“You are both dressed for the cooler weather,” he said in his soft Irish lilt. “And quite charmingly, I might add.” His gaze lingered somewhat longer on Althea. She did look gorgeous in a royal-blue velvet habit trimmed with ermine, a matching hat perched on her golden locks.
“How gallant you are, Lord Montsimon,” Sibella said.
Althea sagged in the saddle and put a hand to her forehead. “Sibella—my lords, forgive me, my head has begun to ache most abominably. I fear I shall have to return home.”
Concerned, Sibella stared at her. How odd. She hadn’t mentioned a headache before now. “That is indeed a shame, my dear. I’ll accompany you, of course.”
“No, please continue to enjoy the day. I’ll be perfectly all right once I’ve taken a little willow bark and rested in a darkened room.”
“Allow me to escort you home, Lady Brookwood,” Lord Montsimon said.
“Kind of you, my lord, but entirely unnecessary.” Althea’s tone brooked no argument. “My groom will accompany me.”
After Althea left the park riding with her groom, Montsimon’s expression became abstracted. “I believe I’ll ride on. Good day, Lady Sibella. Tonight at the club, Strathairn?”
“Does something go on between those two?” Sibella asked.
“No, nor ever likely to.” Strathairn angled his fine stallion alongside her horse. “Lord Coombe doesn’t ride with you today?”
“He’s visiting his estate.”
“Then may I see you home?”
“There’s no need. Cordia and her husband, Viscount Barthe are here with friends.” She glanced along Rotten Row. “I believe they’re not far ahead of us.”
“When does the family retire to Brandreth Park?”
“Tomorrow. Our stay will be short, however. We must prepare for Maria and Harry’s wedding.” She was careful not to hint at their visit to Harry’s parents. “Coombes and mine follows soon after.” She almost choked on the words when her chest fluttered like a frightened bird. She dropped her gaze to the reins in her hands afraid he’d see the dread in her eyes.
“I’m pleased I’ve found you alone.”
At the tone of his voice, she tensed, and her gaze flew to his face. “Why?”
“What happened at the ball to upset you?”
Sibella bit her lip. Those handsome eyes of his missed little. “Upset? I hardly think… Well at one point, I was cross, I admit.” She laughed and said in a careless tone. “Lovers will quarrel, you know.”
Strathairn’s eyebrows rose. “Lovers?”
“We are about to marry, Strathairn.”
“Then what I witnessed was nothing of consequence?”
“A small disagreement ’tis all,” she said airily, casting him a sidelong glance.
“Something’s wrong. It’s clear by looking at you.” His lips firmed. Lips that had taken hers in passionate kisses she would never be able to forget.
“That’s not flattering, Strathairn. Perhaps you require lessons in charm from Lord Montsimon. I was enjoying the day before you came.”
He scowled. “Dammit! You’re being evasive. I know you too well, Sibella.”
“Nonsense. Men find women very difficult to understand. My brothers constantly tell me so. And being my friend does not allow you to curse in my presence.”
“Then I apologize. Now, what happened to bring you so low?” He leaned toward her with intent in his eyes.
She shivered. If she didn’t explain, would he whisk her off the horse and into the bushes?
She dropped her gaze. “Maria believes Coombe is jealous of you.”
He nodded. “I believe he is.”
She stared at him. “Did he say something to you?”
“He was angry.”
She steadied her mount. “I’m sorry that happened. He’s hard to understand at times,” she confessed. Then immediately wished she hadn’t, for Strathairn sat up straighter in the saddle.
“Your brother made enquiries into Coombe’s past?”
“I expect so.”
He eyed her. “I believe I’ll do some digging into the man’s history myself.”
“Thank you, but really, it’s not necessary. I’m quite capable of… Look, there is Roland. Cordelia is with him.” Relieved, she nudged her horse’s flank.
With a scowl, Strathairn made to grab her reins. “Sibella you’re not going to—”
“Roland, Cordelia, come join us.” She welcomed the disruption, fearing Strathairn would continue to interrogate her until he wrestled the truth from her.
It was his job after all, and she was sure he was very good at it. She would not allow him to become involved. Coombe had warned her, and even though Strathairn could hold his own in any company, she knew him to be honorable, and she had begun to suspect that Lord Coombe was not. That way might lead to tragedy. She turned to talk to her brother as a sad little voice deep inside told her she would never know the thrill of surrendering herself to the hard, demanding, overpowering passion of a man like Strathairn.
Chapter Eighteen
Strathairn had not had a chance to speak to Montsimon at Hyde Park concerning his time in Paris. He sought him at his club in St. James’s, that evening, finding him in a heated discussion about politics with one of his cronies. Recently returned from France, Montsimon’s smart coat featured a shawl collar.
“I see you’re in danger of becoming a dandy,” Strathairn said with a grin.
“I suspect I would fail miserably,” Montsimon said with a laugh. “Dandies are devoted to elegance. They live before a mirror. I should become horribly bored.”
He drew Montsimon away to a corner of the library, ordered wine, and questioned him about Coombe.
Montsimon tapped a long finger against his glass. “Lady Coombe’s cousin suspected her death was not an accident, but he had no proof. He told me something of Coombe’s activities on his plantation in the Caribbean. Said Coombe was a harsh master. Deuced unattractive that. I can’t verify any of it. The fellow was clearly set against Coombe, but it might come down to the family estate, money and so forth. So often does. Coombe is a difficult man to read, is he not? Still waters run deep.”
“‘Such men are dangerous.’” Strathairn scowled as he quoted Julius Caesar.
“Quite so.” Montsimon toasted with his glass. “Unlike you to go about quoting Shakespeare, Strathairn. One might think you were in love.”
Accused twice in one day was a little too much. Strathairn moderated his expression and refused to rise to his friend’s bait. “I never sleep well, and my father has a well-stocked library.” True or not, the cousin’s estimation of the man fitted with his own and tightened his gut. “I’ll need to do some more digging on Lord Coombe, it seems.”
A smile tugged at Montsimon’s mouth. “Very solicitous of you. I would have expected her brother, the marquess, to find out all he could about the man before sanctioning the marriage.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“More wine?” Montsimon signaled to a waiter. “The government remains concerned that we’re on the brink of civil war,” he said. “The menacing banners still do the rounds, and rancorous songs are sung in the alehouses. It would only take one forceful, charismatic leader to light the fire.”
Montsimon narrowed his eyes against the smoky air. “I doubt it will be Henry Hunt. He’s an accomplished speaker and popular, admittedly, but vain and irresolute, and not an advocate of violence.”
“Let’s hope it’s like the barber’s cat, all piss and wind. And once Sidmouth pushes through the Six Acts, the danger will pass.”
“You are confident of that?” Montsimon looked unconvinced.
“Not entirely. I don’t agree with the Blasphemous and Seditious Libels Act gagging authors and newspapers. Neither do the Tories. They won’t pass this legislation.”
Strathairn tossed back the dregs in his glass. Until then, peace was poised on a knife edge. One random act could shatter it. And somewhere, a ruthless murderer lurked, we
ll-armed and with some evil design to bring chaos to England.
He left Montsimon at White’s and walked down St. James’s Street. Montsimon’s comment about love turned his thoughts again to Sibella. She was never far from his mind these days. His lustful thoughts didn’t surprise him; she was a beautiful woman, but he was surprised by the deep sense of longing. He’d never experienced such feelings for any woman. This was more than a passing fancy. It was soul-deep. Edward had the right of it, he did want to take care of Sibella. Of course, he’d relinquished any such right, and it was unlikely she’d ever confide in him again.
Society deserted London for the country now that the hunting season had begun, and parliament was in recess. Her family would soon vacate St. James’s Square for Brandreth Park.
He had to keep his mind on the matter at hand, and would return tomorrow to the countess who might now be prepared to talk. Feeling hamstrung, he struck his cane against a lamppost, drawing a look of surprise from a well-dressed man passing by.
Strathairn shrugged with a smile.
“Some days are like that, aren’t they?” the man said sympathetically.
“Indeed.” With a slight bow, he turned to cross the road, tossing a coin to the street sweeper.
He arrived home to find a letter waiting from the Bristol authorities. Lord Coombe’s conduct had never warranted scrutiny. It failed to set his mind at rest. Strathairn cursed, screwed the paper up, and threw it into the fire. He paced the length of the library as he scrubbed his hands through his hair. Something didn’t smell right. He had an excellent nose for trouble, which came from experience and seldom let him down.
The next day he returned to the prison.
A heavy atmosphere of despair and an appalling rank smell of unwashed bodies, bodily functions and rat droppings greeted him. Lady Forney ran to him as soon as he entered. She had fresh scratches on her cheek. “Lord Strathairn! Can’t you do something? I should not be in here with these prostitutes.” She swung wildly to gesture at the women crammed into the narrow cell with her.
A woman with a hard face sneered at her. “Thinks she’s too good for us and whines all the time.”
Lines of tension had deepened in the countess’s face, her eyes reddened.
“You have something to tell me?”
“Yes, if you get me out of this filthy hole in the wall.”
Strathairn beckoned to the turnkey. When she was returned to her cell, he gestured for her to sit on the cot and offered her his handkerchief. She took the square of lawn and dabbed at the scratch on her face.
He signaled to the constable. “Fetch the countess water.” He declined to sit on the flea-infested cot and leaned against the wall, folding his arms. “Now. Let’s have it all.”
“My husband didn’t die when the ship foundered on rocks.” She fussed with the handkerchief. “Forney was badly hurt though, escaping the wreck. He only lived for a few months.”
“Where was this?”
“We took a house in Marseille. Many of his friends came to see him.”
“Napoleonic sympathizers, I expect. Their names?”
She shook her head. “I shan’t tell you that. But for Smith, they all remain in France. The cowards refused to join us.”
“What is Smith’s real name?”
“Philippe Moreau.”
“Where is he hiding?”
She shrugged. “How should I know?”
He let out a heavy sigh. “You will have to do better than that.”
“Moreau may have returned to Manchester.”
He pushed himself away from the wall. “Has he been in Manchester before, stirring up trouble?”
“I believe so.”
“Why go back there? What does he plan?”
She shrugged. “To cause trouble for the government, of course.”
“Why? What drives him?”
“Moreau does as he pleases.” She plucked at her bodice as if it was too tight although the gown hung loose on her slender frame. “He was a marksman in Napoleon’s army.”
He resisted shaking her. “Tell me more!”
“It’s his plan to assassinate the Prince Regent.”
Strathairn thumped the table. “When is this to take place? And where?”
She jumped in the seat. “I don’t know,” she cried. A little of her old fire returned to brighten her eyes. “Moreau will carry out his mission. He’s prepared to die rather than fail.”
“He will die. I assure you.”
“You don’t understand. He’s a fanatic. British soldiers murdered his wife and children. With that gun and the element of surprise, no one can match him.” She gave him a sly glance. “Your days are also numbered. You are on his list.”
He ignored her jibe. “We’ll find him and take away that element of surprise.”
“He is not alone.” She shrugged. “And as long as Bonaparte lives, emotions run high.”
“Who else is with him?”
“Does he work with others?”
“No. This glorious attack will be all his.”
“Why were you watching the baron’s house?”
“When my husband lay dying, I promised him I would avenge him.”
“By doing what, murdering Lord Fortescue? His wife? His baby?”
“I don’t choose to make war on babies, but there’s much more at stake.”
He turned to gaze at the barred window. If he looked at her now, he would hit her. “Tell me where Moreau plans to strike,” he said in a calmer voice.
“I cannot!”
“If that’s the case, I can’t help you.” Strathairn decided to give her more time to stew over her future. He gestured to the turnkey to unlock the cell door. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
She twisted her fingers together, looking pale and curiously determined. “Do you enjoy seeing me so dirty and disheveled? I need my things.” She jutted her chin at him. “I am a countess. Have them send my trunk.”
Strathairn paused to think. With her things around her, she may be more inclined to talk. Remind her of the elegant life she had lost and might possibly regain. He turned to address her jailor. “Search the trunk first. I want any papers or letters you find. Remove anything sharp and keep an eye on her. I’ll return tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Strathairn stood in front of her, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’ll have tonight to think, Countess. I want to know what event Moreau has set his sights on. You had better come up with the right answers.”
“They shall kill me whatever I say,” her high-pitched voice echoed after him.
“Not if you give us the correct information.”
Once home, he found the house too empty and went out again. He drank at an alehouse he hadn’t been to for some time. Molly sidled up to him with a laugh. She ran her hands over his chest. “I’ve missed you, me lord.”
Strathairn grinned down at her, appreciating her pretty face. “Have you, Molly?”
“Would you care to come upstairs?” She nudged her head toward the narrow stairs, which led to her attic room.
“Not tonight, Molly love. Allow me to buy you dinner.” Strathairn smiled at her with the knowledge that he would never return here. Loving Sibella had stripped the habits of his old life away. He wasn’t sure what lay ahead for him now.
Strathairn woke suddenly and rubbed his temples to ease the pounding in his head. After retiring late, he’d woken in the early hours drenched in sweat from another bad dream. He snatched his watch off the dresser. Barely seven. “Come!” he yelled at the brave servant who had knocked.
His butler, Rhodes opened the door and peered in. “Are you awake, my lord?”
“I am now, curse it! What’s the matter?”
“A constable has arrived from the prison. He waits downstairs.”
A shiver of apprehension ran through him. He threw back the covers and slid to the floor. “Show him into the library.”
Strathairn shrugged on his banyan, pushe
d his feet into backless slippers and strode downstairs.
A man he didn’t know stood ill at ease in the dim cold library. On seeing Strathairn, he hurried forward. “Grimsby, milord. It’s Countess Forney. She killed herself during the night.”
Strathairn cursed so fulsomely the man took a step back. “How the devil did she manage to do that?”
“A letter opener in her trunk. Quite sharp it was.” He made a stabbing motion to his throat.
“Can’t anyone obey orders?” Strathairn yelled. “You were to watch her! Her trunk was to be searched!”
“It was during a changing of the guard, milord.” The man rose up on his toes. “We had searched her things, but the pretty thing looked like a trinket, in a brass scabbard it was, in among her jewelry…”
“Enough!”
The constable shuffled his feet and hung his head. “What’s to be done, milord?”
Strathairn strode up and down, rubbing his hand across the stubble on his jaw. “Have the trunk sent here.” He should not have trusted the fools. Now Moreau was free to go about his business unimpeded.
He had dressed, shaved, and breakfasted by the time the trunk arrived. It had been placed in the middle of the Turkey rug in the library. Strathairn threw back the lid. It was filled with expensive gowns, silk shoes, and fripperies. He kneeled and rooted through it. The jewelry box was empty. Perhaps the countess had used her jewelry to bargain for special privileges. More likely they had been stolen. One way or another, anything of value had found its way into the pockets of the prison guards.
He sat back on his haunches in disgust. Nothing. After easing his shoulders, he began again, taking out each item to study closely. He was losing heart and almost down to the bottom of the trunk when something bumped against his hand. “Fetch me a knife,” he demanded of the footman who stood at the open door.
Strathairn took the knife and sliced through the crimson silk. He discovered a small book hidden in the lining. He sat by the fire to read it.
*
In the conservatory at Brandreth Park, Sibella pressed soil into a pot, glad to be back where she was at her most peaceful. She put the pot aside and took another as the scents of earth and fragrant lilies rose to soothe her.
Dangerous Lords Boxed Set Page 43