by Elisa Braden
Although he’d sought to protect Maureen by diminishing their connection to mere friendship, the pair had been madly in love for years before Holstoke had set his cap for her. Holstoke’s courtship had invigorated Dunston’s harder, possessive nature, and in the end, Dunston, too, had proposed. Maureen had rejected Holstoke, married Dunston, and had proceeded to bear him four beautiful children.
Naturally, Genie had known her sister’s choice long before Maureen had. Anyone with a jot of sense could see Maureen’s incessant preoccupation with the handsome, dapper lord. In truth, Holstoke had never stood a chance. Even if Maureen had accepted him, Dunston would have cut Holstoke in two with his favorite daggers before letting her marry anybody else.
And that was before discovering Holstoke’s mother had murdered Dunston’s father—along with numerous others—across decades of criminal treachery.
So, it was not surprising that Dunston needled his former rival. Likewise, Holstoke’s reaction was much closer to what Genie expected. His expression neutral and inscrutable, he’d ignored Dunston, given Maureen a dignified nod, and moved away to greet Mama, Papa, Kate, and Lady Wallingham. Then, he’d trained those pale eyes upon Maureen from across the room, observing her sister for long minutes before turning away to converse with Papa.
He’d ignored Genie entirely. No greeting. No glances. No lectures about inappropriate behavior. Which was all just as well. Genie had little desire to further subject herself to Holstoke’s high-handed judgment. Still, he might have at least acknowledged her existence. As Lady Wallingham was fond of saying, “Rudeness is an art few have mastered well enough to apply without consequences.”
As she played with Dunston and Maureen’s adorable band of offspring, she’d felt his gaze turn in her direction more than once. She assumed his scrutiny had one of two purposes: Either he found Genie too unruly for his liking or he was curious about Maureen’s children, perhaps even melancholy that they were not his own. The answer was likely a bit of both.
Now, as Edwin and Sophie skipped away to claim Mama’s ottoman, and Merry wriggled to be set down, Genie could no longer avoid him. She lowered her niece to the carpet, watching the girl toddle after her siblings. Then, she took a breath and strode toward the window. Toward him.
“Holstoke,” she said, feeling a strange rush as his eyes locked upon her.
“Lady Eugenia.”
“I am surprised you came.”
“Odd. I did promise as much.”
She sniffed and gestured toward the paper bonnet. “My niece lost her hat.”
Slowly, he crouched and plucked up the creation between two long fingers. After rising to his full, looming height, he examined the thing as he might a new plant specimen. “You made one for each of them, did you not?”
“Give it to me, if you please.”
Those eyes moved to her outstretched palm then slid slowly up her arm and bodice and throat and, finally, settled on her face. Such intense scrutiny produced odd sensations: Prickly skin. Heat. Curling chills and gooseflesh.
“I thought you were fond of me,” he said, his tone merely curious.
“My family is fond of you. I am vexed with you.”
“Still?”
“You were dashed rude, Holstoke,” she snapped. “If I wish to help Mr. Moody, that is my concern, not yours. For that matter, if I wish to dampen my skirts and promenade down Regent Street singing ‘God Save the King,’ it should have nothing whatever to do with you.”
He tilted his head and stared, his expression intent and unreadable. He was giving her the shivers from head to toe.
“Stop that.”
“What?”
“Staring.”
Slowly, the beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips. “Does it vex you, Lady Eugenia?”
She inched closer so they could not be overheard. Then, she snatched the paper bonnet from his fingers. “Yes,” she hissed. “Your eyes are unnerving, as you well know.”
His smile grew. “They are simply eyes.”
“They give me shivers.”
“Hmm. What effect would hands have, do you suppose?”
Her heart stuttered. Good heavens, was he flirting with her? Holstoke? She blinked and tried to catch her breath. No. Holstoke did not flirt. And if he did, it would be with Maureen, no doubt. The likelier explanation was that he was curious, a scientist trying to solve a riddle.
Vaguely, she heard her mother announce dinner. She sensed the arrival of servants—the children’s nurse herding her flock off to the nursery, Emerson quietly directing the footmen. She heard the rustling of gowns and the shifting of wool and the murmuring tones of her family making their way toward the drawing room doors.
Yet, she stood frozen. Locked inside the strangest battle she’d ever known.
He would not let up. Would not release her.
“We should go,” she whispered.
“To the dining room. Yes.”
“Holstoke?”
His head lowered. His eyes lingered on her mouth.
“You really are the most peculiar man.” Her voice was hoarse and throaty. Perhaps some wine would help. Of course, she was already a bit lightheaded. Tingly. Warm.
Behind her, the trumpeting voice of Lady Wallingham intruded. “Lord Holstoke! I require your escort, young man. Do let’s observe some semblance of propriety.”
Lady Wallingham was not alone. When Genie turned, she discovered her mother giving her a sharp, distinctly maternal look. Both Holstoke’s arm and his ear were confiscated by the dowager, who drew him toward the doors, describing the “proper way to bait one’s hook in murky waters, dear boy.”
Genie frowned and asked Mama, “When did Lady Wallingham take up angling?”
“Eugenia,” Mama said, her tone worried and chiding. “You do understand Holstoke is seeking a wife.”
Swallowing her sudden queasiness, she scoffed. “Of course, Mama. I am hardly daft.”
Mama clasped her hands in a warm grip, her dark eyes kind but crinkled with concern. Genie hadn’t seen her mother this way since before the scandal, when Mama had gently advised her to cease discussing bonnet construction with eligible suitors.
Now, her warning was more direct—and humbling. “He faces a great many obstacles in that pursuit. You mustn’t be one of them, dearest.”
The reminder that she was, in fact, the Great Burden of Genie struck all the harder for its unexpectedness. Shame burst through her, an old, sick feeling. Heavens, she’d thought herself inured to the pain. It was sharper than ever.
Round, dark eyes shone with regret. “How I wish matters were different, my darling,” Mama said. “How I wish I had done things differently.”
Genie clenched her teeth and stiffened against the choking ache. She would not stand here and weep, for it would accomplish nothing but adding to her mother’s pain. So, instead, she shook her head and offered an admonishment of her own. “The scandal was my fault, Mama. Not yours. I have told you this.”
Mama dabbed her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Maureen’s seasons were so effortless. Everyone adored her—even Holstoke. I assumed your debut would be the same. I should have realized—”
“Stop,” Genie said softly, drawing her sweet, round mother into her arms and patting her back. “You are not to blame, and I’ll hear no more about it.” She gave one last pat and drew back to give Mama a smile. It was forced, but necessary. Mama had suffered greatly because of Genie. A smile was the least she could do. “Now, I don’t know what caused your suspicions, but there is nothing untoward going on between me and Holstoke, I assure you.”
Mama blinked and sniffed. “You appeared preoccupied with one another, dearest.”
“Don’t be silly. We were simply having a discussion.”
“A rather heated one.”
“Holstoke is rude and peculiar. I could discuss strawberry tarts with the man, and he would argue vociferously in favor of apricots.”
“I have never known him to be argumentativ
e. More aloof, really.”
“Hmm. Perhaps he finds me vexing.”
Mama’s brow crinkled. She dropped her gaze to her handkerchief and firmed her chin before raising solemn eyes. “I could not bear for you to be hurt again, Eugenia.”
“Mama—”
“All I ask is that you exercise caution until you return to Clumberwood.” Mama patted her hand. “I understand a new physician has moved to the village. Quite handsome. A widower with two sons in need of a mother.” Mama grinned her matchmaking grin. “It would be rude not to invite him for dinner, wouldn’t you agree?”
Genie sighed. Shook her head and nodded toward the doors. “Perhaps we should focus upon the dinner you are currently hosting.”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Eyes twinkling, Mama looped her arm through Genie’s. “Few things cannot be improved—”
“By a good meal.” Genie chuckled. “So I have heard.”
For the following two hours, while Genie ignored Kate’s prattle, pretended to eat, and drank freely of her wine, she divided her attention between the tablecloth and Holstoke. More Holstoke, really.
Very well, almost entirely Holstoke.
He was peculiar. And tall. And, now that she had time to properly look, not unhandsome. His nose, while long and blade-like, was rather regal. His hair, while more severe than stylish, was thick and black. She quite liked his lips, as well. Thin yet defined. They were fascinating.
She frowned and twirled her fork in her hand. Fascinating? What a lot of rot. A man’s lips were not fascinating. Her eyes returned to said lips for verification. No. They were simply more attractive than one first supposed.
There, that was better. Attractive. Yes, Holstoke was attractive.
Handsome, even. And his eyes were … riveting.
She sipped her wine, granting herself the luxury of studying him across the table. Such a pale color, that icy green. The rings nearly disappeared into the whites. But they didn’t. Rimming the ice was a band of darker color. A shade of blue. Nearly imperceptible, but there.
Fascinating.
“… are not listening to a word I am saying, are you?”
Genie blinked. Turned toward her younger sister, beside whom she was seated. The room continued spinning, causing Genie to list a bit. She straightened and answered, “Really, Kate. Such acrimony is no way to begin a conversation.”
Kate snorted and shook her head, gesturing toward Holstoke. “If I specified he was the topic, would that capture your attention?”
Genie drank the last few drops from her empty glass. “Holstoke is rude. I care nothing for him.”
“Mmm. Then you won’t care that the gossip is worsening.”
Frowning, Genie waved the nearest footman forward to refill her glass. “Worsening how?”
“Suspicions are growing, particularly since Miss Froom’s death. Her mother claims it was poison. Lady Wallingham reported only this evening that Mrs. Froom is accusing Lord Holstoke of murder, though not publicly. Naturally, Mr. Froom objects to leveling such grave charges at a peer of the realm without proof.”
“Hmmph. As well he should. Holstoke is not a murderer. Rude. Strange. But not a killer.” And he was staring again. Ignoring Lady Wallingham as the imperious old dragon lobbed unwanted opinions in his direction, Holstoke appeared fixated upon Genie’s neck. Blast him, why could he not behave like a normal man? The shivers were getting worse, now accompanied by waves of heat.
His gaze did not leave her until Emerson entered to announce that another guest had arrived. The young woman was ethereally white with raven hair and Holstoke’s eyes. She stood in the dining room doorway, gowned in layers of rosy pink gauze. To Genie’s eye, Hannah Gray always appeared eerily composed—cold, even—yet fragile as a reed in winter.
The girl had been through hell, of course. And, until Maureen had introduced her to Holstoke six years earlier, she’d survived that hell alone. Holstoke had not hesitated to take her in, protecting his sister with the full force of his title, his fortune, and his devotion. Now, his devotion surged to the fore as Holstoke immediately frowned, shoved out of his chair, and went to his sister.
“What do you suppose this is about?” Kate murmured.
Genie shushed her and listened. Seated near the doors, she was able to hear most of it, though they kept their voices low.
“Phineas,” Hannah breathed. “I told him to leave, but he refused.”
“Who?”
“The Bow Street man. Mr. Hawthorn. He asked so many questions, and I—I answered before I knew why he’d come.”
Holstoke gently braced his sister’s shoulders, stilling her trembling. “It is all right, little one. Tell me what he said.”
Hannah blinked up at him, her brow puckering with distress. “H-he wanted to know where you were this morning. I said you’d gone out after breakfast. He said Lord Glencombe’s daughter was m-murdered today. Poisoned.”
Holstoke’s shoulders stiffened. “Lady Theodosia?”
She nodded.
Despite obvious tension, he stroked his sister’s upper arms and gathered her close. Genie noted how slowly, how carefully he did so, as though Hannah were made of wet paper. Hannah closed her eyes and sighed against his coat.
Maureen rushed from the other end of the table to join them, soothing the girl with a hand at her back. The trio huddled together, murmuring softly. They looked like a family, bonded by past horrors and deep affection.
Genie’s insides tightened and twisted. She took another drink of her wine.
Beside her, Kate whispered, “Good heavens. Miss Froom and now Theodosia? I had no liking for either of them, but this is … dreadful. Do you suppose—”
“No,” Genie said, narrowing her eyes upon the huddled trio. “If they were poisoned, it was not Holstoke.”
“How can you be certain?”
She looked at the way he held his sister. Noticed the looseness of his arms, as though he never wanted her to feel trapped again. “I just am,” she answered. “Besides which, we know who the murderer in the Brand family was. Dunston and Maureen were there when Lady Holstoke came after Hannah. Others witnessed it, too—Mr. Reaver and Sarah Lacey. The magistrate was well satisfied, even when he discovered Hannah was the one who …”
“Stopped her.”
Genie met Kate’s eyes and nodded. The incident had further devastated the fragile girl, who’d been sixteen when she’d been forced to shoot a madwoman to save her own life and that of the others in the room. Holstoke, having met his half-sister only that day, nevertheless had protected Hannah ferociously, refusing to allow the magistrate to question her. Subsequently, he’d moved Hannah into Primvale Castle. Then, he’d spent thousands of pounds and several years finding his mother’s many victims and offering recompense to their families.
That was how Genie knew Phineas Brand was not a murderer. He was a man of deep honor, peculiarities aside. He deserved better than to be accused of poisoning two young women.
She glanced down the table at her brother-in-law, who glared at the trio, obviously struggling against his darker nature. “Dunston must help him.”
“Er, Genie. It might be wise to leave Dunston out of this. He has no liking for Holstoke.”
Genie pushed to her feet, bracing herself against the table as the wine made its presence felt. “He must still have contacts at Bow Street.”
“Perhaps you should let Maureen …”
Kate might have continued talking, but Genie was focused upon reaching Dunston without tripping over her own feet. Good heavens, when had the dining room floor developed such a slant?
Raising a single chestnut brow as she arrived beside his chair, Dunston gave her an affectionate grin, despite the turbulence in his eyes. “Enjoying the wine, Brat?”
She waved away his quip. “You must help Holstoke.”
The grin faded. “I fail to see why.”
“Bow Street suspects him of poisoning a girl. Perhaps two.”
Dunston crossed his arms. �
�I shall give him the name of a good barrister.”
She braced her hand on the table. China clinked as she missed her mark. “He is innocent, and well you know it, Henry.”
“Probably. But I don’t see how it is any of my—”
“You’re acquainted with all sorts of shadowy men. At the Home Office. At Bow Street.” She waved her hand in a circular motion. “Do whatever it is you do, and make this matter disappear.”
“You are asking a great deal, given his prior pursuit of my wife.”
“Yes, well. Maureen chose you. Now, do stop being a jealous idiot.”
“I have already done you one favor today by securing a position for your friend, Mr. Mudd.”
“Moody.”
“And now, you wish me to intervene for Holstoke.”
She raised her chin. “It is the right thing to do.”
He frowned. Glanced past her shoulder toward the trio. Ground his teeth until his jaw flexed. Then, he met her gaze. “Very well,” he said softly. “But only because Maureen will reward me generously when I claim it was my idea.”
Grinning in triumph, Genie replied, “Your idea entirely, dearest brother. Entirely.”
Two more hours and two more glasses of wine later, Genie’s head was still swimming, and it was beginning to ache. She sat in the corner of the drawing room on Mama’s hideous ottoman.
Beside her sat Lady Wallingham.
Perhaps that was why her head ached.
“This whole affair is rubbish,” the old woman pronounced with a sniff. “Holstoke is odd, not homicidal.”
Genie sighed. “My thoughts precis—”
“How many times must I remind him, one hires gardeners. One does not become one. No, no, no. His oddities are numerous; there can be little doubt. The eyes are positively spectral. And if you ever have need of achieving a tedium stupor, ask him which strain of wheat is preferable for coastal winters. Good God, Catholics employ less Latin.”