She had a thought. “Did you time your entrance to coincide with the waltz, my lord?”
“Merely a happy coincidence, Gemma,” he said, letting her name melt off his tongue, a deliberate intimacy after the “Miss Lancaster” of earlier. The sweet strains of the strings began, and he swept her into a graceful arc. Colors and light swirled as they spun through the crowd on the dance floor.
Her pulse tripped as the warmth of his hand seeped through the gossamer fabric of her dress. She wanted more. She wished they were alone so he could pull her closer, maybe even kiss her the way he had done after they’d made their deal. She blushed at the memory—and at the urge to repeat it.
Where had these thoughts come from? She had always had a fair appreciation of the male form. But this visceral ache, this need to be closer, ever closer was new and unfamiliar. Scary. But a little invigorating, too, if she were honest with herself. Her fingers dug into the soft fabric covering his broad shoulder.
Then she realized what it was. It was the waltz. She’d always heard it could inflame the senses and cloud logic. That is was sensual and dangerous. She’d laughed the warnings off. The waltzes she had danced before had all been staid, awkward affairs in which she’d been stuck with her partner for half hours at a time. But now she realized why the highest sticklers criticized the dance and restricted who could partake in it.
“Where are your thoughts?” he asked.
Her blush deepened. She hoped he would attribute it to their exertions on the dance floor. “I was simply thinking how much I enjoy the waltz.”
“With the right partner it can be very…stimulating,” he murmured, and she sucked in a breath.
Was he reading her mind?
“And how many times have you danced it with the right partner?” she returned.
His smoldering gaze held hers a moment before he said, “You told me attending balls is your favorite thing about being in London. Were you being truthful?”
She was confused for a brief second by the question before remembering the conversation. She laughed. “Oh, heavens no. The only way I survive them is by hiding behind the protective wall of the puffins.”
“The puffins?”
“How I think of Roz’s admirers,” she said. She thought about the question. “I do enjoy watching society at these parties. I only wish I did not have to be a part of it.”
“An observer of human nature,” he mused.
“As are you, my lord,” she said. “You do not see only what you are looking for. You see who people are. You saw through my ruse, after all.”
“It was obvious to the most casual observer that you were not what you appeared to be.” His grin was arrogant and peeved her a bit, even though she believed his words were meant to flatter her.
“No one else questioned it,” she reminded him. “What gave it away?”
“Your eyes,” he said. “You could never keep the humor from your eyes.”
…
“Oh, do not fret, Lucas.” Beatrice smiled over her breakfast, a ray of sunshine on the dreary morning. “I will not embarrass you.”
Since he’d come to London, Lucas had enjoyed the routine he and his sister had fallen into, sharing their morning meal, but he was not in the mood to indulge her today. He and Gemma had searched Conway’s house for any sign of extortion and had found none. To say he was frustrated with the lack of progress was an understatement.
But the night hadn’t been a complete waste. He thought about Gemma’s face when they’d waltzed, and the way her body had moved with his. He’d wanted to pull her hips flush with his, to bend and kiss that happy, mischievous smile from her lips.
He usually was able to show more restraint, even if it was just in his own thoughts.
That damn waltz.
That’s what it was. It tested every gentleman’s self control. He’d been able to hold her, but not properly. Not the way he really wanted to. The hum of arousal that thrummed along his nerves had been constant for the rest of the evening.
“There is no need for you to meet her,” Lucas said, knowing he was going to lose the battle but refusing to surrender without a fight.
“Of course there is,” Beatrice said, his stern tone not diminishing the glow on her face at all. He should not be surprised. He had never been able to intimidate her. “The ton will talk if I appear to ignore your fiancée, Lucas. Think about the stories that would cause.”
She was right. But he did not want to waste a day on something he viewed as frivolous. Introducing the two women would not help solve the case, and would only serve to complicate matters further. Suppose Beatrice developed a genuine attachment to Gemma? Suppose this whole matter became too…believable?
“I am forever grateful that you are taking care of my problem, please believe me. But you do not need to treat me like a child,” she said. “What do you think is going to happen during a daytime tea? If we are not introduced it will be much more of a spectacle.”
The engagement was meant to lessen the talk, not add to it. Lucas sighed. “All right. I shall arrange it.”
“Wonderful.” Beatrice clapped her hands in victory. “What is she like, Lucas? I cannot believe you two have hatched this scheme. It will be dreadful when she has to call off. The gossips will be merciless.”
He refrained from pointing out that he was doing all of it for her, and instead answered the original question. How to describe Gemma? She was fire and light. She was smart and had a sharp humor he admired. She was courageous enough to face down a potential murderer, but shy around society. She was a riddle at times and an open book at others. In short, she was Gemma.
But to the question of what she was like? To tell another how he saw her and how she affected him?
“She is stubborn,” he muttered.
She giggled at him. “Well, then you two have much in common. That is also your defining trait.”
Lucas growled his displeasure at the comment, but she just laughed it away.
“Mr. Harrington is coming this morning to meet with you, yes?” Beatrice asked after a moment.
“Hmm,” he affirmed, glancing at his pocket watch. “He is enthusiastic about the investigation.”
Lucas himself was hopeful about young Harrington’s help on the case. He was the fourth son of a viscount. His family had thought him destined for the clergy, but he had shown little desire for it. That same family had not been pleased when, in their eyes, Harrington had lowered himself to take a position as a steward.
But Lucas had been impressed with the man’s cool-headed temperament and intelligence from the start. It had been with some reluctance that he’d called Harrington down to London to join the case—as he hadn’t wanted to pull him away from the estate—but he knew the fresh pair of eyes could prove invaluable to their search.
Now he just had to finesse it without bringing utter humiliation to his sister, who was currently gnawing at her lower lip.
“He is a rather dull fellow, if I remember correctly,” she said. “Very interested in mathematics and farming techniques.”
Lucas thought about Harrington, and privately agreed with Bea’s assessment. The man of affairs was a gentleman of average height and average looks. He did not seem to anger easily, nor laugh easily. He was quiet-tempered and staid. The perfect man of affairs. But Beatrice remained worried, he could tell.
“You may sit in, Bea,” he told her, and she immediately brightened. “I told you I would not reveal your secret.”
Before she could respond, the door swung open and admitted his butler. “A Mr. Harrington is in your study, sir. I informed him you were unavailable, but he said he would wait.”
“Ah, good man.” Lucas pushed back away from the table. “His timing could not be better.”
He headed out of the room with Beatrice close at his heels.
Harrington turned from his position in front of the bookcase when Lucas swung into the study. His serious, brown eyes darted from Lucas to Beatrice as she crossed th
e threshold behind him. They widened slightly at her presence, but he showed no other outward emotion.
They exchanged a few pleasantries before settling in at Lucas’s desk. He steepled his fingers to peer at Harrington over them.
“We are trying to find a man,” Lucas started. Harrington’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced at Beatrice. Lucas laughed. “Rest easy. We have not brought you all this way to help us marry off Beatrice.” His sister blushed, and Harrington’s lips pulled back in a ghost of a smile.
“I would not imagine you would need my help in that matter,” Harrington said, and Beatrice’s color deepened at the implied compliment.
Lucas smiled. “No, indeed. We are looking for a murderer,” he said, and found himself amused that he was uttering the same words he had found so melodramatic and alarming from Gemma only a few nights earlier. There was really no other way to put it, he thought. To keep Beatrice mostly out of the story, Lucas had decided to focus only on Nigel’s murder, hoping that if Harrington could help him find the perpetrator of that deed, he would identify the blackmailer as well.
Lucas quickly filled Harrington in on what details they knew, but realized there were not many. “I keep returning to the pocket watch,” Lucas finally said
Harrington regarded him for a few moments and then asked, “Why would the villain take it? Why would he risk that one indiscretion? If he had wanted to make it seem a robbery, then he would have taken everything. If he had wanted it to seem an affair gone wrong he would have taken nothing. But he took the watch.”
“Perhaps he could not help himself for some reason,” Beatrice chimed in. Harrington glanced at her with approval.
“A collector,” Harrington said, finishing the thought Beatrice had begun. “This could prove to be a worthwhile path to investigate, my lord.”
“It seems to have potential,” Lucas conceded. He felt a flutter of excitement at the possibility that they had a lead for Harrington to follow already. He glanced at the clock on the mantle. “If you will excuse us, however, we have a call to make.”
…
Gemma scolded herself for her nervousness as she paced the room. There was no logical reason to feel this way. She did not have to actually impress Beatrice. The girl knew their engagement was false.
And yet she had taken care to wear one of her new day dresses, an aquamarine muslin that brought out the copper in her hair, or so Roz had said. It brushed against the carpet as she paced the room. Her aunt glanced up as she made a pass by her writing desk.
“Dear heart, you are giving me a headache. Please sit down,” she finally said.
Gemma grimaced at her and took a seat, only to shoot up when she heard a carriage in the streets. She rushed to the window to peer out. It was Lucas. Roz looked to her for confirmation and, when Gemma nodded wordlessly, went to arrange herself on the delicate sofa for their guests. Gemma joined her, clasping her trembling fingers together so they did not give her away.
Roz patted her arm. “It’s only his younger sister.”
“I want to make a good impression,” she answered, though she did not understand why. Roz’s eyes narrowed in a concerned look before resuming a polite expression as the door opened.
Gemma rose to her feet to greet the pair as Beatrice breezed into the room.
She was the sun if Gemma had ever seen it. She had white-gold hair, cut short in ringlets that bounced happily around her face. Few with her coloring could have worn her bright buttercup-yellow muslin without looking sallow, but on her, the color glowed. Lucas was a dark storm cloud behind her, dressed in shades of gray and white. He looked quite menacing next to his sister.
Beatrice walked straight to her, clasping both of Gemma’s hands in hers. “It is so nice to meet you, Miss Lancaster,” she said, without waiting for the proper niceties. “I cannot thank you enough for what you are doing to help me.”
Gemma’s nerves could not hold out against the genuine warmth emanating from her. The difference between the siblings was stark. But they had the same emerald eyes, Gemma noticed, and the same intelligence lurking in their depths.
They sat and made small talk until Beatrice stood abruptly. “I must see your gardens,” she announced. “Miss Lancaster, would you care to give me a tour?”
Gemma bit back a smile. A bit too much personality? Stuff and nonsense. This woman was spectacularly fun.
“Of course, but you must call me Gemma,” she said, intertwining their arms.
The rain from the morning had cleared, and the sun had broken through the clouds. Gemma tipped her face back, enjoying the rare occurrence.
“I know you are not doing this for me, but I must thank you again for the help you are providing Lucas with this silly matter,” Beatrice began quietly, as they walked among Roz’s rose bushes.
“I just hope we are able to retrieve your diary before any damage is done,” Gemma said.
“Did Lucas tell you his man of affairs, Mr. George Harrington, will be looking into the matter as well?” Beatrice asked.
“He mentioned he was planning to bring him down from his estate to help,” Gemma said. “I do not know much about it otherwise. Have you met him? Does he appear trustworthy?”
Beatrice tipped her head to the side, thinking. “I have only met him a handful of times. He is new to the position. Lucas says he is quite brilliant.” She paused. “He is rather plain, and his fashion is from at least five years past. And quite unremarkable at that. But there’s something about him. Yes, I think I trust him, though that has landed me in trouble in the past.”
“Appearance is rarely an indicator of what lies beneath,” Gemma commented. “And I’m sure you have learned quite a bit from your past mistakes.”
They strolled in silence for a moment. “You must think me so foolish.” Beatrice sighed. “I know Lucas told you enough of what happened for you to think so.”
“I do not find you foolish at all.” Gemma stopped walking. “I find you extremely intelligent and delightful, although I’m sure many in our society have made you feel otherwise because you are beautiful.”
Beatrice blinked at her, surprised. “You are not what I expected,” she finally said. “Yes, I am often treated as if I have only clouds between my ears. I have yet to find a gentleman who will actually listen to anything I say.”
“The man from your diary did not?” Gemma asked, knowing she was prying to a shameful degree but unable to stop herself.
Beatrice pulled her into step again, their soft slippers sinking into the damp grass. “He made me feel small, as though he was the only one who could love me. I was all wrapped up in him. He told me I was pretty all the time, and never once listened when I talked. It was destructive, but beguiling.” She glanced at Gemma. “One doesn’t believe oneself capable of being caught in such a situation. Perhaps you would never be, but I was. And I did not realize it until it was too late.”
“It can be destructive,” Gemma said. “Love, that is.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But it wasn’t love that we were in. I realized that too late, as well. Thank heavens for Lucas, though. He pulled me out of my despair last year. He helped me hide my disastrous choices and recover from a bruised heart. He has always been there for me. I want nothing more for him than to find his own happiness now.”
Beatrice stopped, watching Gemma expectantly with raised brows.
“Yes, he deserves to be happy,” Gemma said, unsure of what Beatrice wanted.
Beatrice huffed out a little annoyed breath. “Please do not hurt him,” she said. “He seems strong and unemotional all the time, but he’s had a lot of responsibility in his life. Our parents did not exactly lavish us with affection. And while I had him to protect me, he had no one. All I am saying is to be careful with his heart.”
Gemma was stunned. “I do not have the power to hurt him. We have only just met.”
Beatrice smiled sadly.
“Please do not disappoint me,” she said before turning toward a particularly beautifu
l lilac tree. “Tell me about this side of the garden.”
Chapter Five
Gemma hid a grimace when Mr. Collin Peterson’s foot landed directly on her toes once again. The man was lovely, in a non-descript way, but she deeply regretted her decision to dance with him, as she did not think she’d be able to walk again. She attempted to concentrate on what he was saying instead of the pain radiating up her leg.
“And once I had heard of our shared interest in the Egyptian civilization, I knew I must seek you out, Miss Lancaster,” Mr. Peterson said as he spun her around the floor. Gemma sent an apologetic smile to the pair they’d almost barreled into before she was swept in another direction.
“Mmm,” she managed, most of her attention focused on staying upright, avoiding broken bones, and directing them out of the way of the other couples.
“Have you been to the British Museum to see the Rosetta Stone? It is quite fascinating,” he said, charging forward on their problematic path. “I think you would find it very thought-provoking.”
“Indeed,” she choked as they came perilously close to a manservant with a tray full of lemonade. She breathed a sigh of relief as the music drifted to an end.
“Invigorating,” Mr. Peterson proclaimed, with a little bow of his head. She curtseyed and tried not to limp off the floor. He patted her arm as he led her to a quiet corner. The ball was not quite a crush, though Lord Perry’s wealth demanded a turnout of some sort. It was the third event she and Lucas had dropped in on that week, and she felt she was becoming an expert on the attendance of society’s affairs. Anyone at the center of a scandal would garner a large crowd. Money also brought guests out of the woodwork. If the hosts had both, theirs would be one of the best-attended parties of the season.
Lord Perry’s status brought out a few high-fliers, but mostly men like Mr. Peterson. Of medium height and brown hair, Peterson was one of those that could easily fade into the background of any large gathering. He was pleasant enough to chat with the dowagers or dance with the wallflowers, which tended to garner him seat-filler invitations to events out of his social league.
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