“Grosvenor Square?” he whispered in reverence. “Who do I tell when I’m there?”
“You ask for the Duke of Rossmoyne, of course.”
The boy staggered back a step. “Blimey! You’re lyin’, you are.” He snorted. “Askin’ for the duke hisself.”
“Thomas,” Sara said softly. “This man is the Duke of Rossmoyne. You can trust what he says.”
Thomas stared up at Rossmoyne, clearly not believing them. “You’re a duke?”
“I am.” Rossmoyne looked down at the boy in all his dukely hauteur.
“Huh.” Thomas shrugged. “I’m busy durin’ the day and such, but I’ll keep an eye out for your gent.”
Sara had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Behind her, Montgomery coughed. Sara could have sworn she saw Rossmoyne’s lips twitch.
“I appreciate you taking the time for me.”
Thomas shrugged, eyeing the half crown. “I’ll make the time for a half crown.”
Rossmoyne smiled, and Sara’s heart lurched at the sight. It transformed his normally harsh expression into something delightful and beautiful. He really was very handsome when he forgot to be so stern. She wished he would smile more. Maybe then he wouldn’t be such a curmudgeon.
Rossmoyne handed the half crown to Thomas, and with a jaunty wave Thomas took off, disappearing into the crowd, far richer than he had been before. Sara continued to look in that direction for a bit. Would he take the money back to his ma, or was there a man he worked for to whom he had to give the money? She hoped it was the former.
“It’s been quite the adventurous day,” Rossmoyne said. “Let us return to Rossmoyne House and discuss our next plan of action.”
That he had included her in the statement made Sara feel better.
This time they all made it into the carriage without interruption, and the ride to Rossmoyne House was thankfully uneventful.
By the time they arrived, the carriage carrying Jenny and James and Sara’s belongings was already there. James was standing at the door, looking quite anxious. It was the longest she’d been outside of his protection since he’d been hired by her father, and he didn’t look pleased.
“I’m sure you’ll want to rest,” Rossmoyne said to her without looking at her.
“And what will you be doing, Your Grace?” she asked, her tone prim.
The housekeeper, who had assumed Sara would follow her to the newly appointed room, paused on the step leading to the upper rooms, her gaze flickering to the duke.
Rossmoyne raised a brow at her. “I will be meeting with Mr. Montgomery.”
“Then so shall I. I can rest later.”
“I would not be a gracious host if I insisted that you attend our meeting, my lady.”
“I can assure you, you are the definition of graciousness. However, I feel it important that I be included in your discussions.”
“If I may.” Montgomery stepped forward. “My lady, some of what His Grace and I need to discuss is not fit for sensitive ears. What if we called you down after we are finished and tell you what we discussed?”
Sara hesitated only because Montgomery sounded so reasonable. Of course there would be things that she should not hear, and to insist that she be included was beyond rude, but she didn’t want to be shunted off to her room and treated as if she were a delicate hothouse flower.
She faced Montgomery, sensing that he was the more reasonable of the two men and the more sensitive. “Please,” she said softly. “This is about my cousin, whom I was very close to, and I want to be there. I want to help find her murderer, and if this person who is writing these letters can lead us to the murderer, I want to have a hand in that. I need to have a hand in that, Mr. Montgomery. I assure you I will not faint or have the vapors or do anything else that you fear I will do. Please,” she added.
Chapter 7
Montgomery’s lips thinned, and Sara feared she had quite possibly lost her case.
“Very well,” he said after what seemed like ages.
Inside she smiled. Obviously, these two men were not accustomed to taking a woman’s opinion into consideration, but they had relented, and she understood that for the victory it was.
Or at least Montgomery had relented. Rossmoyne probably wasn’t happy, but she would handle that later. She was surprised by her sudden and unexpected resolve. Normally, she didn’t have the backbone to stand up to strong personalities. Normally, she simply accepted what people said because she didn’t like to argue or upset the balance of things. But this was important, and it made her realize that she’d never really had anything important to fight for until now.
After they quit the entryway and were in Rossmoyne’s study with tea ordered, they spread the letters out on a table that Rossmoyne had cleared. Sara could barely look at them. Even seeing the handwriting made her stomach clench. However, she vowed that she would not show her reaction. She would be as calm and as objective as the men.
Rossmoyne rubbed his clean-shaven chin as he studied the letters. She preferred him clean-shaven but had to admit that the beard had given her a visceral reaction that was both shocking and titillating. With the beard, he had reminded her of his Ferguson ancestors, reputed to have been fierce Scottish Highlanders instrumental in saving hundreds of Scottish lives after the Battle of Culloden. She could picture Rossmoyne in a kilt with his face painted and a broadsword in his hand.
Disturbed by her thoughts, she forced her gaze back to the letters.
Montgomery rubbed the paper between his fingers as if feeling a fine piece of silk. “Not expensive stationery,” he said, almost to himself. “But not the lowest quality, either.”
“He’s educated,” Rossmoyne said. “Or has money to spend.”
Sara had surmised the same about the author’s education. The letters were well written, indicating the writer had at least some higher education.
“Originally, you had determined that Meredith’s murderer was on the tramp.” A wanderer. Just passing through London. An unfortunate thing. Wrong place at the wrong time.
“That’s what we thought,” Montgomery said. “And it could still be true.” He flicked his finger at the letters and paced to the other side of the room. “We cannot jump to the conclusion that this person knows what happened to Lady Meredith. He could very well just be deranged.”
“But why even mention Meredith’s murder?” she asked.
“To get your attention,” Montgomery said.
“Well, it worked.” Sara looked down at the letters and recited them all in her head. The words were burned upon her brain and always would be.
It’s been two years.
I wonder.
Do you remember her? Have you forgotten?
Because I haven’t forgotten.
I remember every single day. Every. Day.
Oh, she remembered. The anniversary date was always the hardest for her family. Her father would lock himself in his workroom and refuse all visitors. Her mother…Sara didn’t know what her mother did on the anniversary of her daughter’s death.
“At first I thought the letters were from you,” Sara said softly, still looking down at them.
There was a long pause in which both men looked at her in shock. “Me?” Rossmoyne asked in disbelief.
Sara shrugged. “You occasionally send us letters asking after our health, asking if we need anything. I know it’s your secretary who writes them.”
“I would never write letters like this,” he said in a choked voice.
“I know that now. I think I had hoped it was you instead of…instead of the other possibility.”
“I’m sorry this is happening to you,” Ross said softly.
Montgomery shifted. Sara had almost forgotten he was there. She silently chastised herself for doing what she had vowed she would not do: become an emotional female. She turned to Montgomery. “Do you have any other ideas what this could be about?”
Montgomery seemed to think about that for a bit as he looked down on t
he letters. “It could be someone who has a grudge against Rossmoyne.”
Rossmoyne made a noise of surprise.
“You have no enemies?” she asked him with a raised brow of disbelief.
“Of course I have enemies, but I doubt they would contact you.”
“And therein lies the problem with that theory,” Montgomery said.
Sara drew in a deep breath and forced herself to walk away from the letters. “So we know he is about average height, wears fashionable but not expensive clothing, and purchases his stationery at any one of a number of businesses.”
There was a long pause as they weighed the clues.
“That’s not much to go on,” said Rossmoyne.
“No,” Sara agreed. “So what do we do now?”
Rossmoyne lifted a brow. “We?”
“Yes, we. You may as well accept that I will be involved in this investigation.”
The door swung open and Rossmoyne’s mother, the duchess, swooped in, effectively halting the direction of their conversation. Her face creased in a smile when she saw her son. “Ross, it’s so good to see you.” She held out her arms to her him.
Sara watched, fascinated, as Rossmoyne hesitated, then gave his mother a stiff hug. The duchess was a beautiful woman in her late forties with titian hair and amber eyes. Rossmoyne had inherited the eyes and a watered-down version of the hair but definitely not her sparkling personality. Sara had met the duchess on two occasions; both times she had been warm and inviting, and Sara had been beyond intimidated. She was chagrined to discover that she was still intimidated.
The duchess pulled away from Rossmoyne and walked over to Montgomery, holding out her hands for him to take. “Sir William, it’s so good to see you again.”
William squeezed the duchess’s hands. “And you as well, Your Grace. You’re looking beautiful, as always.”
She blushed and waved a hand in the air. “Rogue,” she said in a friendly manner. She turned to Sara, and the laughter faded to a serious expression. “And Lady Sara. I was pleased when Ross said you were to stay with us.”
Sara curtsied. “Your Grace. Thank you for having me. I realize my appearance here is sudden.”
Again the duchess waved her hand in the air. “If things had been different, we would be family by now. Your appearance, sudden or not, is wholly welcome. And you are to call me Elizabeth.” She looked at Sara solemnly. “How are you, dear?”
“I am well, thank you.”
Elizabeth tilted her head to the side. “And your mother and father?”
Sara swallowed. The pause was just enough to sharpen Elizabeth’s look. “They are well.” There was no reason to explain that the tragedy of Meredith’s death had rent her parents’ marriage in two and that her mother had fled to Bath, where she still resided two years later.
“Well, now.” Elizabeth clapped her hands together. “Ross told me all about the renovations of your family’s townhouse, and we are more than thrilled to have you as a guest. Everything is proper and right, as it should be.”
Sara shot Rossmoyne a look. He shook his head imperceptibly. So he hadn’t told his mother about the letters.
The duchess turned to Montgomery. “You will stay for dinner tonight.”
Ah, so maybe Rossmoyne had inherited something else from his mother—the ability to command people.
Montgomery dipped his head. “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.”
Rossmoyne stirred. “It seems it’s time to prepare for dinner, then.”
Sara suffered a moment of panic. She had packed most of her wardrobe, but she had no idea what to wear to a small dinner with a duke, a duchess, and a knight. She fervently hoped that was all who would be attending dinner. Surely the duchess would not invite guests on Sara’s first night here.
“No need to dress,” Elizabeth said, as if reading Sara’s mind. “It will be a small, informal dinner. Just us.” She swooped out of the room just as she had swooped in.
Sara drew in a deep breath, relieved that dinner would be an informal affair and that the duchess—Elizabeth—was so welcoming and so willing to go along with the story Rossmoyne had created.
Rossmoyne mumbled something and left as well.
Montgomery looked at Sara. “He’s not all bad,” he said into the sudden silence.
That was not at all what Sara had expected Montgomery to say. She knew of the friendship between the two men and had seen it firsthand today as they had worked together, almost reading each other’s thoughts. “Isn’t he?”
She hadn’t meant to say that. She’d meant to agree with him, as she normally agreed with everyone, but lately, her mind and her mouth hadn’t been cooperating.
“A bit rough around the edges,” Montgomery said. “He just recently returned from India, where he was in some tough situations.”
She raised her brow. “So you’re saying India has made him this way?”
Montgomery turned thoughtful. “No. I would say his fiancée’s death has made him this way.”
Sara looked away at the twinge of guilt and sorrow she felt. “Of course.”
“I don’t say that to make you feel bad. I say that to make you understand. Meredith’s death devastated him.”
“As it did all of us.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve formed a friendship over it,” Sara said.
“At first we didn’t like each other much. I was the enemy. It didn’t help that I had to question his motives and whereabouts that night.”
“No, I’m sure it didn’t.” She was quite positive it had more than chafed Rossmoyne to be questioned. She was certain he’d never been questioned in his life.
“And then he was adamant that he be involved in the investigation. Not unlike you.”
“We are not alike,” she said, sounding a bit more caustic than she would have liked. She and Rossmoyne were definitely not alike. She had compassion and he didn’t. He was abrupt and demanding. She was not. He was a duke, revered by society. Society had probably forgotten all about her. The list could go on, but that was enough to convince her.
“Aren’t you?” Montgomery seemed to bite back a smile.
“No.”
“You’re angry at him.”
She huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “And why would I be angry at the duke?”
Montgomery remained silent for so long that Sara became uncomfortable. The truth was, she was angry at Rossmoyne. She just hadn’t realized it until now.
Chapter 8
The duchess was entertaining, drawing even her reluctant son into the conversation and leaving no one out. The food was superb, served by liveried footmen. Sara couldn’t help but think that this was the life that Meredith had lost. The life she had been born to. She would have made a wonderful duchess.
Sara had never expected that her grief would be so sharp at Rossmoyne House. Everywhere she looked, she imagined Meredith there, in her rightful place beside the duke.
She watched Rossmoyne as he spoke to his mother, and her anger grew. She was surprised by the anger. She’d never once thought Rossmoyne had anything to do with Meredith’s death, even when the public turned its accusing eye on him. She knew how much Rossmoyne had loved Meredith. So where did this anger come from? And why now?
“Sara, dear, you’re about to fall asleep in your pudding.”
Sara yanked her attention to the duchess and tried to stifle a yawn. She was caught unawares by the exhaustion that suddenly overcame her. She supposed chasing a person through the streets of London did that. What a day it had been.
“My apologies,” she said.
“No, dear, my apologies. I should have realized you would be tired.” The duchess stood, and both men hurried to stand as well. “Gentlemen, Lady Sara and I are retiring for the evening.”
They said their good nights, and Sara followed a maid to her room. She stood just inside the door as the maid closed the curtains and turned back the bedcovers. The room was sumptuously decorated, just like
all of Rossmoyne House. Done up in cream and white, it was meant to soothe, and it would have on any other occasion.
Jenny entered and laid out Sara’s nightclothes. Sara didn’t move. In truth, she felt incapable of moving except to wave Jenny away when she tried to unlace her. “Not right now, Jenny.” As tired as she was, she knew that all she would do was stare at the ceiling, while her mind refused to stop its constant whirling.
Jenny puttered about as Sara sat on the edge of the bed and concentrated on breathing. Everything came crashing down on her at once. Every time she closed her eyes, she pictured those letters and the frightening words on them. Every time she entered a room at Rossmoyne House, she pictured Meredith, even though Meredith had never lived here.
Jenny left, quietly closing the door. Even Jenny wasn’t really hers. Jenny had been her mother’s maid first, then her aunt’s, then Meredith’s. Sara had inherited her, but she still loved the only person who was willing to talk to her about her parents. She’d lost them at such a young age that she barely remembered them; they were more like ethereal beings. The people she referred to as her mother and father were more real to her.
Sara stood and stomped across the room, though a lady was never supposed to stomp. She flung open the door and looked up and down the massive, empty hall. She’d been half asleep when she’d followed the maid up here and couldn’t remember which way to go and had no idea where she wanted to go anyway. She just knew she couldn’t stay in this room, in his house, a moment longer.
Where was James? Probably fast asleep in the servants’ quarters, and well he should be. Since coming to London, James had been on constant alert. He deserved a good night’s rest.
She turned right, almost immediately changed her mind, and turned left. For what seemed like forever, she roamed one hall after another, all empty, all silent as a tomb, all sumptuously decorated with plush carpets and dark paneling. Who needed so many rooms? Surely Rossmoyne didn’t use them all.
Eventually, she found her way down a set of steps and began to recognize a few landmarks. It was late; the servants had retired well over an hour ago. Sara had always enjoyed the quiet moments. She preferred them, actually. Being alone was soothing to her. Being in a crowd made her heart race and her palms perspire. Her mind never worked as quickly when she was forced to converse with strangers, or even people she knew but wasn’t around often. She hated that she was like that. Her mother used to force her to socialize, believing that the more she practiced, the less anxious she would be. But her anxiety didn’t work that way. She could not move beyond the real fear that stole her tongue. Meredith, who’d reveled in being at the center of any crowd, had tried to understand, and had shielded Sara from the worst of it, but even she couldn’t protect Sara forever.
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