by Amy Quinton
Zounds. Bea fanned her heated face. Oh, she wished she could chance it and watch, but then, as soon as he turned to search the screen, he’d see her peeking out amid the drapes. She couldn’t risk it.
He was moving progressively closer, though she had to strain to hear that much. He was silent; as if he’d done this sort of thing many times before. She had long suspected he worked for the Crown in some secret capacity. His actions today only reinforced that idea.
And damn, but he was being thorough. She would give anything to sit on the floor and have a cup of tea, or better yet, that brandy, while she settled in for what was sure to be an interminable wait. She imagined asking him to hand her a book to read while she waited—and nearly laughed out loud again.
She heard his foot step off the rug. He was headed for the screen now; which was near the window. Bea held her breath.
Surely, he could hear her heart booming in her chest? It was so loud, she could no longer hear him move. It sounded like soldiers marching in her ears. She wanted to look, yet she couldn’t afford the risk. She was committed to staying hidden now, and the thought of success tasted sweet on her tongue. La, how she would love to gloat over the fact; tell him to his face that he, a man noted for his powers of observation, had completely missed her presence in the room.
After what felt like ten years of her life, he finally left. She only just heard the click of the study door as it closed. He’d barely made a sound, and she’d been too afraid to press her luck with another peek. She was lucky she hadn’t fallen asleep and completely given herself away with a loud snore. Wouldn’t that have been a sight?
“Oh, Dansbury. Fancy meeting you here,” she said in her haughtiest voice. She was good at pretentious.
“Why yes, Lady Bea, what are the chances?” she said in her best imitation Dansbury voice.
She snickered and shook off her wandering thoughts, again.
She bolted from her hiding spot, confident he’d gone. She walked around the desk and looked down at the Aubusson rug. Time to finish her own search.
Hmmm…
She noticed a freestanding globe on one corner of the rug. It had been moved recently, as there were depressions in the carpet where it normally stood. She didn’t think Dansbury had moved it, he would have been precise when repositioning it. She only just noticed the clue herself. One could only see the signs when viewed from a certain angle, and she happened to be standing in just the right spot.
She set the key on the desk and approached the globe. It didn’t look too substantial. She pulled and eventually dragged the globe off the rug. It required both hands. Then, she set to work on the carpet. She needed to look underneath, and the rug was sure to be heavy. Actually, she could use Dansbury’s help about now. She chuckled at the thought of calling him back and asking him to lend a hand.
“Oh, Cliff, would you mind giving me a hand here? I need to look under this rug and see if Father is up to something nefarious?” she said in her pretend innocence voice.
“Why sure, Lady Beatryce, why don’t we make love on the floor while we’re at it,” she added in her finest virile Dansbury voice. She found it difficult not to laugh while she said it though.
She managed the task on her own, after all, using her body to keep the rug from falling back into place as she slowly rolled one end.
Aha. There, in the floor, was a loose board; it was…off kilter. Hmmm. She studied it with growing excitement. This was a puzzle, and she was good at puzzles. She laid on her stomach and attempted to pry up the board. It didn’t budge. La, there must be some sort of release. She squirmed on the floor as she felt around for some other obvious disparity.
In her struggles, her foot kicked something behind her, and she heard a satisfying click. She looked up, rather than at her feet, and smiled at the peculiar board now lifted slightly higher than the others.
It was pure, dumb luck, but she’d take it. Well, part skill, part luck if she did say so herself.
Bea pulled up the board and several around it. What a clever hiding place! And surprising. Father? Not bloody likely. Someone else must have installed it.
After a wide enough hole was revealed in the floor, Bea reached in and felt around.
A box! Ha!
She pulled the box out and inspected the lid. There, in the midst of intricate carvings, was a key hole. Bea jumped up and retrieved the key from the table. She opened the box with baited breath. What would be inside? Her hands shook with her exhilaration.
She opened the lid to find all sorts of papers tucked inside. She pulled out the one on top and read.
Well, well, well. Look what Father’s been up to…
She pulled out and scanned the next one.
Oh, Father, you are a bad, bad man…
She scanned another.
La, this is serious. Shite. If anyone found out she knew…
Panic set in and Beatryce hastened to return everything and put the room back to rights.
She had to think.
She had to plan.
How could she use this information? How could she protect herself? Who could she tell?
* * * *
Dansbury escorted Miss Grace Radclyffe from Beckett House and into his waiting carriage. The carriage creaked and groaned as he climbed inside, grating on his nerves. He was more than a little frustrated; his search of Beckett House had turned up nothing. Absolutely naught. It was deuced frustrating. Earl Swindon was not a clever man, but somehow, he’d managed to be brilliant when it came to hiding the evidence of his numerous misdeeds.
After settling inside his conveyance and rapping on the roof to alert his driver that they were ready to depart, he turned to his companion with a pensive air. “Miss Grace Radclyffe, your uncle is a very strange man.” An understatement. “I’m glad you are no longer living beneath his roof.”
“As am I. I cannot thank you enough for that.”
“Love, no thanks are necessary. It is I who should be thanking you for keeping the servants occupied while I searched the house. It was brave of you. And very helpful.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that question?” He answered with a grin.
“I suppose, but I’m impatient and decidedly curious.”
“Of course you are. Alas, I’m afraid I didn’t find a thing.”
“Well, then. I suppose that makes one of us.”
He laughed, but his mirth was cut short. “Wait a minute…You did?” Curious. He couldn’t help but be surprised at her confession. He never really expected something to be hiding in the main drawing room of the home where anyone…such as the Duke of Stonebridge, perhaps…might see it. Swindon was a fool.
Grace grinned and nodded her head yes with a rapid bounce of her head. She was like a kid with a plate of sweet pies; her eyes were lit with joyful glee and her grin stretched from ear to ear. She reached into her reticule and pulled out a small, wooden box.
She handed it over to him. “I found this.”
He took it and held it up to the light coming in from the carriage window. He turned it back and forth, noting the intricate carvings on every side. It looked to be made of oak and stained with a dark, almost ebony, stain. But on the lid, the center medallion was of a much lighter, reddish stain. And in the middle of that, the lid had been burned with a symbol—one he had seen too many times in the past…Two letters, a swirly P and an E, were entwined together making up the branches of an oak tree. It was the symbol for the Society of the Purification of England. Sure, the box was circumstantial evidence at best, but it was a damning piece against the earl.
The Secret Society of the Purification of England’s membership was made up of conservative aristocrats who wanted to purge England of all immigrants or people of mixed blood, particularly Irishmen…thereby purifying the blood of all its citizens. These men were dangerous, powerful, and willing to do anything to see their aims realized. Murder. Treason. Hell, they were even willing to wor
k with the enemy so long as their goals coincided.
“Does it mean anything?”
Dansbury smiled and reached over to give Grace a hug. She was sweet and warm. Kind. She felt like home. “Yes, sweet. It means everything. Thank you. You’ve been more useful than I this day, I daresay.”
Now, he just hoped Ambrose Langtry, the Duke of Stonebridge, wouldn’t kill him for putting his woman in danger. Or Grace would be his woman if Ambrose would finally get his head out of his arse and realize that fact. Incredibly, the man was still planning to marry Lady Beatryce Beckett over some misplaced sense of honor.
Still, he suspected Ambrose wouldn’t be happy to learn of Grace’s involvement today. He and Ambrose never did see eye to eye on the acceptable risks in pursuit of justice. Ambrose drew the line at putting friends in danger, even if it meant their suspect would escape capture.
Cliff, on the other hand, was relentless when it came to seeking the truth. He’d been ingrained with it since birth…a gift from his mother who’d always been passionate about ensuring justice at all costs. True, at times, those costs weighed heavy on a man. But the end result…truth and justice and safety for the masses, along with the proper atonement…made those sacrifices bearable.
Usually.
Chapter 2
“Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.”
― Shakespeare, Henry VI
Dansbury House, London…
One Week Later…
“Rise and shine…you lazy toff.”
Dansbury opened one eye. Oomph. Mistake, that. Bright light bored into his brain bringing forth an involuntary wince. Hammers started pounding steel inside his head. He squinted and eyed the room. Purple spots obscured his vision, but he managed to locate his best friend, Ambrose Langtry, the Duke of Stonebridge, across the room. The man was bustling about, opening curtains, and acting suspiciously…jovial?
Huh. How odd.
Maybe he was dreaming. Yes, that must be it; just a bizarre dream. Nothing to be concerned about then. His eye drifted closed.
“Why are you still abed?”
Both his eyes jerked open. Ugh. The sun took it as an invitation to move in and set up housekeeping. “What do you want? Tell me, then go away.”
“Don’t you recall what day it is? It’s my wedding day. Why aren’t you up and dressed for it?” Ambrose pulled open the last set of velvet curtains covering three massive windows overlooking the back garden. Dust leapt into the air, dancing in the sunbeams.
Cliff groaned and closed his eyes again. “I don’t like you right now, and I certainly don’t like your fiancée, so of course, I’m not planning to attend your ill-fated nuptials. Remember? I told you an age ago…”
He dozed off. Or tried to. He’d almost made it back to dreamland when Ambrose started slapping him about the face, startling him awake, again.
“Enough!” he bellowed as he slapped at his friend’s hands and then rolled away from the source of his misery.
Ugh. I shouldn’t have done that.
The hammers started pounding steel inside his brain again. He vowed never to touch liquor again in his life. Probably.
Ambrose leaned in, undeterred by the outburst, and sniffed. “Damn, but you smell like a distillery, Cliff. Long night?”
“You could say that,” Cliff murmured.
Ambrose plopped on the edge of the bed and leaned back against the footboard, causing Cliff to roll back the other way. “Hmmm…sounds like an interesting story. I look forward to hearing about it…another time…”
“Please. Hold your breath while you wait, but do it at your house. Your death would have me answering all sorts of inconvenient questions. Besides, disturbingly cheerful morning people make me ill. And since when did you become a disturbingly cheerful morning person, anyway?” Cliff couldn’t stop his grin as he burrowed further under the bedclothes, seeking the darkness to be found beneath the sheets.
“Ha! I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor with your head. Excellent. But seriously, I need you to get up.” Ambrose nudged his leg. “Now. I have a task for you.”
Ambrose’s tone turned serious; which got his attention better than any of his friend’s previous attempts combined. He poked his head out from under the covers and studied his friend. Ambrose was dressed casually for travel.
Interesting. Why wasn’t the man clad in his wedding finery?
“Am I going to like this?” He didn’t know whether or not he wanted to hear the answer, but he asked it anyway.
“Oh, you’re going to love it.”
Cliff raised one brow in question, unconvinced.
“Don’t look at me like that. You will. You care too much about Grace to see her remain unhappy for the rest of her days, living and working without the man she loves. You’ll relish this task. I promise.”
Ah, Miss Grace Radclyffe, a wonderful woman—sweet, friendly, beautiful—and utterly in love with her Ambrose.
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but, exactly, what are you planning?”
And do I want to know the answer?
Ambrose crossed his arms in a defensive pose. “I’m going to ask Grace to marry me.”
Cliff lurched upright, the covers falling to his waist. Had he been drinking, liquid would have sprayed out his nose and mouth and drowned the both of them. “What? Are you crazy? Have you forgotten you’re about to get married in…oh…” he squinted over at the clock on the mantle, “about half an hour to someone else?” He refused to say his fiancée’s name.
“Of course, I haven’t forgotten—could you?” His friend raked his hand across his face. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. I already know the answer. No, I’m simply not going to marry Lady Beatryce, and that’s all there is to it.”
Dansbury tried not to cringe at the mention of Lady Beatryce, unsure if he was successful. He eyed his friend, but still couldn’t tell.
“Good God. It’s about bloody time.” Truth. “But what about contractual obligations, your word, and all that other shite you’ve been spouting for the last month?” His friend had been trying to convince himself as much as everyone else that he had to go through with this marriage. Dansbury had been trying to talk Ambrose out of it ever since the man had first announced his misbegotten plan to marry her.
“Funnily enough, I never actually asked Lady Beatryce to marry me. We just announced our betrothal as if I had. And I never actually signed the betrothal contract either.”
That surprised him. Lady Beatryce and her family had pulled all sorts of underhanded tricks to ensure this wedding would happen. He found it difficult to believe that a detail such as signing the betrothal contract would be overlooked by the Beckett Family. But he trusted his friend, implicitly. Hell, he trusted everyone—for better or for worse—except for Lady B and her family.
“Damn me, you’re actually going to do this, aren’t you?” Cliff’s heart picked up its pace. Damned fickle organ.
“You may depend upon it, and I need you to go to the church and inform Beatryce of the change of plans.”
“Ha! Of course.” Cliff fell back and threw his arm over his head. He was not hiding. He strove for indifference. “But why don’t you do it?”
“I don’t have time. I don’t want to waste another minute without my Grace. I need her like I need air, and I’m on my way to Oxford to tell her that, or something like it. I’m sure much begging and groveling will be involved.”
Cliff laughed. “What about our investigation? Did you get my note?” He still hid under his arm. The sun chose today, of all days, to be brutal with its intensity. That was his only reason for hiding his eyes. He wasn’t trying to hide his excite…er, surprise over his friend’s decision. Not at all.
Earlier in the week, Cliff had sent a note to Ambrose about his search of the Beckett Estate in West Sussex. Unfortunately, like in the case of the man’s London residence, he had found no evidence to help their investigation.
As part of their enquiry into the goings on of the Secret
Society for the Purification of England, they were investigating the assassination of Ambrose’s father, the 9th Duke of Stonebridge, which occurred seventeen years ago. They believed that the duke was murdered by edict of the Society.
Ambrose was in charge of their investigation, and their primary suspect behind the assassination itself was none other than Lady Beatryce Beckett’s father, the Earl of Swindon.
Yea. It was a complicated mess.
Oh, Earl Swindon hadn’t actually performed the deed, the very idea was absurd, but he was the one who saw it carried out. They were confident of that.
He felt Ambrose stand. “I did. Don’t worry about the place being cleared. I have a plan, but that’s for later. Right now, you need to get up. You do want to make it to the church before all hell breaks loose, don’t you?”
Cliff’s grin, visible from below his armed sun block, was answer enough. He delighted in setting the ton on its collective ear, and Ambrose knew it. Even if Ambrose were planning to inform Beatryce himself, Cliff would have begged for a chance to do the deed. He relished the opportunity to put that witch in her place. Lady Beatryce deserved to be stood up and more. She was cruel and underhanded and didn’t merit his friend.
“And by the by,” Ambrose added before stepping out the door, “I’ll be paying you back for asking my woman to marry you…later.”
Despite the threatening words, he heard his friend laughing as he walked away.
Good for you, Ambrose, you lucky bastard.
Cliff jumped out of bed, whistling a jaunty tune, as he rang for his valet. The pain from his overindulgence was forgotten, his day had turned suddenly jolly. He hadn’t been this enthusiastic in quite some time, and he all but rubbed his hands together in anticipation of carrying out this task.
It was the reason his heart now raced. The only reason.
Chapter 3
“Anger’s my meat; I sup upon myself, and so shall starve with feeding.”
― Shakespeare, Coriolanus