Be My Lover

by Cecily French

  The Countess of Aler. Mallory bit back a grin at the man’s description. Everyone in the ton knew her red hair came from henna and not nature. They also knew of her excessive love of jewelry. “What else?”

  “Barnabas Scofield’s been marked for roughing up,” the contact continued. “Tried to rape his children’s guv’ness and her papa ain’t happy at all. ’E’s got a wicked temper and the fists to go with it, so her papa has.”

  Barnabas Scofield is so cheap he’d rather go after a servant than pay for mistress. Mallory had half a mind to let the girl’s father do his worst. He had a sister in service. “What else?”

  “’Eard the new Duke o’ Bradford come back to London and it were murder done to his father not a suicide.”

  Trying to ignore his quickening heart, Mallory raised his cup and said casually, “Heard that myself so it ain’t worth anything.”

  “What if there was a witness? What would that be worth?”

  Mallory forced himself to slowly drain the cider while considering his next question. “Might be worth a lot,” he said, putting down the cup. “Was there a witness?”

  “Mebbe. You come back with a price and we’ll see.”

  Mallory shot his hand across the table to clamp the man’s grimy wrist. “You tell your witness if he don’t help find out who killed the duke’s father, he just might find hisself danglin’ from the end of a very long rope.” Mallory tightened his grip. “Magistrates don’t deal kindly with accessories to murder. You’d do well to remember that.”

  Hatred gleamed in the man’s dark eyes. “Right,” he said.

  Shouts from the front of the house and splintering glass brought their conversation to a halt. The man in the battered hat across from Freddie stood, tossed some coins on the table and left. After waiting long enough to be sure the man was gone, Freddie put the coins in his pocket and slipped out the back way into the alley. He’d been mad to come here in the first place. He should have let Henry come instead since he was the one who had given Freddie the tidbits of gossip.

  So what Henry had heard at the club was true. The new Duke of Bradford planned to find out who had killed his father. That meant it was only a matter of time before the killer came looking for Freddie. Freddie’s sudden shiver had nothing to do with the cold or the damp and he slowed his steps to listen for anyone else moving through the alley’s dark, narrow space.

  He fingered the coins in his pocket, counting. With what he had saved, it might be almost enough to get him on a coach to Scotland. Another day or two of scavenging for coins dropped from pockets should do the trick and buy him the ticket that would save his neck. As much as he had liked the old duke, he wasn’t worth dying for. And his son was no more likely to believe Freddie was as innocent of murder as the day he was born. The more distance between the new duke and Freddie, the better.

  And the sooner. Freddie quickened his pace, stepped onto the street and into the enveloping fog.

  * * * * *

  “Timmons, may I ask you something?” Emily put aside the copy of The Mystery of Blackwood Hall as he addedmore logs to the fire. Outside, heavy gray clouds shrouded the afternoon sky. From his cage in the corner, Zeus swung on his perch. In the time since Emily moved into the house, she had gained enough of the macaw’s trust to open the cage and gently stroke his feathers, and just this morning she had fed him. He had nipped at her fingers, but his bite was playful and Emily was proud of her progress with the great bird.

  Her new butler rose and bowed. “Yes, ma’am. How may I be of service to you?”

  “Do you believe Lord Anthony’s father killed himself?”

  Timmons’ jaw tightened and he blinked. “No, ma’am,” he finally said. “I most certainly do not.”

  “You’ve worked for the Dyson family for a very long time, haven’t you?” Emily asked.

  “I started out as second footman and worked my way up to my present position,” Timmons said, the pride unmistakable in his voice. “Like my father before me.”

  An unexpected fondness for this most recent acquaintance warmed Emily’s heart. “You’re very fond of Lord Anthony, aren’t you, Timmons?”

  “And why should I not be? His family has always treated me with the greatest kindness and only asked that I carry out my duties to the best of my abilities. Not many in service can say as much of those who employ them. And anyone who believes the old duke killed himself is either crazed or an idiot.”

  A quiet fury replaced the pride in Timmons’ voice, drawing his mouth into a tight grimace, and Emily and was very glad she was not the object of his anger. “Then what do you think happened?”

  “Murder, ma’am. Murder most foul, though like His Grace I have no way to prove it.” Timmons smoothed the neatly tied stock around his neck. “There were those who were so enraged by their financial losses—ones they claimed His Grace’s father had suggested to them—I do believe they would have killed because of it.”

  “But Sir Lennox, the doctor who found the body, declared it was suicide,” Emily recalled. “He arrived just before the body was found.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Timmons said with a nod. “And that is why people believe it to be true. But I know in my soul it was not. I simply can’t prove it. His Grace’s father would never do that to his family. And he most certainly would not commit fraud. Someone killed him…or had him killed.”

  His last words brought a chill to the room and, in spite of the healthy fire, Emily shivered. Reaching for her shawl from the back of her chair, she asked, “Who do you think might have killed His Grace’s father? Or at least had him killed?”

  Impassivity returned to Timmons’ face. “I really couldn’t say, ma’am.”

  “Oh come, Timmons,” Emily coaxed. “You knew almost everything there was to know about His Grace’s family and their day-to-day lives, including their friends. After Lord Conrad died and news of the fraudulent investments came out, who was the most angered by their losses?”

  “Well…” Timmons’ eyes narrowed in concentration. “Sir Charles Abernathy lost five hundred pounds. He was furious and threatened legal action against Lord Anthony. Mordicah Stopover who owns the Falcon Importing Company, one that deals in silk and other precious items, lost three hundred pounds. Others lost as well, but not quite so much.”

  “And were they questioned?”

  “Mrs. Martin, after Sir Lennox examined the body and declared the death a suicide, there was no need for questions. The case was closed.” Timmons expelled a sigh of impatience. “Bunch of damn fools. Begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  “No need.” Emily released her own sigh. “No need.” An air of sadness settled over the sitting room. Overhead, rain hit the roof in a steady tattoo before running in rivulets down the mullioned windows.

  “When does His Grace return from his fishing trip?” Timmons asked, breaking the silence.

  “This afternoon or evening unless the rain delays him.” Emily said, reaching for her book again. Miss Stanhope had sent it yesterday with a note saying she hoped Emily would enjoy it. The plot was as twisted as the secret labyrinths and hiding places the author so loved to describe. If she didn’t believe her to be innocent of such machinations, Emily would think Miss Stanhope was trying to gain Anthony’s affections by seeking Emily’s friendship.

  “Timmons,” she said. “Tell me something about His Grace’s father. A favorite memory, something you enjoy recalling.”

  Timmons cocked his head. “Well,” he said, “there is one thing. But I hesitate to mention it because I believe I was the only one who knew.”

  Emily sat up. “Do tell,” she pleaded.

  “His Grace’s late father liked gothic novels.”

  A laugh escaped Emily, easing some of the ache in her heart. “Really?” she gasped. “His Grace read The Mystery of Udolpho and books like that?”

  “Udolpho was one of his favorites,” Timmons said. A broad grin crossed his face. “But I must ask you not to tell anyone, ma’am, not even the present
duke.”

  “But why wouldn’t the duke’s father want anyone to know he liked gothic novels?” Emily asked. “Mister Horace Walpole wrote one to great acclaim.”

  “Mister Walpole was not a duke,” Timmons did not bother trying to hide his disdain. Then he softened his tone. “The late duke was worried his peers wouldn’t take him seriously if they knew he read such things. He even had some kind of arrangement for the books to be secretly delivered to his home so no one would see him buy them, or risk the clerks at the bookstores telling others of the sale. I only mention as much myself because of the book you are currently reading.”

  “His arrangements for the secret delivery of the books were certainly gothic,” Emily said. Her earlier fantasy of Anthony reading such things returned and she laughed again. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Timmons. And don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Timmons bowed. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Some tea, perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” Timmons bowed again and crossed to the door. He stopped and turned back. “There is one more thing about that night, Mrs. Martin. The night the old duke died.”

  Emily’s heart quickened. “Yes?”

  “Zeus was in His Grace’s library, where he always was. His Grace was very fond of that bird. After we heard the shot—” Timmons choked back something between a sob and an attempt to stop it. He nosily cleared his throat. “We heard Zeus shrieking just after the shot. It sounded as if someone was ripping out his feathers. I’ve often wondered…”

  “Wondered what, Timmons?”

  “What Zeus saw,” Timmons said sadly. “I’ve heard some birds can learn to talk. I’ve often wished that of Zeus so he could tell us what happened. Forgive me, ma’am. It’s just a foolish fancy to think such things. I’ll bring in your tea presently.”

  Emily waited until the door closed behind him before going to Zeus’ cage. The great bird swayed on his perch and regarded her with his bright eyes. Reaching her fingers through the bars, she gently stroked the cobalt and yellow feathers.

  “What did you see that night, my bright-plumed friend?” she whispered. “Are you the only creature in London who knows what really happened to Anthony’s father? If I taught you to talk, would you tell me? Would you reveal the name of your late master’s killer? Or like Miss Stanhope, have I fallen under the spell of gothic novels?”

  Zeus dipped his head but remained silent. With a sigh, Emily went to stare out the windows at Amos Quigley’s house. From here, she could almost see through the large windows into what might be his sitting room. Anthony’s departing instructions included sending for the man if any problem should arise in his absence. After weeks of teas, theater and dinner parties—not to mention making love in almost every room in the house—Anthony had announced it would keep people from gossiping about them too much if they were not seen together for awhile. So he, Brandon Hightower and Gregory Keller had gone fishing at a spot twenty miles south of London.

  At first, she had welcomed having the house—and the bed—all to herself for a few days.

  But since his departure, she found herself listening for his step in the hall, his cheery voice calling out in welcome or making her laugh as he shared some delicious piece of gossip.

  And the space in the bed beside her felt quite, quite empty.

  She had not expected to miss him so much.

  Of course, at every social occasion they had attended, Miss Margaret Stanhope was also a guest. And while Anthony gave equal attention to every unmarried lady present, the ton had noticed his interest in Miss Stanhope. The gossip sheets were already talking of the great marriages that would be made at the Season’s end. Which, Anthony said, was another reason for leaving town and swearing Emily to secrecy regarding his whereabouts.

  “My abrupt departure will drive the ton mad with curiosity,” Anthony had proclaimed as he climbed into Brandon Hightower’s carriage before leaving. “Try to be mysterious if they ask questions about where I am. No need for them to be sending out my wedding invitations quite yet.”

  And the sadness that statement brought to Emily’s heart was the greatest mystery of all.

  Chapter Twelve

  “So do you think you’ll marry Margaret Stanhope?”

  Anthony recast his fishing line, trying to pretend he was concentrating on catching their noonday meal rather than responding to Brandon’s question.

  “It’s a lost cause trying to wheedle an answer from him, Brandon,” Greg called from farther down the bank. Sitting up, he shoved his straw hat back on his head. “That’s one of the reasons why I never play cards with him. He could have the worst hand in the world and you’d never know it.”

  “The papers are all saying he will,” Brandon said gloomily. “Which is why my mother is hounding me to find a bride as well.”

  “Perhaps then you shouldn’t have breakfast with her every morning,” Greg suggested, coming to join them. “Then she wouldn’t have the chance to hound you about it.”

  “Good Lord, Keller, I thought you were my friend!” Brandon groaned. “Not having breakfast with my mother every morning would be my death sentence.”

  “Quiet,” Anthony growled. “You’re scaring the fish.”

  “Ah, he speaks! Come on, Anthony, you’ve been as silent as the grave regarding the subject of Miss Stanhope ever since we arrived,” Brandon accused.

  “And I will continue to be until I’ve made my choice,” Anthony told them. “No more talking. I am determined to catch something before we head back to London.”

  “At least there’s something there worth catching.” Greg yawned. “Three fish in two days was hardly worth the trip…if fishing were truly your intent.”

  “I somehow think it was not,” Brandon agreed, gathering up his tackle. “I think I shall return to the inn and be sure their staff truly knows how to pack. Come along, Greg. Let’s leave Anthony to his thoughts, matrimonial or otherwise.”

  I am no more decided on Miss Stanhope than when we arrived. Anthony kept his gaze fixed on the lake, listening to his friends’ banter as they left him.

  What am I waiting for? Margaret Stanhope has beauty, intelligence and she’s kind to others. Not to mention she has a nice-size dowry and six brothers, suggesting we’d have at least one son of our own. She’s everything a man could ask for in a wife.

  Except she’s not Emily Martin.

  Anthony tightened his grip around the fishing pole. Emily had beauty and intelligence and kindness long before she inherited her fortune. Her smile alone could lighten a dark mood or soothe a troubled spirit, and her wit at times left him helpless with mirth.

  She had also proven to be a satisfying and generous lover. His cock stirred in memory of their romps and the laughter they had shared afterward. He could easily envision spending the rest of his life with her.

  But Emily is barren and I promised Father the line would continue, father to son, unbroken as it has for ten generations. I owe it to his memory to marry a woman with at least a chance of producing an heir. For that reason alone, I can’t marry Emily, and after I marry, she would never agree to be my mistress, even if I didn’t believe adultery to be among the worst of sins. So marrying Miss Stanhope, who I think I could grow to love, seems to be the best of decisions. But not just yet.

  After all, there were at least three more weeks until the Season ended. And he intended to enjoy his time with Emily right up until he proposed to Miss Stanhope.

  But not just yet.

  Anthony gathered up own his tackle and set off to join his friends for the journey back to London.

  * * * * *

  This needs a good cleaning.

  Emily ran her palms over the tapestry, the dust sliding between her fingers. The rain had finally stopped and the late-afternoon sun was making a gallant effort to add some warmth to the morning room. A fire still crackled in the grate, thanks to the extra logs Timmons provided, a
nd it was almost time to start lighting the candles. The aroma of scones and ham rising from the covered cloth on the tea tray brought a growl from her stomach.

  “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Timmons if she knows anyone who cleans such delicate items,” she said. “One certainly couldn’t wash them. Perhaps just a good brushing.”

  She continued to stroke the heavy embroidered fabric, enjoying the smooth texture, and then stopped. Something bulged beneath her palms. Heart thumping with excitement, she pulled the tapestry aside.

  No. It can’t be! Shades of Udolpho!

  For sure enough, behind the tapestry was a door. Her hands had touched the knob and hinges. She quickly inspected the walls hidden by the other three tapestries and found nothing. After locking the door to the hallway, she grabbed a candle from its stand and lit it from the fire. Shielding the flame with her hand, she carefully moved the tapestry enough so she could open the door and step inside.

  Her thoughts raced as she cautiously moved down a narrow corridor. Webs hung from the walls and ceilings and Emily hoped none of them held occupants. Her feet kicked up dust from the floor and she sneezed as it reached her nose.

  If Miss Stanhope knew about this, she would be wild with jealousy! I wonder if the previous owner knew about it. Perhaps that’s why he bought it. And does Anthony know? Surely he would have mentioned it if he did.

  At the end of the corridor, Emily raised the candle and found another door. Taking a deep breath—because that’s what all gothic heroines did—she reached for the knob, praying she would find only spiders and not a long-dead body.

  But to her amazement, the door opened into what looked to be a greenhouse. Trowels and pots lined a table while rakes and blades hung from a pegged board. Outside, a wall ran the length of the yard that separated her house from Amos Quigley’s. So. Her new home had a secret. Shades of Udolpho, indeed.

  She blew out the candle and returned to the morning room. After brushing her clothing free of dust, she sat and poured a cup of tea, grateful she had allowed it to steep longer than usual. After her discovery, she needed the Earl Grey’s bracing strength.