by Cara Elliott
“No, it’s more than that,” she insisted. “Some people have a natural rapport with adolescents. Peregrine’s father got very angry when he made a youthful mistake.”
“Did Sheffield strike him?”
There was a perceptible pause. “Only when I couldn’t move fast enough to intervene.”
“So that he could beat you?” said Lucas, somehow managing to keep his voice calm, though a surge of hot bile rose in his throat. Only a craven cad would mistreat his own wife and child. He found himself wishing that the lout were still alive—so he could thrash him to a pulp.
Ciara looked aghast at her slip of the tongue. She tried to cover up by quickly adding, “No, of course not! As for Peregrine, his father did on occasion use a firm hand for discipline, but I am told that all boys feel a birch on their backsides from time to time.”
“True.” Forcing his jaw to unclench, Lucas leaned down to scoop up the soggy remains of his coat. “Shall we call it a day?”
“Yes,” she agreed with obvious relief. “It makes sense to wait until the next lesson to start on our program of study—” Her gaze suddenly seemed to focus on his shirtsleeves. “Oh dear, how on earth are you going to walk through Mayfair like that! Shall I call my carriage for you?”
He waved off the suggestion. “No need. If anyone asks, I’ll simply say I was taking my daily swim.”
“But you will catch your death of cold.”
“Lady Sheffield, I hate to distress you, but I have gallivanted through the streets of London clad in far less than this.”
“You are sure you don’t want a carriage?”
“Quite.” Lucas retied his cravat and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Speaking of studies, I nearly forgot.” Fishing a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, he handed it to her.
She smoothed at the wrinkles, looking a little uncertain of whether to unfold it.
“Don’t worry, it’s not some passionate billet-doux or erotic poem. My uncle jotted down some questions he had regarding your research,” he explained. “Sorry if the writing looks a little rushed. Henry is quite excited about this project.” He paused. “The truth is, it’s brought a gleam to his eye that’s been missing for ages.”
“Please assure Sir Henry that I will study his queries and send him a prompt reply.”
“I fear you have been stuck with the harder part of the bargain. So, if anyone should be giving thanks, it is I.”
“Let us call it even,” said Ciara softly.
“Sportsmen don’t really like a draw. It’s considered something akin to kissing your sister—there is no pain, but no pleasure, either.”
She fixed him with a thoughtful stare. “Must there always be a winner and loser?”
“That is usually how the game is played.”
Interestingly enough, she did not inquire as to which game he was referring. Holding his coat by its dripping collar, Lucas took his leave with a polite bow. But rather than flag down a hackney, he decided to walk for a bit, despite the stares.
The outdoor interlude had left him in a pensive mood. He had seen Ciara’s pinched expression as she watched her son at play. She was obviously a doting mother, and did her best to put on a cheerful face. Yet beneath the surface smiles, she looked worn and worried.
Damn. The thought of what they must have suffered stirred a new wave of anger at her late husband. A lady of her youthful years ought not have so many responsibilities weighing on her shoulders. Her eyes should be lit with laughter, not clouded with fears for her future.
Slowing his steps, Lucas turned abruptly and entered a store on the corner of Albemarle Street. It took only a few minutes to have his purchases wrapped and sent on to his townhouse—along with his still damp coat. Then it was on to Hatchards. A glance at his pocket watch showed there was plenty of time to stop off at Henry’s with the promised books before returning home to dress for the evening.
Chapter Eleven
Despite being the last full gathering for several months, the meeting of the Circle seemed to move a little faster than usual.
“So,” said Charlotte, rapping her teaspoon for silence. “Now to the most important matter of business. We expect a full report on how things are proceeding with Hadley.”
“So far, the earl has refrained from acting like Lucifer Incarnate,” admitted Ciara. “No smoke, no brimstone has filled the laboratory with sulphurous smells.” The only hellfire was from her own heated reactions to the man’s devilish charm.
Dreading any discussion of her feelings, Ciara quickly changed the subject to her work with Henry’s manuscript.
“I would rather talk about the manuscript. I have reason to believe that the parchment is all about some sort of plant with miraculous healing powers,” she began. “As you all know, the ancient Greeks were engaged in the spice trade with India and the Far East long before the Europeans.”
“True,” murmured Kate. “I’ve seen an early periplus, or navigator’s guide, which describes in great detail the trade routes through the Eastern oceans. The journeys were timed to the monsoon winds. In fact, it was a Greek by the name of Hippalus who first recorded the phenomenon—”
“Such nautical history is fascinating,” said Charlotte dryly. “But let’s not stray from the main topic.”
Ciara tried to keep the topic on the current course. “Kate is right. The merchant ships made great use of the strong prevailing winds. A major port of call was Malabar, where the Greeks exchanged tin, glass and Mediterranean coral for ivory, silks, pearls, and exotic spices and plants unknown to the West—”
“Charlotte is right,” interrupted Ariel. “Tell us more about Hadley.”
“There really isn’t much to tell,” she replied evasively. “So I don’t know what to say.”
“You could start with how you feel about him,” suggested Alessandra dryly. “Now that you’ve spent a little time with him.”
“He is handsome as sin, and there is no denying he has a certain devilish charm…” Her voice trailed off.
“And,” pressed Kate.
Ciara felt herself color under the scrutiny of pairs of eyes. “And… and the truth is, I’m not sure how to feel. One moment I’m hot, the next moment I’m cold.” She made a face. “As if that makes any sense.”
Alessandra gave a sympathetic murmur.
“Has he tried to kiss you?” asked Kate.
Her cheeks were now on fire. “Please, if you don’t mind, I really don’t care to talk about Hadley. We are supposed to be discussing science, not sex.”
“Sex is science,” quipped Kate. “It’s a core element of biology.”
“Oh, very well, we’ll stop teasing you.” Charlotte pursed her lips. “Getting back to the manuscript, if the plant in question has remarkable healing powers, why was it kept such a secret?”
Grateful for the respite, Ciara hurriedly explained, “During medieval times, the Christian Church tended to view science as heresy. So many scribes recorded their texts in secret codes, in hope that they would survive.”
“Secrets,” muttered Kate darkly. “Hell, society is always so ready to savage anyone who dares to challenge convention.”
Secrets. Ciara gave an inward sigh. She was certain that she was not the only ‘Sinner’ plagued by private demons…
“We, of all people, are aware of that,” observed Alessandra dryly. “But do go on, Ciara. This is sounding interesting.”
She shook off her musings and returned to the subject of science. “Yes, well, I’ve read through only the first few pages; however, I have a feeling that it is going to be something truly special.”
All shared her excitement, but Ariel seemed especially intrigued. Botany was her special field of interest.
Ciara went on to mention Henry’s list of questions.
Kate broke off a bit of biscuit. “You know, I recently read one of Sir Henry’s essays for reference, and I must say, I like his style. It’s clever, lucid, and witty. He seems to have a sense of humor�
��”
“He must, to have raised such a hellion as Hadley without murdering either himself or his ward,” said Ciara under her breath.
Kate ignored the interruption. “Only one thing puzzles me. Why have we never encountered the gentleman at any of the Scientific Society lectures?”
Ciara bit her lip, unsure if Lucas had meant for the information about his uncle’s infirmity to be kept in confidence.
“Perhaps he dislikes a crowd,” pointed out Alessandra.
“A good point. Many deep thinkers dislike disturbing their routine.” Ariel tapped her chin. “I know—we could consider calling on him.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion,” said Charlotte. “A meeting with the baronet might help solve the mystery of the manuscript sooner.”
Ciara decided to agree. If Sir Henry did not want visitors, his servants would know how to turn them away.
Ariel thumbed through an ink-smudged notebook. “Excellent, excellent,” she murmured, echoing Kate’s sentiment. “The fact is, I should very much like to ask Sir Henry his opinion on Kingston’s essay on Indian orchids.” She pushed her spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose. “Shall we go tomorrow afternoon?”
Ciara saw no reason to defer the trip. “Oh, very well.”
“My, my, aren’t you the clever fellow.”
Lucas looked up from the pages of the sporting journal. The florid face was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t connect a name to it. Cocking a quizzical brow, he replied, “I beg your pardon?”
The reek of spirits grew more pronounced as the man leaned down over the leather armchair. “I’m no fool, Hadley. I know what you have in mind, but I’m telling you that we won’t tolerate any meddling in my family’s affairs.”
“Apparently your wits are more slurred than you think. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He returned to reading about the upcoming races at Newcastle. “Toddle off and annoy someone else.”
Rather than retreat, the man grew more belligerent. “It’s you who had better back off.”
A hush fell over the club’s reading room.
“We’ve heard word that you have interest in making my aunt a respectable offer—though God knows why you, of all people, would have any need for her fortune. You’re rich as Croesus.”
So, the obnoxious oaf was Arthur Battersham, Lady Sheffield’s nephew. It took a concerted effort for Lucas to keep his temper in check.
“You are welcome to toss up the she-bitch’s skirts any time you like,” continued Battersham. Although it was early in the evening, it was clear that he had been drinking heavily, and the brandy had made him bold—and unsteady on his feet. His beefy bulk was now perched on the arm of the chair. “However, be advised that we won’t let anyone steal her fortune from our family. It rightfully belongs to us, and we mean to see that the witch pays for the perfidy of poisoning my uncle.”
Lucas slowly set aside the journal. “Thank you for the warning. Have you anything else to add?”
Battersham smirked and shook his head. “No, I think I’ve made my points perfectly clear.”
“Indeed you have. Now allow me to return the favor.” His hand shot up and caught the man’s cravat in a stranglehold. “First of all, if you ever utter a disrespectful word about Lady Sheffield in public again, I shall thrash you to a bloody pulp.” He tightened his hold. “Secondly, if you ever imply that she is guilty of any crime, save to misjudge the character of your slimy uncle, I shall kick your arse from here to Hades.”
Battersham’s face was now turning a mottled shade of purple.
“Thirdly, if you ever presume to threaten me again, I shall meet you at dawn—and it won’t be me who eats grass for breakfast, you miserable spawn of a slug—”
“Enough, Lucas, enough.” Black Jack Pierson shot up from his chair by the hearth and hastened to intervene. “Come, let him go,” he added in a low voice.
Lucas gave Ciara’s nephew a last shake before loosening his grip. “Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
A squeak slipped from Battersham’s lips.
“Good. Now get out of my sight.”
As Battersham slunk off, Lucas flexed his fist and sought to get a hold of his raging emotions. He had come damn near to murdering the man on the spot.
“Here, have some wine to cool your temper.” Jack signaled to the porter for a bottle of claret. “Bloody hell, what’s got into you of late? I’m beginning to have serious worries about your state of mind.”
“No need for concern.” Lucas saw his hand was still shaking as he reached for his glass. “I simply dislike cowardly, craven, contemptible cheats. Lady Sheffield is being threatened by her late husband’s family.”
“It’s not your responsibility to defend her,” said Jack. “She has kin, doesn’t she?”
“Her own family won’t lift a finger to help her.”
Jack took a long swallow of his wine. “So the task falls to you?”
Lucas found that he couldn’t compose a coherent answer. “Damn it, Jack,” he grumbled. “It’s hard to explain.”
“And even harder to comprehend.” His friend sighed and shook his head. “I hope you know what you are getting into. The Battershams are a despicable bunch of characters, but we both know that doesn’t matter. Their blood connection to the Sheffield title gives them prestige and power, along with a certain degree of influence within the highest circles of Society. So if I were you, I would not go out of my way to make enemies of them.”
“So you, too, feel compelled to offer me a warning?” said Lucas rather acidly. “Thank you, but despite what you and that worm seem to think, I’m perfectly capable of making up my own mind concerning Lady Sheffield and her situation.”
Jack frowned. “Well, I would think twice about getting too involved, if I were you.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “Before you came in, I happened to overhear Battersham talking with his cousin. The family is putting pressure on certain people to have the inquest reopened. I got the impression they won’t rest until they have seen her arrested and formally charged with murder.”
“Look, I’ve asked around about the proceedings myself. The first inquest uncovered no tangible evidence of a crime,” replied Lucas. “The case is closed.”
“That does not mean some new bit of proof won’t come to light,” said his friend slowly.
Lucas felt his jaw tighten. “Let them try. They will not find it so easy to slander Lady Sheffield this time around. Now that she is reentering Society, she is making her own set of friends.”
“Lucas—”
He held up a hand. “Thank you for the warning, Jack. But as I said, I’ll make up my own mind on this.”
“In that case, I shall refrain from further comment.” Jack lit up a cheroot, inhaled deeply, and then puffed out a perfect ring of smoke. “Save for one last suggestion.”
“Which is?”
“If you mean to continue your pursuit of the Wicked Widow, take a shovel with you.” Another exhale sent a plume of ghostly gray floating up toward the ceiling. “Just in case you have to dig your own grave.”
The butler cleared his throat and squinted in the afternoon sun. “I fear you have mistaken the gateway, madam. Lady Jervis lives next door—”
“We are not looking for Lady Jervis,” replied Ciara. She and Ariel were standing on the steps of an elegant townhouse on the north edge of Grosvenor Square. Handing the man her calling card, she added, “We’ve come to see Sir Henry. Is he in?”
The question seemed to throw him into a state of confusion. “Er, um, I—shall have to inquire.”
“Might we wait in the entrance hall while you do so, rather than out here on the steps?” she asked politely, seeing he was about to shut the door in her face.
Now thoroughly flustered, the butler yanked his arm back and bowed them inside. “The baronet is not in the habit of receiving visitors.”
“So it seems,” murmured Ariel.
The man crabbed toward the staircase
. “Please excuse me.”
As they waited, Ciara took the opportunity to have a look around. For some reason, she was curious to see where Hadley had grown up. Stepping around the massive bearskin rug, she started a slow circle of the room. The entrance hall had an eccentric charm—a sculpted marble head of Julius Caesar sported an Oriental turban, while Caligula wore a lacy Spanish mantilla. The paintings were an eclectic mix of style and periods. She guessed they had been chosen more for personal enjoyment rather than for show.
“Oh, look.” Ariel ventured a peek into the side parlor. “Isn’t this delightful?” A tall Chinese tea chest, lacquered in a brilliant vermilion hue, was topped by an ornate brass dragon with a jade ring through its nose. “Sir Henry seems to possess a whimsical side to his character,” she added.
“That, or his nephew has a schoolboy sense of humor,” observed Ciara.
“Arrhumph.” The butler cleared his throat with a brusque cough. “Ladies, if you will be so kind as to follow me.”
The Oriental runner muffled their steps on the stairs, but at the top of the landing, the floor was bare wood.
“This way,” said the butler, beckoning them down a corridor. At its end was a set of polished oak doors. “Sir Phelps is waiting inside.” He knocked and then stepped aside.
“Come in, come in.” The voice was faint, like the flutter of old parchment.
Ciara exchanged a look with Ariel before taking hold of the handles and passing through the portals.
“What an honor, Lady Sheffield.”
It took Ciara a moment to make out the baronet. His Bath chair was sitting directly in front of the mullioned windows, and in the slanting sunlight, his wraithlike figure was nearly indistinguishable from the shadows.
“Please forgive me if I don’t get up and greet you,” he added.
“I never stand on ceremony, sir,” she replied quickly. “As you see by our barging in unannounced on your privacy.”
Her words drew a hearty chuckle. “To be visited by two lovely ladies is hardly call for complaint. In fact, maybe I ought to check my pulse—for all I know, I may have died and gone to Heaven.”