A Gift for Fiona (The Love Letters Series Book 2)

by Rogers, Suzanne G.

  Rory gritted his teeth. “Blast Iris for causing trouble just when I was starting to make inroads with Miss Fiona! I’ll do what I can to recover my sister, but I won’t ever forgive her.”

  The sumptuous and lengthy luncheon repast at Sheepfold Abbey rivaled anything Fiona had ever seen in London. She lost count of the number of courses, but by the time desert came around she could barely manage to sink a fork into the scrumptious lemon curd and vanilla cream-filled cake. Although her mother and Mrs. Wren talked about all manner of things, Fiona’s thoughts were pleasantly occupied with the music Rory had played the night before. He’d begun with a simple lullaby to warm up his fingers, and then segued into Chopin. She could have listened to him play all night long. What would he play for her tonight?

  “Mary, have you begun preparations for the Harvest Festival yet? I’m so glad you’re the chairwoman this year. Nobody organizes as well as you do,” Mrs. Robinson said.

  “Actually, I’ve been working since the beginning of the year.” Mrs. Wren glanced at Fiona. “Young people always lend a wonderful amount of energy to any undertaking. I hope we may count on your participation. “

  “Certainly. What sort of participation are you looking for?”

  “Perhaps you and Miss Lara might be in charge of soliciting goods for the church bazaar? Your pretty faces will have the donations rolling in.”

  “Why, thank you for the compliment.” Fiona smiled. “When I return home this afternoon, I’ll write Lara to ask for her commitment. I’ve not been as devoted to charitable endeavors as she has been, but I’m trying to improve myself. I welcome the opportunity to help.”

  Sir Harry sailed into the dining room. “May I join you ladies for dessert?”

  Fiona’s heart sank. She’d hoped he would be away for several more days at least.

  “Harry, I’m surprised you’re back so soon,” Mrs. Wren said.

  He took the seat next to Fiona. “I finished up my business sooner than I’d anticipated and caught an early train.”

  She forced a smile. “Good afternoon, Sir Harry. We were just talking about the Harvest Festival. Mrs. Wren has asked Lara and me to take charge of bazaar donations.”

  “I don’t know if that will work.” Sir Harry rubbed his hands in anticipation as a footman set cake in front of him. “Miss Fiona and I might still be on our European tour by then.”

  Fiona exchanged an uncomfortable glance with her mother. “I haven’t yet given you my answer, Sir Harry.”

  “I know, but I’m quite hopeful.” He paused. “By the way, Mrs. Robinson, your house guests have departed.”

  “What?” Fiona exclaimed.

  “Yes, I ran into them at the train station. Mr. Braithwaite and Mr. Greystoke asked me to convey their sincere thanks for your hospitality, but Mr. Braithwaite was called back to London. Apparently he’d received a letter from his father this morning, or so he said.”

  Mrs. Robinson was obviously taken aback. “Did he act as if anything was amiss?”

  “Not at all.” He winked at Fiona. “I daresay the urgency of his business had something to do with his lack of amusement here in the country. You know how it is with young men and wild oats. They can’t stay away from the excitement of town for long.”

  “What about his work at St. James?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

  “I understand it had reached the stage where a foreman could take charge.” Sir Harry took a bite of cake. “Mmm. Heavens, but this is delicious!”

  The tart lemon curd turned to sawdust on Fiona’s tongue. So Rory had departed on a pretext after all, without even bothering to say good-bye. After last night, he’d undoubtedly sensed her growing attraction to him and decided his absence would be the kindest response. Unless, perhaps, he’d left a message for her? She seized upon that slim hope to keep her from falling completely into the depths of despair. Nevertheless, Sir Harry’s announcement had sent a shock to her system. Her eyes locked onto her mother, and Fiona sent her a silent plea for help.

  Mrs. Robinson folded her napkin and tucked it next to her plate. “Mary, I can’t tell you how much we’ve enjoyed lunch, but I’m afraid we must go. I seem to have developed a little tickle in my throat, and I shouldn’t take any chances.”

  “What a shame.” Mrs. Wren pouted. “I was hoping we could enjoy a small glass of sherry after dessert.”

  “Perhaps next time.”

  Fiona remembered her manners. “Thank you, Mrs. Wren. Everything was delightful.”

  “Mother, why don’t you have your sherry and I’ll have one with you?” Sir Harry stood. “Pour two glasses and I’ll see the Robinsons out.”

  As they headed toward the door, Sir Harry fell into step with Fiona. “May I call on you tomorrow? I’m looking forward to hearing your decision.”

  “Yes. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Delly

  IN THE CARRIAGE on the way back to Blythe Manor, Fiona stared straight ahead without speaking. Mrs. Robinson seemed to be at a loss for words as well. Finally, she reached over and gave Fiona’s hand a comforting squeeze.

  “I’m sure Mr. Braithwaite’s reason for leaving is a very good one.”

  Fiona’s eyes grew moist. “He didn’t even say good-bye.”

  “If an emergency has called him away, you can’t blame him for that.”

  “You heard Sir Harry’s assessment of his demeanor; nothing seemed amiss. No, I believe Mr. Braithwaite has left Blythe Manor on a pretext and won’t return. I must have made him uncomfortable by fawning over him last night.”

  “You weren’t fawning that I could tell. And even if you’re right, isn’t it better to know how he truly feels about you than to have false hope?”

  Despite her best efforts to control her emotions, her lower lip began to tremble.

  “No. Sometimes false hope is better than none.”

  Meeting her mother’s sympathetic gaze was her undoing. With a strangled sob, she dissolved into tears. “It hurts, Mama! I really care for him.”

  “I know.”

  Mrs. Robinson drew her into an embrace and let her cry until the carriage pulled into the driveway. “You must pull yourself together now. You can’t let the servants see you upset.”

  Fiona dried her eyes, took several deep breaths, and clung to the notion that Rory’s abrupt departure was not as it appeared. When she entered the house, she immediately descended the stairs to the staff level to seek out the butler.

  “Truman, is there a message from Mr. Braithwaite for me?”

  “No, Miss Fiona.”

  She gulped. “Did he receive a letter from anyone this morning?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “When he left, did he appear to be distressed in any way?”

  “No, although he and Mr. Greystoke seemed to be in a rush to depart. I overheard something about a lady, but more than that I can’t say.”

  Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

  So that was that.

  Fiona fled to her room and sank down into the corner rocking chair with a pillow clutched in her arms. Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled out onto her face so freely that the high lace collar around her throat grew moist. Rory Braithwaite wasn’t to be the romantic hero of her melodrama after all, no matter how much she wished otherwise. He’d come to Blythe Manor to apologize for his sister, and out of pity or remorse had said a few pleasant things to buoy the flagging confidence of an unexceptional girl. If she’d mistaken his kindness for anything more, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d misunderstood a man’s intentions. What did she know of true love, really, other than what she’d read about in books? She needed to grow up now and put silly daydreams behind her. Tonight she would cry for what could never be, and tomorrow she’d start a new phase of her life as the future Lady Wren.

  While a grim-faced Peyton stood nearby, Rory read Iris’s farewell letter aloud. Afterward, he tossed it onto his father’s desk in disgust. “I can’t believ
e it. That’s the most selfish and self-centered nonsense I’ve ever read.”

  “Moordale should be horsewhipped for his part in this,” Miles said.

  Peyton gave him a sad glance. “I know we can count on your discretion, lad. Our predicament isn’t to leave this room.”

  “Of course. I’ve come to help in any way I can.”

  “And we’re grateful to you.”

  A myriad of questions were running through Rory’s mind. “How did Moordale manage to arrange an elopement when you were monitoring all her mail and visitors?”

  “I suspect he had a willing accomplice in Lady Quarterbury.” Peyton held up a thin volume. “The woman paid Iris a call yesterday, ostensibly to return a book of poetry she’d borrowed. I’m guessing a message from Moordale must have been tucked in between the pages.”

  Miles shook his head in bewilderment. “But Lady Quarterbury is a countess and quite respectable!”

  “Even a countess can be misguided.”

  Rory made a sound of frustration. “Have you contacted the police?”

  “Yes, but there’s little they can do. Iris is of age, and all the evidence suggests she left of her own accord.”

  The volume of poetry caught Rory’s eye and he picked it up for a closer look. The worn binding was soft green leather with gold embossing. Entitled, Regard—Lovely Poems of Love, the spine was stamped with a Roman numeral three. Unfortunately no bookplate or inscription inside the cover indicted the name of the owner.

  “This doesn’t belong to Iris. She loathes poetry.” Rory glanced at his father for confirmation. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, it’s not hers. As you see, it’s one of a set. I checked, and we have nothing like it in the house.”

  “Perhaps it belongs to Lady Quarterbury,” Miles said.

  “Undoubtedly it does. Well, lads, do you have any ideas on how we’re to find Iris?”

  “If we knew where Moordale lived in town, we could start with his residence,” Miles said.

  “I believe Moordale and Iris were corresponding several months ago,” Rory said. “The writing desk in her room will probably contain his old letters with a return address.”

  “That’s brilliant.” A ghost of a smile finally lifted the shadows on Peyton’s face, but his smile quickly faded. “Er…there’s something else you should know, Rory. The staff went into your room this morning to clean and noticed your possessions were in disarray. Although I didn’t mention it to the police, I believe Iris may have stolen some of your valuables.”

  Rory’s thoughts immediately went to his Boutet pistol, but he didn’t want to add to his father’s worries. “Never mind that now; possessions can always be replaced. Miles, will you help me search my sister’s desk for Moordale’s address?”

  “Yes, and when we find it, we’ll pay him a call immediately.”

  “And if he won’t let you in?” Peyton asked.

  Rory exchanged a glance with Miles. “We’re prepared to force the issue.” He slipped the volume of poetry into his jacket pocket.

  Before heading to his sister’s bedchamber, Rory ducked inside his own room long enough to confirm the pistol and many of his belongings were missing. “Just as I feared, Iris stole my pocket pistol along with whatever else she could find.”

  Miles was dumbfounded. “Why would your sister steal your firearm?”

  “It’s one of my most treasured possessions, and she knows it.” He shook his head. “I have the distinct impression Iris wanted to hurt me as much as possible.”

  “Don’t forget, she’s under Moordale’s influence.”

  “Perhaps so, but she’s cooperated quite willingly. I daresay he didn’t tell her to steal my shirt studs.”

  “I expect not. Come one, let’s find those letters.”

  Fortunately, the writing desk in his sister’s room contained Moordale’s letters in a bundle tied with a rose-colored grosgrain ribbon.

  Rory cocked an eyebrow at the return address. “Moordale’s London address is in Pimlico? I would never have guessed that.”

  “Hardly a fashionable part of town.”

  “Most decidedly not. I can’t imagine he’d bring Iris there, or that she’d willingly stay with him if he did.” A shrug. “Well, so long as he doesn’t become my brother-in-law, I don’t care about his circumstances a jot. Let’s go see if he’s receiving visitors.”

  Rory and Miles arrived at Moordale’s shabby boarding house address and climbed to the third floor. Not surprisingly, nobody answered their knock. The landlord heard the noise, however, and emerged from a door down the hall.

  “If you’re looking for Lord Moordale, I haven’t seen him since early yesterday.” He gave them an appraising glance. “Are you two gents creditors?”

  Rory cleared his throat. “No, we’re friends of his. The thing is, he’s gone missing and we’re worried about his welfare.”

  “Perhaps you could let us into his residence?” Miles asked. “We’ll check for clues as to his whereabouts.”

  The landlord’s eyes narrowed. “The fellow owes me rent. I’m not sure if I can remember where I put the extra key.”

  Rory produced a pound note and held it up. “Perhaps this will help?”

  The landlord took the money, produced a key ring from his pocket, and unlocked the door. “When you see His Lordship, tell him I’m going to start selling his clothes to pay his back rent.”

  “Er…we’ll mention it to him.”

  When Rory and Miles entered the room, they discovered the interior was just as shabby as the exterior. The carpets and draperies were threadbare, and the furniture was utilitarian at best. The bed hadn’t been slept in and the chamber pot hidden behind a ripped screen was empty.

  “Thank heavens for small favors,” Miles murmured.

  When Rory opened the wardrobe doors, he noticed very few clothes inside, and whatever remained was in disarray. “It looks as if someone packed in a hurry. I’m guessing our quarry has decamped.”

  Miles dumped the wastebasket on the bedspread and began to sort through bits of assorted refuse. “Overdue bills from tailors, hatters, the jewelers, and a stationery store.”

  Rory peered at the large pile. “Moordale was living on the edge of financial disaster, apparently, but he always kept himself well-dressed.”

  “Wait…these bills have all been marked paid quite recently.”

  “He must have come into a small sum?”

  Miles smoothed out a crumpled letter. “Here’s correspondence from his lawyer, mentioning taxes due on his country estate, Bramble Hall.”

  “I wonder if Moordale would’ve taken Iris there?”

  “And risk scandalizing his neighbors and servants? I doubt it.”

  Frustrated, Rory ran a hand through his hair. “This investigation isn’t getting us far.”

  Miles frowned as he glanced around the room. “Why don’t you look through the drawers of the desk, and I’ll check that valise on top of the wardrobe?”

  Rory craned his neck. “There’s a valise on top of the wardrobe?”

  “It’s easy to miss unless you’re standing at a distance.”

  While Miles retrieved the flat leather bag, Rory searched the desk drawers. Unfortunately, he found nothing of interest except pots of ink and writing instruments. When the bed creaked, he turned to discover Miles perched next to the pile of bills with a yellowed letter in his hand and a peculiar expression on his face.

  “What do you have there?”

  “Moordale may very well be a blackmailer. It seems Lady Quarterbury has a colorful history.”

  Rory was dubious. “It’s common knowledge she used to be a governess or something.”

  “She was never a governess.” Miles tapped the letter. “According to this, she used to go by the name of Delly Delphinia, back when she was a member of the demimonde some years ago.”

  “That’s awkward. How do you suppose Moordale discovered her secret?”

  “This letter is from the late Wa
llace Rupert Montague, Moordale’s father. It seems Miss Delphinia used to be a great favorite of his in his youth.”

  “Debauchery runs in the Montague family, apparently.”

  “Indeed. When their affair ran its course, Wallace introduced Delly to his good friend, the Earl of Quarterbury.”

  “Which is how Delly became Lady Quarterbury.”

  “This letter may explain how Moordale persuaded the countess to deliver his message to your sister. I expect she’d do anything to keep this information private.”

  “I’m amazed Moordale left that letter behind, but I suppose he was in a rush.”

  Miles gave the missive to Rory. “Well, it’s yours now, along with an enormous amount of leverage.”

  “In that case, let’s pay the countess a call without delay.”

  Although Rory pressed him, Lady Quarterbury’s butler was adamant about refusing his request for admittance. “The countess is not at home. I’ll be happy to take your calling cards.”

  “Please tell Lady Quarterbury that we’ve an urgent message for her about Miss Delphinia,” Rory said.

  “Very good, sir.”

  The door closed. Miles sighed. “What now?”

  “We wait.”

  Very shortly thereafter, the butler returned to whisk them from the doorstep and into the drawing room. When Lady Quarterbury joined them, her demeanor was regally cool, but Rory detected an element of fear behind her aquamarine eyes.

  “What’s this nonsense about, gentlemen?”

  Rory got straight to the point. “I’m looking for my sister, Countess. You conveyed a letter to her from Lord Moordale yesterday. They eloped last night, and I suspect you know where they’re hiding.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea to what you may be referring.”

  Rory held up the Montague letter. “This missive describes the transformation of Miss Delly Delphinia into Lady Quarterbury.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I found it in Moordale’s belongings. Was he blackmailing you with it?”