratford himself. He’d had his chance to be rid of her, to ensure she found nothing. A guilty man would have taken it. Maybe.

  She nearly groaned aloud. It did her no good to speculate about Stratford’s motives, but there was one way she could be sure, once and for all, whether or not he was the author of the letters that lured her father to his death.

  She scanned the room, catching Stratford out of the corner of her eye as he escorted Lady Emily Morton from the floor. Hmm. That meant he’d danced with Lady Emily, Jane Northumb, and Ann Manchester so far this evening.

  That gave her one-in-three odds.

  This would have been much easier had Stratford asked her to dance just once in the past three nights. But he hadn’t hadn’t spoken a word to her since dinner the night of the tournament.

  Aveline took her by the elbow. “Shall we stroll for a bit?” he asked, leading her from the parquet dance floor.

  She turned to him. “I’d prefer a bit of a rest, actually,” she answered, touching a hand to her face. “Might you fetch me a lemonade?”

  She couldn’t very well carry out her aim with him tagging along.

  “As you wish.” He nodded and strode away.

  Liliana blew out a breath, relieved to be rid of him.

  Which was quite unfair. Aveline had proven to be a most ideal and fortuitous escort. Though he’d released her from their wager, he’d arrived every morning and breakfasted with her, a situation Aunt Eliza found very encouraging. He’d partnered her in a morning game of bowls. He made light, pleasant conversation and had even charmed Aunt Eliza on several occasions, which did much to relax the strain between aunt and niece.

  Best of all, Aveline departed after lunch, claiming estate business, not to return until dinner—leaving Liliana to her own devices all afternoon without making anyone suspicious.

  A perfect arrangement, given her circumstance. And she’d been most grateful to have missed Lady Stratford’s more ridiculous frivolities, which tended to happen after lunch—though she might have paid to see the line of women wrangling to have their hooks baited by Stratford in yesterday’s female fishing derby.

  But her time at Somerton Park was dwindling.

  She turned on her heel and made her way to the ladies’ retiring room. She slipped in quietly, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The hum of feminine murmurings disconcerted her, as always, bringing back unpleasant memories of the three seasons she’d been forced to endure before Aunt finally gave up on her.

&n
bsp; Liliana scanned the parlor, spotting her quarry. Emily Morton’s sage skirts blended into the green satin striped chaise on which she half reclined, one arm thrown over the back of the lounge.

  Liliana looked at the girl’s other hand, which rested splayed across her stomach. Only a shimmering emerald bracelet adorned her wrist.

  Moving into the room past two primping ladies, Liliana casually skirted the headrest of the chaise. She slanted her eyes downward. A pretty green ribbon tied the dance card to Miss Morton. She had to get a look at Stratford’s signature.

  She bent at the knees, squatting as she pretended to fiddle with her slipper. She turned her head toward the dangling card. Blast. It faced the wrong direction.

  She reached out and gripped the paper, tilting it.

  Holbrook…strong masculine scratching. Banbury…rather loopy on the B.

  A rustling sound came from above.

  Thornton…horrible penmanship. Ah, here was Wentworth…but that would be Josslyn Wentworth, Stratford’s uncle, as Stratford himself would use his title. Still, it was not even close, the writing much too effeminate to match. Next was Str—

  The card slid from her grasp. She instinctively clamped her fingers together, giving it an inadvertent tug.

  Emily Morton shrieked and sat up, yanking her arm and the card completely out of Liliana’s reach. The sudden movement startled Liliana so, she jerked backward and toppled, landing solidly on her rear.

  “What…?” came Emily’s bewildered voice. Liliana glanced up as a blond head appeared over the back of the chaise.

  Liliana’s cheeks heated. “I’m sorry. I…” She clamped her lips. She could hardly say “I just need your dance card for one more moment, please.”

  The girl frowned and narrowed her eyes. Liliana braved it out with a tight smile. Better to be thought clumsy than to be caught red-fingered, as it were.

  Emily turned her back with a humph and hurried out of the room.

  Muffled sniggers came from behind her. Liliana’s shoulders slumped. How she wished she could vaporize like mercury over a hot flame. She shuddered to think what story Miss Morton would be spreading about the ballroom this very moment.

  The door clicked open as someone else entered the room. Wonderful.

  “Dare I ask?” Penelope stepped around the chaise and reached down to her.

  The two primpers edged past them and left the room, probably off to add their accounts to the tale. She could only hope Aunt Eliza didn’t hear of it.

  Liliana accepted the hand up and dropped onto the chaise. “I’m stymied, Pen,” she sighed.

  “Mmm,” Penelope murmured over the swish of her skirts as she lowered herself to sit beside Liliana.

  “I just tried to lift a cursed dance card simply to get a look at Stratford’s handwriting.” Liliana slapped her palm sharply against her thigh, but the thick satin muffled the sound—leaving her quite unsatisfied.

  “Whyever would you want to see Stratford’s handwriting?” Penelope asked, bemused.

  “Because I’m utterly desperate,” Liliana admitted. “Presumably it was the late earl who corresponded with my father and who drew him out on the night he was murdered, as the letters were marked with his seal, but without a handwriting sample, I can’t be absolutely certain of that. I haven’t found a journal, correspondence, household accounts—anything that I can compare those letters to.” She dropped her head. “It’s as if everything of a personal nature has been stripped from this house with military precision.”

  “Oh,” Penelope said, her winged blond brows pulling slightly together. She patted Liliana’s hand. “But if you’re looking for the dead earl’s handwriting, why do you need to see Stratford’s? Wasn’t he already off to war when Uncle Charles was killed?”

  “I’m not sure, precisely, when he left England. And besides…” Liliana sighed. Pen had done everything she’d asked of her in this charade, asking very little. It was only right to share her suspicions that her father had been involved in some sort of espionage and what logical implications sprang from that. Pen’s eyes widened with the telling. “So you see?” Liliana finished. “I need to rule Stratford out as the author of the letters. I also need to learn where both he and his father were during the months they were written, and particularly in December of 1803, but I’m coming up empty.”

  Her feelings of defeat must have shown in her face, because Penelope put a consoling arm around her shoulder. They sat together in silence a moment before Pen said, “Servants! They know everything that goes on in a house, particularly when you wish they didn’t.”

  “I thought of that,” Liliana said, “but Stratford’s brother turned the staff over completely during his tenure.” As she’d learned from the current housekeeper.

  “I see,” Penelope said, touching a pink-gloved finger to her lip. “Perhaps some of those older servants still live in the village and would remember that winter.”

  Liliana nodded, hope stirring to life. Improbable, maybe, that she would develop a lead from such a visit, but one thing her father taught her—keep experimenting until you find an answer. “But the village is not within walking distance, and I am at the mercy of Stratford’s stable.” How she hated this helpless feeling. “How would I get there?”

  “Hmm…” Penelope seemed to deflate, echoing Liliana’s feelings. Then she brightened. “Well, if anyone can find a way, you will. You have always been one who works doggedly for what you want. I remember how many nights you stayed awake until your candles were nubs to study your sciences. All because Mother thought she could force you to forget the idea if she insisted you complete her approved course work first.”

  Liliana smiled reluctantly at the memory. Aunt Eliza had tried ceaselessly to mold her into the perfect English lady. She’d been adamant that Liliana study the typical feminine pursuits—French, literature, music, deportment. Even though Papa’s will had provided for her to study the natural sciences with a colleague of his, she was allowed to only after she finished her other studies. Liliana had slept very little. But she’d refused to give in, to lose what part of her father she still had by wasting her life on frivolity. To not use her intelligence to carry on his work would have been like him dying all over again. Like his life had meant nothing.

  Some days, it had seemed an impossible task, but it had deepened her determination, a trait that served her well later in life as she struggled to become recognized in the scientific world even though a woman. And it would serve her well now. She would do whatever it took to find the answers she was looking for. Tomorrow she’d find a way to escape to the village. Her likelihood of success might be slim, but scientists dealt in seeming impossibilities every day.

  The one thing she knew was that the only true failure was to quit trying.

  And she would not give up today.

  Chapter Eleven

  P

  uffs of white gusted from man and beast in the crisp morning air. The thundering of hooves and the harsh exhalations of his own breath were all Geoffrey heard, all he could focus on as he pushed Gringolet faster and faster. The day had dawned in brilliant hues. Pinks and deep yellows were just starting to chase away myriad colors of indigo and blue that hovered in the mist. It blanketed the ground, rising like smoke on the battlefield. Geoffrey squeezed his eyes shut and pushed Grin harder.

  After ten years together in the 12th Light Dragoons, Geoffrey couldn’t have parted with the charger. The horse was a tie to his past, a bloody past he desperately wanted to let go of but never could. Grin was just as vital to his present. Without their daily ride, without the avenue to pound out the frustrations of this new life, Geoffrey didn’t know how he’d survive. He needed the escape, this morning in particular.

  He drove the horse until Grin’s chest heaved beneath him. Geoffrey eased back on the reins, bringing Gringolet to a halt on the low rise overlooking the lake. He reached forward to stroke Grin’s sleek gray neck. The stallion’s heartbeat pulsed vigorously, as did his own. Grin blew a
long breath that fluttered his horsey lips.

  “I’m sorry, old boy. We’re not as young as we used to be,” Geoffrey lamented, a frown creasing his face. Why was he taking such chances? Only a fool would ride that dangerously fast without a host of enemies chasing him.

  Geoffrey led his horse nearer to the water. The sunrise reflected in the still, glassy lake, and as Geoffrey looked out over the expanse, he envied its peace and serenity. God knew his life since inheriting the earldom had been severely lacking in those qualities.

  As if taking on the enormous responsibilities of the earldom’s vast holdings and business dealings while wading through Parliament weren’t challenge enough, the blackmail threat had arrived earlier this week at his town house. No, his reign as earl had not been peaceful, and he had no expectation it would become so anytime soon.