The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4)

by Grace Callaway

  “Thunder and turf, Gabby,” she said, her words echoing in the vast space, “I can’t believe you’re the mistress of this place. It’s grander than a palace.”

  “I’m not the Paper Princess for naught,” Gabby said with a rueful grin.

  As much as Vi disliked the unkind moniker, she admired her friend’s pluck for taking ownership of it, for turning meanness into humor. She slid one arm through Gabby’s, another through Polly’s, and said, “Well, don’t just stand there. Give us a tour, Your Highness!”

  Her grin turning into a true smile, Gabby obliged.

  From the atrium, their hostess took them through a set of public rooms. The main salon was an elegant chamber with yellow silk-covered walls, rosewood furnishings, and three multi-tiered chandeliers. In the dining room, five tables had been impressively laid out to accommodate the many guests. The cameo blue music room boasted a gleaming pianoforte that Vi knew her sister Thea, the family musician, would adore.

  The girls arrived at the library, a long, cavernous room which occupied the back of the building. Unlike the spaces they’d seen thus far, this one was more old-fashioned, with dark paneled walls and a massive, ancient-looking stone hearth carved with flora and fauna. A labyrinth of bookshelves took up half the room.

  Gabby led the way to the mullioned windows, which gave an expansive view of the courtyard. The garden was beautifully designed with statues, manicured hedges, and graveled walking paths.

  “The west wing houses the family quarters and guest chambers.” Gabby gestured to the building on the left side. “Over to the right is the east wing, which has a few galleries as well as all the servants’ rooms.”

  “Is that the amphitheatre?” Violet asked excitedly, pointing to the small domed structure just beyond the west wing.

  “Yes. Its construction just wrapped up and has put all the renovations behind schedule,” Gabby confided. “The architects couldn’t get to this room and Papa’s study around the corner.”

  “Oh, but the library is lovely just as it is.” Polly’s aquamarine eyes were dreamy as her fingers brushed one of the green velvet drapes. “One can practically feel the history that’s taken place here.”

  “As a matter of fact, Traverstoke has a very interesting history. For instance, a Catholic family once owned the estate and built a secret worship room in the house.”

  Secret room? Brilliant! “Can we see it?” Vi said eagerly.

  “It’s just a plain old gallery now. But back then the owners had the chamber’s dome concealed under a fake roof, and there’s still a Priest Hole in there.”

  “What’s a Priest Hole?” Vi wanted to know.

  “A place where the Catholic priest would hide if the soldiers came knocking. In fact, there might be other hidden passageways in the house, although we’ve only found the Priest Hole—”

  Loud voices sounded in the corridor, followed by a loud crash.

  “Oh dear,” Gabby said in flustered tones. “I’d better go check on that. I’ll be right back.”

  When their friend hurried off, Violet said to Polly, “We must see this Priest Hole first thing!”

  “Shouldn’t we settle into our bedchambers first?”

  “What’s so interesting about a bedchamber? You’ve seen one bedchamber, you’ve seen them all. We’re talking about a secret hiding place here.”

  “Well… all right. If you put it that way. Um, may I ask you something, Violet?”

  “Hmm?” Vi said absently. She was craning her neck, trying to get a better view of the amphitheatre. Had Madame Monique arrived yet? she wondered.

  “What’s going on between you and Lord Carlisle?”

  Vi started, her gaze colliding with Polly’s. The latter’s eyes were wide, glimmering with a disconcerting mix of curiosity and knowledge. The last thing Vi wanted was for her sister to intuit the state of affairs between her and the viscount.

  “Nothing’s going on,” she said uneasily. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw the two of you outside. You looked like you were arguing.”

  “Carlisle and I, um, had a small misunderstanding.”

  “Over what?”

  Think, Violet. “He… he doesn’t like the fact that Wick and I are friends.”

  Which was true. As a rule, Vi didn’t like to lie… mostly because she wasn’t any good at it. She would forget the fib she told, get caught in the details, and wind up giving herself away.

  Polly’s light brown curls tipped to one side. “Why doesn’t Carlisle approve of your friendship with his brother?”

  “Because he’s Viscount Killjoy, that’s why. A stuffed shirt.”

  “But you don’t really know him, do you?” Polly said dubiously.

  “I know what he said about me.” Crossing her arms, Vi said with a surge of defiance, “What is more, Wick told me that Carlisle lost the family fortune and is forcing Wick to marry an heiress in order to bail the estate out of trouble.”

  “How dreadful.”

  Vi’s nod was emphatic. “Carlisle despises me because he thinks my friendship with Wick will jeopardize his plans. Because I won’t stand there and let him bully Wick around.”

  Polly’s brows knitted. “I don’t think the viscount despises you.”

  “He hates me as much as I hate… hold on. What makes you think he doesn’t despise me?” Vi’s pulse skittered. “Did you, um, sense something?”

  Polly plucked at a pleat in her skirts. “He seemed angry and frustrated to me, but hate wasn’t part of the mix.” She slid Vi a glance from beneath her lashes. “For him or for you.”

  Vi ignored the flutter in her belly. “That’s odd. Because I’m quite certain I do hate him.”

  “You know better than I, of course,” her sister mumbled.

  “Well, I’m not going to let him ruin my friendship with Wick. Or this party.”

  No one—especially not a stick-in-the-mud like Carlisle—was going to control her. To tell her what and what not to do. To make her feel badly about herself.

  Gabby returned, her expression harried. “I’m so sorry, but there’s a brouhaha I must attend to. One of the maids will have to take you to your chambers.”

  “Not to worry.” Vi hitched a thumb toward the hallway. “What’s going on out there?”

  Lowering her voice, Gabby said, “One of the guests, Mrs. Sumner, discovered that another guest, Lady Ainsworthy, has a better view from her chamber. Mrs. Sumner is insistent that she have a room equal to the latter’s.” Gabby bit her lip. “It’s not easy sorting out who should go where as we’ve a very mixed guest list. And don’t get me started on the seating charts for supper: the rules of precedence are impossible to figure out.”

  “Why don’t you ask Marianne for help? She’s first-rate at that sort of thing,” Vi said.

  “A splendid suggestion. I’ll ask her. See you both later?” Gabby rushed off again.

  “Poor thing. Hosting a party seems like an awful lot of work—imagine trying to please so many people.” Polly shivered. “I’d never be able to do it.”

  “You could if you wanted to. But speaking of parties, let’s not waste a second more.” Vi grabbed her sister’s hand and tugged her toward the door.

  “Wh-where are we going?” Polly stammered.

  Vi grinned back at her. “To have fun, of course!”

  Chapter Five

  “This is an interesting party, isn’t it?” Marcus, the Marquess of Blackwood, commented.

  “That’s one way to describe it,” Richard said.

  Standing with his friend by the marble mantelpiece, Richard watched the guests drift into the salon after an elaborate twelve course supper. They milled awkwardly within the room’s silk-covered walls, a motley bunch and reflection of Billings’ position as a man with a foothold in two worlds. The noblemen present represented the social stratosphere to which he aspired. The other guests—powerful and shady characters—were those who’d boosted Billings to his present position as the premier banker to London’s
Underworld.

  Billings’ reputation for flexible morality coupled with utmost discretion had earned him a dedicated clientele amongst the underbelly of society. Tonight, owners of prosperous gaming hells, gin factories, and other questionable businesses strutted like peacocks amongst the old establishment, most of whom hadn’t a feather to fly with.

  Blackwood was an exception, being both titled and wealthy. A former military man, he’d inherited a marquessdom and ran his estates with a capable hand. He was one of Richard’s closest friends, the two of them sharing an avid interest in sporting and outdoor activities. As neither man cared for stifling social events, Richard guessed the other was here to please Lady Blackwood, who happened to be friends with the hostess and the Kents.

  The thought of Violet Kent made Richard’s temperature rise several degrees. At supper, the damned chit had been seated at a table several feet away from him, her companions including Wick and his cronies. At the host’s table, Richard had endured a double displeasure. He’d had to watch Miss Kent flirt and laugh with the rakehells—all of whom appeared to be captivated by her—and he’d been subjected to Miss Billings’ company.

  To his consternation, his hostess was the epitome of all he found annoying in the opposite sex. Her inane chatter had bombarded his head like heavy artillery. If he’d had to hear one more word about the latest fashions, he’d have shot his own brains out. She’d also had the irritating female habit of pushing food around her plate, wasting what looked like an excellent repast. Not that he would know if the food was good or not: whenever he’d been about to eat, she’d ask him a silly question that obliged him to put down his fork and summon up an equally silly reply. He thought longingly of the turtle soup and beef cutlets that had come and gone untasted.

  Moreover, he’d never been able to read females, and Miss Billings’ demurely averted gaze had confounded his attempts to gauge her reactions. Not that she’d expressed any true opinions; she simply agreed with everything he said. If he’d claimed the sky was falling, he was certain she’d have dived for cover.

  One supper was enough to cure him of any notions of marriage. Miss Billings might make some man an admirable wife but not him, by Jove. He’d find another way to fund the estate.

  “I confess I’m surprised to see you here.” Blackwood’s voice joggled him out of his brooding. His friend was looking at him with perceptive blue-grey eyes. “As I recall, house parties aren’t your entertainment of choice.”

  “You recall correctly,” Richard muttered. “It couldn’t be helped. I’m here to keep an eye on Wickham.”

  “Ah.” Blackwood quirked a brow. “Still hoping he’ll land an heiress?”

  “Hoping won’t save him, only planning will. I’m going to make it happen.”

  “And your brother agrees with your plan?”

  “My brother will do as I tell him.”

  “A strategy that has yielded sterling results in the past.” Blackwood’s mouth took on a wry curve. “Remember the time you forbade young Wickham from entering that wager at White’s?”

  “He damned near broke his neck racing in the rain. And he still lost five hundred pounds.” Which, of course, Richard had had to pay. “Foolish pup.”

  “Foolishness is repeating a failing strategy and expecting success.”

  Richard shot the other an annoyed glance. “Are you calling me a fool?”

  “I’m merely suggesting that you consider the reality,” Blackwood said, not without empathy. “You cannot protect your brother forever. Eventually, he’ll have to answer for his mistakes.”

  “The price is too high,” Richard said tightly. “He owes a cutthroat.”

  “Then he’ll have to decide to save himself. I saw it time and again with the soldiers under my command. You can only bring a horse to water…”

  Blackwood trailed off. Richard followed the direction of the other’s gaze, his muscles tautening when he spotted the group entering the salon. Guests parted to make way for the Strathavens, who made a regal pair. They were followed by a couple Richard did not know. A lanky, dark-haired gentleman with silver at his temples and an earnest air accompanied a stunning blonde who seemed his natural opposite. She radiated worldly confidence in a daring gown of silver-shot silk.

  Then Violet Kent made her entrance, and for Richard the rest of the room faded. Heat gathered beneath his collar as he took in the way her dress, the color of ripe peaches, clung to her nubile form. Her curves were alluring in their subtlety, enticing him to imagine what lay beneath the scooped bodice, the full sweep of her skirts. She radiated feminine vitality, her tawny eyes glowing as she laughed at something the two girls with her were saying.

  “Ah. There’s my wife now.” Blackwood waved, and Lady Blackwood, who’d come in behind Miss Kent, headed over.

  To Richard’s dismay, she brought the Kents with her.

  “There you are, darling.” Lady Pandora Blackwood, a raven-haired beauty, arrived at her husband’s side in a swish of wine-colored satin. “I’d wondered where you’d gone.”

  Not long ago, the Blackwoods had had a falling out, and Richard had witnessed first-hand the depth of his friend’s angry despair. Now the breach seemed to be entirely healed, the pair more like lovebirds than ever. As Blackwood murmured something in his lady’s ear, causing her cheeks to turn the same color as her frock, Richard wondered, not for the first time, why love came naturally for some yet remained an utter mystery to him.

  “Lord Carlisle,” Lady Blackwood said, “do you know everyone?”

  Meeting the stares of the group, most of them decidedly hostile, Richard felt his muscles bunch. Before he could respond, however, the lanky gentleman stepped forward.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Ambrose Kent.” The man’s amber eyes assessed him. “This is my wife, Mrs. Kent.”

  Of course. Kent was the eldest brother and patriarch of the family. A professional man, he owned a successful private enquiry firm and had the reputation for being fair-minded and just. Per Richard’s recollection, Mrs. Kent had been a wealthy and rather notorious widow prior to her second marriage.

  Richard bowed. “Good evening, sir. Madam.”

  “How do you do, my lord.” Mrs. Kent’s emerald gaze was cool. “May I present my daughter Primrose and sister-in-law Polly? Come make your curtsies, girls.”

  The two obeyed. The blonde, a vivacious replica of her mama, said prettily, “How are you enjoying the party, my lord?”

  “Very well, thank you—” He stiffened when he heard a snort. His eyes cut to the source. “I beg your pardon. Did you say something, Miss Kent?”

  “No, my lord.” Her whiskey eyes widened—the worst attempt at innocence he’d ever seen. “’Twas merely a sneeze.”

  “I hope you are not catching a cold.”

  “Oh no, I’m quite robust. I must have a sensitivity to something in the room,” she said airily.

  His jaw clenched.

  “There you are, Carlisle.” Wick sauntered up, followed by his band of merry ne’er-do-wells. With an ease that Richard could only envy, he introduced himself and his friends to the group.

  Richard had made it his business to know his brother’s associates and thus recognized Lord John Parnell and Mr. Tom Goggston. Both were second sons, neck-or-nothings who treated drinking, whoring, and gaming as competitive sports.

  “Splendid party, eh?” Wick said.

  “Quite.” Miss Primrose dimpled. “Except there hasn’t been any dancing.”

  “Rosie,” Mrs. Kent said quietly.

  “But it’s true, Mama,” her daughter said with a pout. “What’s a party without at least a quadrille or two?”

  “I love a good dance myself, and I’ll wager you dance like an angel, Miss Kent.” Stout and full in the breadbasket, Goggston said eagerly, “If your card ain’t full, I’d—”

  “There’ll be no dancing this eve,” Ambrose Kent said. “It’s getting late, girls. Time to go upstairs.”

  “But Papa.
It’s not even midnight.” His daughter’s bottom lip quivered, her green eyes shimmering. “That’s not fair.”

  “Upstairs,” Kent repeated firmly.

  He and his wife herded the girls toward the door. Miss Polly looked as if she was trying to console Miss Primrose, but the latter flounced away. Richard predicted trouble ahead for Kent.

  Goggston turned to Violet. “You’ll be a sport and dance with me, won’t you?”

  “Why, I’d love to be second choice. Thanks for asking.” She rolled her eyes.

  Wick chuckled. “She’s got you there, Goggs.”

  “Yes, Goggs, leave the flirtation to Wickham. He’s the Casanova of our group,” Parnell said in drawling tones. The younger son of an earl, he had fair coloring, a narrow, aristocratic face, and an endless supply of ennui. It was reputed that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t try once. “You’d best stick to what you do best: collecting jug-bitten tavern wenches at the end of the night.”

  Goggs flushed to the roots of his thinning brown hair.

  “Besides, dancing is deuced dull,” Parnell went on. “This curst affair needs more than a few country sets to liven it up.”

  “Agreed,” Wick said instantly. “A game, perhaps?”

  “Precisely.” Parnell’s expression turned thoughtful.

  At that moment, Miss Billings approached the group in a flurry of ribbons. She avoided Richard’s gaze. Egad, the feeling was mutual.

  Addressing the others, she blurted, “I am in desperate need of your help.”

  “With what?” Miss Kent said.

  “The guests aren’t mingling. It’s gone awfully quiet in here. The performers don’t arrive until tomorrow, so I’ll have to think of something to keep the party lively in the interim. Father says perhaps setting up card tables—”

  “Cards are fine for the older set, Miss Billings, but I have a better suggestion for the younger guests,” Parnell said with studied insouciance.

  Looking hopeful, Miss Billings said, “You do, my lord?”