Alyssa Everett

by A TrystWith Trouble

  By the time I reached the front door of Ormesby House, my anger was beginning to fade, and a bruised and discouraged feeling was emerging to fill the void. The servants had already gone to bed, and, stepping inside, I closed the front door behind me as softly as I could, hoping my mother had likewise retired for the night. I was in no mood to suffer being fussed over and pelted with anxious questions.

  Fortunately, there was no sign of her slight form and inquisitive face. I lit a candle from one of the wall sconces and started up the stairs to my rooms. Halfway up, I thought better of it and turned back. I would never be able to sleep in my present mood. Instead, I headed for the library, where my father kept a decanter of brandy near the door.

  Once there, I set my candle on the little rosewood table, poured myself a generous measure and downed it in one gulp. Those things Barbara had said still nagged at me—that my father seemed unexceptionable, for instance, as if to imply the very opposite. If there was one thing I couldn’t abide, it was being sneered at. And she’d made no bones about refusing me when Lord Leonard demanded I offer for her. I don’t want to marry him any more than he wants to marry me. Damn it, she didn’t even like the way I kissed.

  I ought to go marching right back out into the night and offer a slip on the shoulder to one of the most practiced courtesans in all England, someone like Harriet Wilson or Maria Foote. That would show Barbara—Too bad, my girl, you might not think I know what’s what, but that’s only because you’re a miserable spinster who couldn’t find her way around a real man if he drew you a map. I’d take my new mistress on the strut, making sure she wore something eye-catching and vulgar, and buy her ices to lick at Gunter’s, directly across Berkeley Square from Barbara’s front door.

  I tried to picture this tantalizing new ladybird, a willing beauty who combined all the charms of the many actresses, opera dancers and artists’ models I’d already bedded, but for some reason her face wouldn’t take shape. The harder I tried, the more taking on a new mistress simply to make a point seemed hollow and juvenile.

  “Something wrong, Ben?” asked my father from his desk by the windows.

  I started. It hadn’t occurred to me he might still be working at this hour, and with a candle of my own before me, I hadn’t noticed the light burning on the other side of the room. I set down my glass and turned to face him. “I didn’t realize you were in here, sir.”

  He gestured toward the brandy decanter. “It’s not like you to drink alone. Or is that a new habit you’ve acquired?”

  Though I had no objection to enjoying an after-dinner port or raising a glass while out with friends, ordinarily I wasn’t one to drown my sorrows in solitary drink. “No, sir. I just...it’s been a trying night.”

  “Tonight has been a trying night?” He lifted one eyebrow. “Only last night, your cousin confessed to killing a man. What’s happened now?”

  “Well, I...” I hesitated. I never unburdened myself to others. Friends came to me when they needed aid or advice, not the other way around.

  But my father was regarding me expectantly, and there was no denying he could be an absolute oyster with secrets. I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to confide in him. “I’ve landed in something of a fix with Lady Barbara Jeffords.”

  He stiffened. “Ben! A gentleman’s daughter? If that’s the case, you’ve no choice but to—”

  “Not that kind of a fix!” I said quickly. “I haven’t got the girl in a family way. I’ve barely laid a finger on her.”

  “Oh.” My father sat back with a sigh of relief. “For a moment there, I thought you meant...well, you know what I thought.”

  Of course he would jump to the most sordid possible conclusion. “That’s essentially the problem. I’ve just come from Leonard House, where Lord Leonard is laboring under a similar misapprehension.”

  There was silence before my father sighed again. “Why don’t you start at the beginning. Is Lady Barbara in trouble or isn’t she?”

  “She isn’t. Not the kind of trouble you mean. She’s a perfectly respectable girl. But her father caught us together—”

  “Caught you? I thought you said you hadn’t laid a finger on her. What exactly did he catch you doing?”

  “I said I’d barely laid a finger on her,” I corrected him scrupulously, striving to recover the moral high ground. “I kissed her. Once.” Unfortunately, at that moment a vivid memory hit me of lying atop Barbara in bed, our tongues twining as I fondled her breast. It may have been only one instance, but it had hardly been an innocent kiss.

  I hoped I hadn’t broken into a telltale flush. But whatever the look on my face, my father had clearly caught a whiff of guilt in the air. “Ben, this is no light matter. It’s one thing to sow your oats with the muslin company, but I won’t have you trifling with young ladies.”

  “I wasn’t trifling with her!” I didn’t know what galled me more, the imputation I’d been careless of Barbara’s virtue, or that my father of all people should presume to lecture me on propriety. “It wasn’t an assignation. I simply went to talk with her about the footman’s death. I’ve no idea what witless impulse made me kiss her, but she ordered me out of the house soon afterward.”

  “Then what were you doing when Lord Leonard caught you?”

  “Only sneaking down the stairs together.” I swallowed. “But Lady Barbara was dressed for bed, and it looked worse than it was. Now her father expects me to either marry her or meet him.”

  “In a duel?”

  No, in a privy, I nearly answered, sick to death of this interminable evening. “Yes, sir, I believe that’s the general idea.”

  My father frowned.

  “Naturally, I refused to be forced into offering for her. No one even saw us together except Lord Leonard, and it’s not as if I’ve actually ruined the girl.” Besides, I had no intention of allying myself with a family who considered mine beneath them—especially since I couldn’t even say with certainty they were wrong. My first thought upon seeing my father tonight had been to wonder why he wasn’t out with his so-called protégé, the landscape gardener. Yet here he was, working diligently on Parliamentary business. Just how many nights did he spend at home, anyway?

  “So what do you plan to do?” my father asked.

  “To begin with, I mean to make sure I never see Lady Barbara again.” It was how she wanted it, I felt sure. That scene on the stairs had been unpleasant for both of us, to say nothing of the way I’d lost my temper with her earlier—and, oh yes, there was also her withering opinion of the way I kissed. Better to simply cut off all contact with her now, before I made an even greater fool of myself. “Lord Leonard is twice my age. Once he’s calmed down, I trust he’ll recognize how unfitting it would be to call me out.”

  My father rubbed his jaw in thought. “And if he doesn’t?”

  I hadn’t really considered that possibility. As the challenged party I would have the choice of weapons, which meant I could potentially meet the old fool in the boxing ring. For a fleeting moment, I imagined the supreme satisfaction I would derive from beating him to a bloody pulp, showing him exactly what I thought of his pig-headed opinion of my family’s suitability.

  But I had the unpleasant sense that if Lord Leonard really did issue a challenge, I’d be honor-bound to refuse. The man was old enough to be my father, and he actually was Barbara’s father. As misguided as he might be, he believed he was defending his daughter’s virtue. I couldn’t fight him in good conscience. Yet how could I flatly back down from a challenge?

  “I don’t know,” I hedged. “I’ll simply have to avoid him, I suppose, at least until his daughter is safely married to some other poor dupe.” Bitter at the thought—already I felt a coward—I reached for the brandy decanter again.

  “I’m not sure how successful you’ll be at avoiding Lord Leonard.” My father watched me with an inscrutable expression. “And perhaps you’d better go easy on that brandy. Your uncle Daventry sent a message for you while you were out. I assume you’ll want t
o attend the coroner’s inquest into the footman’s death. It convenes at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Barbara

  “Get in there!” Papa shoved me into my bedchamber, his push so forceful I nearly stumbled. He’d hauled me bodily from the stairs, and even though I’d done nothing to resist, I suspected his grip had left bruises on my arm.

  “Papa, if you would only listen—”

  “I’ve heard all I want to hear from you, young lady.”

  He was clearly past the point of civilized discussion. My arm throbbed where his fingers had dug into my flesh, and his face was an angry red. “Consider yourself confined to this room, on a diet of bread and water. You’re forbidden to set foot outside your door again without my express permission.”

  “For how long?” I shot back with more defiance than wisdom. “Forever?”

  “Don’t test me. You brought this on yourself, carrying on with that lout behind my back.”

  “We didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “Young ladies who have nothing to hide don’t entertain strange men alone in their rooms at night. They receive them in the drawing room, dressed properly and with their father’s knowledge.”

  There wasn’t much I could say to that. He was right.

  His eyes shot daggers at me. “Be grateful I haven’t caned you. It’s bad enough you take after your grandmother Merton in looks. I won’t have you leading the sort of disgraceful life she led, making this family the object of vulgar gossip.”

  As if I wanted to be whispered about and laughed at! That caricature insinuating I’d chased after Cliburne had been enough humiliation to last me the rest of my life. Thank heavens my father hadn’t caught wind of that. “I’m twenty-four years old, Papa. You can’t just lock me away up here like some—”

  “I can and I will.” His fury apparently beginning to exhaust itself, he surveyed me with a sigh. “You think me callous and unreasonable, I suppose? You don’t believe I could possibly have your best interests at heart. Well, just to show you there’s nothing unconsidered about this, I’ll make a bargain with you. If Beningbrough decides to do the right thing and offer for you, I’ll not only lift your punishment, I’ll get down on my knees and tender you my personal apology. What’s more, I’ll call the whole household together to witness it. But that’s not going to happen.”

  I refused to dignify his offer with a reply.

  Even so, something of the hurt I felt must have shown in my face, for his expression softened. “Barbara, Barbara, can’t you see I’m doing this for your own good? Beningbrough isn’t serious about you. You heard the way he talked about your sister when he came here trying to push Cliburne into crying off. And with your looks...well, it’s past time you learned that young bucks like him are only after one thing, and it isn’t marriage.”

  With my looks. I flushed at the reminder I would never be adored or chased after the way Helen was. She might attract beaux like Cliburne—sweet, softhearted boys who tripped over themselves in their rush to protect her—but a man could have only one possible use for me. “Beningbrough might want to marry me,” I insisted stubbornly. “Don’t forget the fortune Grandmama Merton left me.”

  “A duke’s heir doesn’t need to marry for money.” My father shook his head, a look of pity on his face. “Don’t make a fool of yourself over the likes of Ormesby’s son. I thought you had more pride than that.”

  I drew myself up with what was meant to pass for offended dignity, but inside it was beginning to sink in that my father was right. Even Ben himself had described kissing me as taking advantage. And the way he’d left here—he’d refused to look at me. I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Ben I’d made with Cliburne, but somehow I’d let it happen again.

  I wanted to throw myself on my bed and weep at my own stupidity. Since it wouldn’t do to let my father see how wretchedly foolish I’d been, instead I simply tossed my head. “You talk as if I fancied myself in love with the gentleman, Papa. I told you, nothing happened between us.”

  Perhaps my father believed me, perhaps his anger had spent itself, or perhaps he could simply read the humiliation on my face. Whatever the reason, he answered in a far kindlier tone than usual. “Now that’s the spirit, Barbara. A ruffian like that is not worth risking your reputation over. And don’t worry, while you’re serving out your punishment, he won’t get off scot-free. When I see him tomorrow at the inquest, I promise you I’ll—”

  “Tomorrow? The inquest is tomorrow?”

  But of course it was. As the owner of the house in which Sam had been killed, no doubt Papa had received a subpoena instructing him when and where to appear. Cliburne and Helen would have been summoned too.

  And I was confined to my room. While the coroner’s jury decided whether or not poor Cliburne should stand trial for murder, I would be trapped here uselessly at home, locked away like a prisoner in the Tower.

  Chapter Twelve

  Barbara

  “Barbara?” came Helen’s voice from the corridor.

  I was lying on my back in bed, but having tossed and turned all night, I was already awake. “Go away,” I called wearily. “I’m not allowed to have visitors.”

  “Didn’t Papa tell you Teddy’s inquest is this morning?”

  It was going to be a gloomy day, I could tell. According to the clock on my mantel, it was already half past seven, but the sky outside remained a dull gray. “He might have mentioned it.”

  “Then you’re coming with us, aren’t you?”

  I nearly let out a sob. I wanted so much to go to the inquest. I even had evidence that could help exonerate Cliburne, the little notebook in which Sam had noted his meeting with the mysterious M. But I wasn’t allowed to go, and giving Helen the notebook when I knew how desperate she was to keep the blackmail scheme secret would be like entrusting cheese to a mouse.

  I rose and went to the locked door. “I can’t. Papa’s confined me to my room.”

  “Why?”

  Because I lost my head over a man, and I deserve to be punished for my stupidity. “He caught Lord Beningbrough with me in my nightrail.”

  “What was Lord Beningbrough doing in your nightrail?”

  “Helen—”

  “It was a joke! I knew what you really meant. I was only trying to cheer you up.”

  “I don’t much care to be cheered up right now.”

  “But I want to know why Lord Beningbrough was here,” Helen persisted. “Was I right, Barbara? Is he in love with you?”

  “No.” There was no trace of doubt in my mind. I leaned my forehead against the door, the wood cool against my skin. “Beningbrough doesn’t give a rap for me. Papa realized he was trifling with my affections. He locked me in my room so I can reflect on my folly.”

  “But perhaps if I put in a good word for you with Papa—”

  “It’s no use,” I replied with miserable finality. “He’s right. I’ll never see Lord Beningbrough again unless he comes here with his tail between his legs, asking for my hand in marriage, and I’m quite sure that will never happen. You’ll have to go to the inquest without me.”

  “Barbara—”

  “Just go. Please.”

  Helen sighed, and several long seconds passed before her footsteps padded away.

  I went back to my bed and slumped to a seat on the rumpled coverlet.

  Despite my punishment, at least my father allowed my abigail to attend me and bring me my breakfast of bread and water. She was helping me to dress when I heard our family carriage brought around to the front of the house. I went to the window just in time to see Papa, Mama and Helen emerge from the entrance into the spitting rain, all three clad in somber hues. They climbed into the carriage, which immediately rattled off into the drizzle.

  A gloomy quiet fell over the house then, the more pronounced once I’d dismissed my maid.

  Ben

  It was the kind of raw, gray, rainy morning that turned the streets to puddles and felt mor
e like late winter than the middle of spring. Stepping through the door of the Rose and Crown, I stopped to shake the rain from my hat. Most days I didn’t trouble to wear one, but between the wet and the lump on my head, it had seemed a good idea. Besides, for Teddy’s sake I was hoping to make a creditable appearance—and it wouldn’t hurt for Barbara to see I was in fine feather too. Perhaps it would show her just how wrong her family was to consider me beneath them, and how little I cared for her opinion anyway.

  Judging from the crowd, word had spread that the inquest involved persons of consequence. I’d expected an imposing courtroom, Teddy in the dock, the coroner looking down on the proceedings in sober judgment while spectators nodded raptly from rows of benches like churchgoers come to hear the word of God. Instead, the inquest was being held in the overcrowded taproom of an inn in Downing Street. An oaken table stood at the front, with one man at the head—the coroner, I presumed—and the jury seated along the far side. Witnesses and onlookers sat in plain wooden chairs lined up in crooked rows, while additional spectators were ranged against the rough plaster walls, talking back and forth. Apparently inquests were a good deal less formal than trials.

  Teddy looked nervous. I wasn’t surprised, since the coroner’s jury would decide whether his self-described role in Sam Garvey’s death amounted to an accident or homicide. Still, as I shouldered my way farther into the stuffy taproom, I wished he could manage to hide his worry better. He was pale, sitting so tensely between my uncle and my cousin John he might as well have had the word Guilty emblazoned on his forehead.

  I scanned the crowd for Barbara’s family. I soon spotted Lord Leonard sitting some distance away, leaning toward Lady Helen and her mother in a protective posture that made him look rather like a bulldog guarding a bone. My eyes continued past them, sweeping the rest of the taproom, but I searched in vain for red hair, an ivory complexion and a challenging smile.

  I frowned. So Barbara hadn’t troubled to come, then. Well, that certainly put me in my place. She must have known I’d be here and chosen to stay home despite her interest in the case. The pointed snub irritated me more than it should have, at least until I reminded myself her absence meant she couldn’t point the finger of guilt at either Teddy or John.