~~~
When the group arrived back at the house, Emma announced that she was going to take a nap. Violet found this strange since her sister never napped, but with no chaperone, she had to bid farewell to Richard. Em and Strathaven went with her to find Polly. The youngest Kent was in her sitting room, having an impromptu tea with Gabby and Rosie.
As soon as Violet was settled, Em left, Strathaven following steadily at her heels.
When the door closed behind them, Gabby said with a frown, “I hope my party isn’t wearing out the guests. Everyone is sleepy today.”
“Thea and Tremont were chaperoning us earlier, but they went to take a nap too,” Polly explained.
Given Vi’s recent discovery of physical intimacies, she suspected that her siblings might not be napping—not that she wanted to think about her siblings and the word “intimacies” together in the same sentence. Eww. But she couldn’t blame her sisters for wanting private time with their husbands, not when she found herself constantly distracted by thoughts of Richard.
Imagine a lifetime of making love and playing sports, she thought dreamily.
At the same time, marriage wasn’t something one ought to rush into pell-mell. Hadn’t she promised Emma she’d be more careful? She and Carlisle had had their first kiss only three days ago—although she realized now that she’d been attracted to him far longer. Probably since she pushed him into the fountain. And the intensity of all they’d shared in the past few days made her feel as if they’d known each other for ages. Yet in reality they hadn’t…
That was the problem with thinking: like a dog chasing its own tail, she could go round and round forever and never get anywhere.
Too much thinking makes me… hungry.
Her attention veered to the spread of pastries on the coffee table, which were accompanied by pots of preserves and clotted cream. She accepted a cup of fragrant tea from Gabby and happily helped herself to a plate of goodies.
She’d just taken her first mouthful when Rosie demanded, “Tell us everything. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t spare the good details.”
“Yes, I’m dying to know how the investigation is going,” Gabby said. “Father never tells me anything.”
“Just to be clear, I wasn’t referring to the investigation,” Rosie said, “but Viscount Carlisle. Everyone’s noticed that he’s been paying you marked attention, Vi.”
“Have the two of you overcome your differences?” Polly said softly.
Violet looked at the trio’s eager, wide-eyed expressions and swallowed the bite of cream cake. Gulping tea to wash it down, she said, “As to the investigation, I’m not supposed to say anything. Ambrose made us promise to keep things confidential.”
“Papa didn’t mean you couldn’t tell family,” Rosie said with a pout.
Ambrose’s instructions rang in Violet’s head. The details of the investigation must be kept confidential—and that includes the girls. I don’t want their young minds burdened by such dark business. And, for the love of God, say nothing to Rosie—or the entire party will know every last detail of the case by suppertime.
It was true. When it came to gossip, Rosie was like a bird with shiny objects: she liked to collect and show off her glittering bits of knowledge. And being a popular girl, Rosie was a never-ending source of the latest on dit.
Which gave Violet an idea. With Rosie, information flowed both ways. One could learn a lot from the vivacious girl.
“What are the guests saying?” Vi said casually. “About Madame Monique’s death, I mean?”
“Oh, it’s just the usual mélange of fact, fiction, and speculation,” Rosie said airily, “with no way of telling which is which. Although the official story given by Gabby’s papa was that Monique’s death was an accident, I’ve heard all sorts of rumors.”
“Such as?”
The pretty blonde tapped a slender finger against her chin. “Some are saying that Monique’s death resulted from her trying a new daredevil trick in the library. Others say she was drinking too much and hit her head. I even heard one version where,”—Rosie’s voice lowered to a dramatic whisper—“she was pushed by a jealous lover.”
Vi’s pulse raced. “Where did you hear that?”
“I don’t recall, exactly. It might have been Goggston or Parnell.” Rosie frowned. “Or was it one of the other fellows?”
“She’s surrounded by so many gentlemen that she can’t keep them straight,” Gabby said with a droll expression.
“They all seem interchangeable after a while,” Rosie agreed saucily. “All the same talk about horses, sporting—and I’m sure when we’re not around—wenching.”
“That’s only fair given that we’re talking about them when they’re not around,” Vi pointed out reasonably.
Rosie pursed her lips. “But it’s not exactly the same, is it? We don’t talk about them in the same fashion. Why, I can’t even think of a female equivalent for the word ‘wenching’.”
With a grin, Vi suggested, “Menching?”
All the girls laughed, except Polly, whose brows knitted. “I’m sure not all gentleman are interested in that topic. Ambrose isn’t, for example.”
“Papa is different.” Rosie’s polished façade slipped, her green eyes soft with girlish adoration. “He’s a prince among men.”
“Well, I hope there’s more than one prince. Because the gentlemen I’ve met so far are frogs.” Gabby popped a jam tartlet into her mouth and chewed.
“As to frogs,” Rosie said casually, “have you kissed Carlisle yet, Vi?”
The sneak attack took Violet by surprise. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the telltale heat from rising in her cheeks. Her hands went clammy, her pulse stuttering.
“Oh my goodness, you did!” Rosie shrieked. “You kissed him!”
“Thunderbolts, lower your voice,” Vi said desperately. “Do you want the entire party to know?”
“So you do like him.” Polly’s aquamarine eyes shone. “I knew it!”
“He has… grown on me,” Vi admitted.
“Like moss on a log. How utterly romantic,” Rosie said, giggling.
Vi glanced at Gabby, who hadn’t said anything, and worry fluttered. Even though the other had repeatedly expressed her lack of interest in Carlisle, would she be all right with Violet making a match with him?
Gabby’s blue eyes rounded. “Are you certain you like Carlisle?”
“I am. I misjudged him, you see. He and I have much more in common than I would have ever guessed, and, beneath his gruff exterior, he’s a jolly good chap.”
“Then I’m ever so happy for you.”
Relief rolled through Vi. “Thank you, Gabby.”
“No, thank you,” the other girl said with an impish smile, “for now Papa can’t push me into a future I don’t want—er, no offense.”
“None taken. I know Carlisle is an acquired taste,” Vi said ruefully.
“So will we be your maids of honor?” Rosie chimed in. “I adore weddings. Thea’s was ever so much fun. Remember how you caught the bouquet, Violet? Why, you snatched it mid-air—disappointing more than a few unmarried ladies, let me tell you.”
“Did you want to catch the bouquet, Rosie?” Polly asked before Vi could cut in.
“Of course not, silly. Why would I want to get married when I’m having so much fun? I’d far rather go to someone else’s wedding—”
“Hold it right there, Rosie,” Vi said with panicked emphasis. “You’re bringing the cart before the horse. Nothing has been decided yet. So I’d appreciate it if you kept my relationship with Carlisle under wraps.”
“Of course,” Rosie said innocently. “When have I ever leaked a secret?”
Crumpets, Violet thought. I’m doomed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After parting ways with Violet, Richard went in search of his brother. He found Wickham having refreshments in the main drawing room, and he was relieved to see the other paying court to Miss Turbett. Her father hovered n
earby, watching the proceedings like a hawk.
Richard found a quiet spot in a corner, where he could better observe his brother and the general goings-on. To the casual onlooker, Wick appeared attentive and interested, his golden brown curls leaned close to Miss Turbett’s mousy ones. Richard, however, saw the subtle lines of strain on his sibling’s face.
In truth, Miss Turbett also looked far from content. Her pale green frock emphasized her pallor, and her lips were pinched. Every now and again, her gaze drifted from Wick to a nearby window with a view of the courtyard and amphitheatre. She looked as if she wanted to be a thousand miles away…
Richard wished that there was another solution to Wick’s money troubles. But he couldn’t worry about it now. At present he had his hands full dealing with his brother’s other looming problem.
“La, Lord Carlisle! Well met!”
He turned in the direction of the simpering tones and wanted to groan as Miss Anne Wrotham approached him in a determined flurry of lace and ribbons. She was accompanied by her grandmama, Lady Ainsworthy, a dowager countess and famed stickler amongst the ton. Richard had a passing acquaintance with the pair—which, for him, was more than sufficient.
The dowager’s sour countenance conveyed her displeasure with her present circumstances. Richard had heard that she had deigned to attend the party because her son’s estate relied on the support of Billings’ bank. Even dowagers had to occasionally sing for their supper. Miss Wrotham, a tall and narrow spinster in her forties, had likely accompanied her grandmama since, by society’s standard, she was not only on the shelf, but at the very back of it, and thus had little choice but to descend a rung—or six—if she wanted a match.
“Lord Carlisle,” Miss Wrotham said with a breathy, affected lisp, “I was so hoping to see you.”
Richard didn’t like the predatory look in her close-set eyes.
“Why?” he said.
Her harsh laugh grated against his nerves. “La, what a wit you are, my lord. But I am quite certain you understand my meaning. We must stick together, we birds of a more refined feather.” She cast a contemptuous look around the room.
Richard didn’t care for snobs. “I am content with the company, Miss Wrotham.”
“Content indeed. How naughty of you to tease me, my lord.” She rapped her fan against his arm. “But I suppose such familiarities may be permitted since we are old friends.”
He’d never cared for empty flirtation. Since he couldn’t think of a polite reply, he said nothing. The awkward silence stretched until it was broken by his brother’s voice.
“There you are, Carlisle.” Wick appeared at his side, saying easily, “I was wondering if I could have a word with you. That is, if you don’t mind being deprived of such enchanting company?”
Miss Wrotham preened. “La, Mr. Murray, what a charmer you are.”
“Come, Anne, we will leave the gentlemen to their business,” the dowager said.
“Do come look for us when you’re done!” Miss Wrotham called as her grandmama dragged her away.
“Thanks for the rescue,” Richard muttered.
“Least I could do after all you’ve done for me.” Above the complicated folds of his cravat, Wick’s face was uncharacteristically somber. “I mean that, Richard. I know how much I am in your debt. For everything.”
“Brothers don’t speak of debts.” As he said the words, however, Richard thought of how Wick had misled Violet about him, and his gut knotted.
“You’re a bigger man than I am. A better one too.” Wick dragged a hand through his windswept curls, the signet ring gleaming on his hand. “That is why I wasn’t truthful to Violet about my debts, you know. I was ashamed of myself. And… envious of you.” He exhaled. “Because I’m not as good as you and never will be.”
Violet had been right about his brother’s motives for lying.
With a sigh, he said, “That’s not true, Wick. You have much to recommend you and a bright future ahead. You can change the path you’re on, have a fresh start. And you’re doing the right thing by courting Miss Turbett.”
“Too little too late, but it’s better than nothing.” Wick’s smile was lopsided. “Enough about me. So you and Violet… it’s serious?”
He nodded. “All I have to do is convince her to marry me.”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult. The two of you are a perfect match.”
Richard thought so, and he hoped he was beginning to convince her of the fact. Using sports to lure her had been a masterful stroke, if he did say so himself. The truth was that the possibility of spending a lifetime playing with Violet, being with her, filled him with wonder… and embarrassing eagerness.
He reined himself in. He was a grown man, not some greenling. Moreover, he’d come to the conclusion that Violet’s insistence that they “like” each other stemmed from her uncertainty about him rather than vice versa. It was obvious he liked her; hell, he’d said it outright. How much clearer could he be?
Thus, the true trouble, he reasoned, must be that she hadn’t yet committed her feelings to him. His history reared its ugly head again: securing a lady’s devotion had never been his forte. But he told himself that Violet was different, that her uncertainty was understandable given their early antagonism. How many times had she accused him of being stodgy and traditional… a blasted stuffed shirt?
“If only I could get her to see that we’re a fit,” he muttered.
Hephaestus had managed to accomplish a similar feat. After he’d parted ways with Aphrodite, the humble god had somehow convinced Aglaea, the goddess of vitality, to take him on. But that was mythology; this was real life. How did one go about convincing a beautiful, spirited young woman that one wasn’t boring and tedious?
“I assume you’ve tried the usual strategies of persuasion?” Wick said.
Richard didn’t know there were any. “Er, usual strategies?”
“You know. Poetry and poesies, that sort of thing. A trinket to symbolize your affection.”
Wilted daffodils blazed in his head. He’d never been good at gifts. Neither Lucinda Belton nor Audrey Keane had been impressed with the trifles he’d presented them with… and reciting poetry?
Out of the question. He had to respect himself in the morning.
Apparently sensing his unease, Wick said hastily, “The gift itself doesn’t matter. With Violet, it’s the thought that counts. I’m sure she’ll appreciate anything you give her.”
The tips of Richard’s ears burned as he realized that he hadn’t given Violet any tokens of his esteem. Their courtship had consisted mostly of arguing and lovemaking. Even he knew that a man ought to go wooing with more than lust in his pocket. But what could he offer her…?
Inspiration struck him like a hammer against an anvil. The certainty of it resounded within him. He knew the perfect gift for Violet—and how to deliver it in a suitably romantic fashion.
“Uh oh,” Wick said under his breath.
Kent had entered the room and was heading over.
“Time to make myself scarce,” Wick muttered. “You’ll keep me apprised?”
Richard nodded, and Wick went to find refuge amongst his cronies just as Kent arrived.
“How did the meeting go?” Richard said by way of greeting.
“As expected.” Kent’s rawboned features looked weary. “On the bright side, the magistrate plans to follow my recommendation and send his men to local stations that sell tickets to Gretna. If Wormleigh was telling the truth about the lovers he overheard, there might be a record in a ledger somewhere of the couple. It’s a long shot, but I believe in leaving no stone unturned.”
Not for the first time, Richard was impressed by the other man’s diligence and clear thinking. He respected Kent, liked the man. Liked all of Violet’s family, actually.
“I admire your thoroughness, sir,” he said.
“It’s part of the job,” Kent said. “Where are the others?”
“Miss Kent is with some family members, I bel
ieve. Their Graces are taking a nap.”
“A nap.” Kent’s voice had a wistful edge. “Well, I shan’t disturb them. By the by, I ran into Billings on the way in. I informed him about Garrity and Burns, and he was adamant that we not approach the former on our own. He’s making arrangements for us to have an ‘audience’ with Garrity tomorrow morning.”
“He’s that afraid of Garrity?”
“Apparently, the moneylender is a man one doesn’t want to offend.” Kent sighed. “But it’s just as well. I have no desire to cut a swath through Garrity’s cutthroats just to talk to him.”
“That leaves Burns. Shall we go find him?”
“No need. Speak of the devil.” Kent lifted his chin toward the doorway.
Burns had made an entrance. Even as ladies swarmed the blond performer, he had a distracted expression. He craned his neck as if looking for someone… then he spotted Richard and Kent, his gaze widening. Extricating himself from his adoring female horde, he hurried out.
Richard and Kent took off after the juggler. In the hallway, Richard saw Burns’ wiry figure disappear into the billiards room. He and Kent exchanged a wordless nod; he strode toward the farther door while the investigator took the closer one. Between the two of them, they would block off the exits to the room.
Richard entered—and Burns nearly ran into him.
“In a rush?” Richard said.
“N-no, my lord.” Burns backed away from him. “I was just, er, looking for my partner, Miss Ashe. We have to practice our act—oof.”
The juggler had stumbled into Kent, who’d been waiting silently behind him. As most of the male guests were still out shooting, the three of them were the only ones in the room, the scent of cigar smoke and leather heavy in the air. Darting a nervous glance between his captors, Burns retreated to the billiards table occupying the center of the chamber.
Richard and Kent followed, facing Burns across the green baize.
“We’d like to talk to you, sir.” Kent’s tone was even. “Regarding Monique de Brouet’s death.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Burns said quickly.
The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) Page 20