“I do not care,” she proclaimed, and she meant it. He would protect her wherever he took her, of that she was certain. And she wanted desperately to help with the case again. She had finally been useful the other day. She wanted to feel that way again. Especially since it was her fault they were in the predicament.
They both turned to Lucas, who was leaned fully back in his chair. He watched them over steepled fingers.
“I have promised Gemma a drive in the park to keep her informed of our status,” he said. “So I will not be available to provide any further information Harrington might need in the course of his questioning. It might be useful for you to go along, Bea.”
She was afraid if she thanked him she would give him time to change his mind. Instead, she shot Mr. Harrington a victorious look and rushed to the door. She’d need only a few minutes to prepare for the outing. He wouldn’t have time to leave without her.
…
Lucas tamped down his frustration at the pace of the curricle in front of theirs. He and Gemma had arrived in Hyde Park just before the truly fashionable hour, but the drive was still packed with vehicles and single riders making their social rounds for the day. Hyde Park in the afternoon was the place to see and be seen, and any desire to give his horses their heads had to be curbed.
He concentrated on the woman beside him instead of the urge to pummel the driver in front of them. She had her face tipped up to the sun to welcome its rays, a position he had noticed she often adopted while out of doors.
He realized it made him happy to see her happy. He caught his hand as it went to reach for her, remembering at the last minute that they were in public.
“Harrington and Beatrice went off to interview a few of Harrington’s older acquaintances and a jeweler or two,” he said after filling her in on the morning.
“They will be successful,” she predicted optimistically.
Lucas smirked. “You can be so sure?”
Her eyes snapped to his. “I can be. Beatrice is so very curious and smart. And Mr. Harrington seems quite competent, from what you have told me. What is he like?”
Lucas thought about it. He knew part of the question came from her anxiety over the investigation. He wondered where the other part came from. He tried to reassure her on the first front. “He is perceptive.”
Gemma nodded, but clearly she wanted more. “What is he like, though?” she asked. “Is he humorous, is he serious? What does he look like? Is he a handsome young man?”
Lucas took his eyes off the drive and narrowed them in her direction. “What are you about?”
She nibbled on a delectable lip and cast a sidelong glance his way. “Well, Beatrice is a lovely young woman,” she said finally. “They are being placed in a situation with high tensions. It would be natural for them to form a…” She trailed off, searching for the right word but not quite finding it. He followed her train of thought, and his hands tightened on the reins. His horses protested, and of course Gemma noticed. “Do you oppose the thought because he is your man of affairs?”
He clenched his jaw. “I am not a snob.”
“I did not say you were one,” she soothed. “Simply that it may not be looked upon as the most suitable match for your sister, even though he is the son of a gentleman.”
“The fourth son,” he bit off. Though he had been truthful—he was not a snob—he also knew his sister would not be happy in a life of poverty. It might seem romantic at first, but it would destroy her light soul. He would never want to see that for her. But Harrington was not impoverished. He wore old clothes, but it seemed to Lucas to be more of a deplorable lack of fashion sense than because of his fortune or lack thereof. Lucas, himself, paid very well, and Beatrice would bring a considerable dowry into any match she made. And Harrington’s father was a viscount.
“They have met only a handful of times,” Lucas said, wondering how she’d even made him think of it. “They have shown no partiality toward each other.”
“That you have noticed,” Gemma replied tartly.
He opened his mouth to form a retort, but at that moment, a young, redheaded gentleman stopped alongside their curricle.
“Mr. Tidwell,” Gemma cried out. “How lovely to see you this afternoon.”
Mr. Tidwell beamed jovially back at Gemma. “Good day to you, Miss Lancaster.” He eyed Lucas. “Winchester. Fine horses you have here. Very fine, very fine.”
Lucas smirked. The young pup was nervous. Tidwell immediately directed his attention back to Gemma, engaging her in a lively debate about the latest Travel Society fellow to present a lecture. Gemma had missed it, she informed the lad, but she had read his works and found them stimulating.
“You simply must try to attend Lady Underwood’s salon next week,” Tidwell said earnestly. “Jones will be there, along with many of the members of the society.”
“Oh, that sounds ever so delightful,” Gemma said, clasping hands to bosom. “I shall endeavor to attend.”
“I look forward to that greatly.” Tidwell touched his whip to the brim of his hat and rode off with barely a nod to Lucas.
“You have an admirer,” he commented as Tidwell faded into the throng of horses and conveyances.
“Pish posh.” Gemma swatted his arm. “He is a nice young man, but barely out of the schoolroom.” She laughed at that. “Anyway, I am not some great beauty. I am hardly one to collect suitors.”
She said it lightly, but he could tell she believed it. “You are, though, my dear. A great beauty,” he said. This time he let himself brush fingers over her knee. Just a quick, comforting gesture to make sure she knew he wasn’t teasing. They locked eyes for a brief moment, before he returned his to the path.
“Well…” She cleared her throat. “It will be interesting to hear about Beatrice’s day. Shall we await for them in your drawing room?”
“Yes,” he said. “But you should put match-making out of your mind. If not, you should remember why we are in this mess in the first place. Beatrice is convinced no man will have her now, and I cannot reassure her.”
Gemma smiled away the warning. “Ah, but you never know what life will throw at you, my lord. Young love can overcome many obstacles.”
Lucas simply shook his head, then started laughing, which drew many a curious eye to them. He did not care.
…
Beatrice huffed out a frustrated breath as they stepped out of the jeweler’s shop without having made any progress in uncovering the origin of the ring. It was the third one they’d visited that day.
“Research is not quite as elegant and charming as you may have imagined, Lady Beatrice,” Mr. Harrington said, with enough condescension to raise her hackles.
“Yes, and my only pursuit in life is glamour,” she snapped. “I could hardly bear something, no matter how worthwhile, that was not for pure enjoyment and laughter.”
“Prickly,” he commented, with that peculiar half smile of his. She was growing to hate it. She did not know what it was about him that brought out the worst in her. She certainly never snapped at anyone else that way.
Even though she knew she was being childish, she refused to make polite conversation as they walked the distance to the fourth store. She had wanted her silence to speak volumes about her irritation, but he seemed unaffected—if not downright cheery—at her lack of communication. Which only served to make her more irritated.
She couldn’t quite hold on to her ire, though, when the fourth jeweler, after examining the ring, pushed his glasses up on his head and smiled at them. “I know this work.”
Beatrice bit back the exclamation that sprung to her lips. This was not the vague praise they’d received at their previous stops. This might actually be progress. She took her cue from Mr. Harrington, though, and remained quiet.
“My memory is not what it used to be,” the jeweler prompted.
Mr. Harrington simply raised a brow. “I am certain if you try hard, some name will come to mind.”
Beatrice’s glan
ce darted between the two men. They seemed to be in a standoff of sorts. “I believe he wants to be bribed,” she said, out of the corner of her mouth to Mr. Harrington.
Mr. Harrington turned full on toward her. His face was blank for a moment, but she saw humor in his eyes. It made its way to his mouth, and he tipped back his head in a full out roar of laughter. Surprised at the outburst, she actually took a step back; she had not seen him display any emotion in her short acquaintance with him, let alone something as ostentatious as what she had unwittingly provoked.
He took a deep breath a few moments later, wiping moisture from his eye. “You are quite correct, I believe, Lady Beatrice. And you are right that the pretense of it is just a waste of our time.” He pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket and dropped them on the dusty countertop. The shopkeeper swooped them up with a practiced move, tucking them into his work apron.
“Ah yes, ah yes, it is all quite clear now,” he said, as if thinking deeply.
“I thought it might be.” Harrington had returned to his detached, sarcastic persona. It would be a long time, though, before she forgot the image of him almost bent double in laughter—even if he had been having fun at her expense. It was a sight to have seen.
“You want Mr. Adams on Ox Street,” the shopkeeper said. “It is a few blocks over.”
By the time they swung through the door of Mr. Adams’ shop, Beatrice could barely contain her excitement. Some of it dimmed when they came face to face with the shopkeeper, however.
Mr. Adams’ disheveled appearance was a sharp contrast to his pristine shop, Beatrice thought, eyeing him. She wanted to take a discrete step back, but held her ground. She would not show any signs of unease, lest Mr. Harrington send her on her way. She had a feeling he would pounce on any sign of perceived trepidation.
She turned her full attention to Mr. Adams as he examined the ring. He was a crooked old man, probably made so by years spent hunched over, shaping and creating rings and necklaces and other baubles. He had a smell she could not quite place, but wished to avoid. She wondered if it would be rude to breathe through a handkerchief. Even if it wouldn’t, it would earn her a sardonic glance from Mr. Harrington, so she refrained.
Mr. Adams’s clothes seemed to have a layer of dust on them, while the store itself was spotless. She wondered at his life. Mr. Harrington did not seem affected either by the sight or smell of the man. He stood casually against one of the tables, looking around the shop. Was it possible to love and despise someone at the same time? She supposed it was, they were two emotions that shared the same coin. He caught her watching him and graced her with that small half smile again, the one that said he was mocking the world behind his quiet reserve. She turned from him abruptly.
Mr. Adams peered up at them and said, finally and simply, “This is mine.”
She locked eyes in triumph with Mr. Harrington. “Do you remember who commissioned it, sir?”
His heavy, lined face looked up to the ceiling in thought. He seemed to truly be in his memories, however, and not after a bribe.
“It was one of four,” he finally intoned. His deep voice resonated throughout the shop. “They paid handsomely for me to never replicate it again. I did not. Even when a young man came in asking about it.”
Mr. Harrington straightened, a sharp movement in the corner of her eye. “Someone wanted you to create a copy of it?”
“Hmm? Yes, a young man. Quite polite. His father owned the ring. Lost it right before his untimely death. Such a shame. Some of my finer work.” He twisted the ring in the light again.
“Did the young man talk about his father?” Beatrice asked. Even if the story was false, it could provide clues. People tended to interweave truth into lies.
“Hmmm? Ah, just that he was a bit of a rake in his day. Was part of a club. I remembered that part,” he told them proudly. “Can you describe the young man who came in?” Mr. Harrington asked.
“Hmm? Yes, let me see.” Mr. Adams looked skyward. She considered doing the same to ask for patience. “Yellow hair. Walked with a slight limp. A little cockney in there. Not sure where that came from if his Pa was a lord. Which those boys were.”
“Did he look at anything else in the shop?” Beatrice asked.
“Hmm. Now that you mention it, he stopped by the watch case,” Mr. Adams answered with a nod toward the far side of the shop. “He asked the price. Didn’t buy, though.”
Mr. Harrington pulled out a banknote this time and slipped it to Mr. Adams. “For your time, sir.”
“Oh not necessary, not necessary,” Mr. Adams muttered as he tucked the note away. Mr. Harrington gestured for Beatrice to go ahead of him.
“Well, that did not get us far,” Beatrice complained as they stepped out into the small alley. She waved him off before he could make a comment. “I know, it is not all exciting and flashy as, of course, I must think it all is. But we came so close to being useful.”
“I was not disparaging you, Lady Beatrice,” Mr. Harrington said quietly after she finished her rant. “This sort of investigation is tedious and often fruitless. But every time you turn up any information it is helpful and useful. I was offering comfort and reassurance.” He glanced her way, and this time his half smile was self-mocking, she could tell. “I do not appear to be very good at it, though, do I?”
Before she could reply, there was a rumble at the far end of the alley. She turned to see a carriage thundering down on them, with no apparent intent to stop. Beatrice froze as the hooves on stone grew perilously close. She felt a tug on her arm and let herself be jerked out of the way as the horses roared by. She found her back flat up against the brick of one of the buildings. Mr. Harrington had pulled her into an entryway and then proceeded to protect her with his body. If he had not done so, she would have been trampled.
She was breathing fast, as if she’d run very quickly up a hill, but she had not exerted herself one bit, other than to let herself be saved. He lifted his head to look down at her, but he did not pull away. She became aware that their legs were intertwined, that his body was pushed into hers, and that hers was pushed into the wall behind her. The wall did not give at all, and his body barely did. He might look unassuming when viewed from a distance, but when she was pressed against all his sinewy strength, she went weak at the knees. His eyes flicked down to her parted lips, where she still gasped for air far too quickly.
He lifted a hand and traced a thumb over her bottom lip. The movement quieted her breathing. They were so close, she could see all the flecks of color in his eyes. He lowered his head even closer and laid his mouth on hers. She tilted her head and opened her mouth, willingly accepting his probing tongue. Someone moaned as he explored, and she was fearful to admit that it was probably her. Her arms lifted on their own volition to wrap around his neck, her fingers resting on it.
He pulled away after a few moments.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Harrington—no, George, she could not think of him as Mr. Harrington any longer—asked, after studying her face. She dropped her arms back down as if she’d been burned. He stepped away from her, but did not go far. She immediately missed his comforting warmth.
“Thanks to you, I appear to be in one piece,” she said, smoothing shaking hands over her dress. “What a careless driver that coachman was. He could have killed us.”
He turned and looked down the alleyway from where it had come. “I’m not sure careless is the word I would use to describe that incident.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “Are you saying that may have been deliberate?”
“I am saying I would be surprised if it was not,” George said. “Come, let’s get you home.”
…
“Do you think they have discovered anything?” Gemma asked for possibly the fourteenth time. Lucas glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “I know I am being silly. We will just have to wait until they arrive home. They have been gone for some time though.” She took a deep breath. She was babbling. Lucas, on the ot
her hand, was calm and composed. She glared at his back, and considered hurling her teacup at him just to draw out a reaction.
Just as the evil thought flitted into her mind, the door burst open with no warning. Beatrice whirled into the room, a flash of color and noise in the quiet salon. Mr. Harrington trailed behind in her wake, a quiet and understated contrast to her.
“Someone tried to kill us,” Beatrice announced dramatically then melted onto the love seat, clutching at her bosom.
Lucas turned sharply toward them. “What do you mean? Explain yourself.”
Gemma knew in his worry he showed the worst of his arrogant earl self, biting out commands in a way that made him seem devoid of any feeling. But she could see the concern in his eyes. She shifted her focus to his sister, moving over to sit beside her. She placed a gentle arm around her shoulder, feeling a kinship with the girl even though she’d only met her once before.
“Are you all right?” Gemma asked her, glancing toward Mr. Harrington. He was watching Beatrice with an inscrutable expression, until he caught Gemma’s eye. Then he turned toward Lucas.
“We were almost run down by a carriage outside one of the jewelers we visited,” he said gravely.
“We are only alive thanks to the quick actions of Mr. Harrington,” Beatrice exclaimed. “I would not be here now, otherwise. He heard the horses and pulled me out of the way to safety.”
Lucas walked to Harrington, hand outstretched. “My good man, I owe you a great debt, it seems,” he said.
“You owe me nothing,” Harrington said quietly, but took Lucas’s proffered hand.
“Was the carriage out of control?” Gemma asked, pouring a cup of tea for Beatrice, who locked eyes with Harrington across the room.
“We do not believe it was,” Harrington finally answered. “The alley ended on one side, and the carriage was clearly lying in wait for us to exit. It charged us down, not with the reckless abandon of a runaway horse, but with the speed of a directed team. I believe it was deliberate.”
“Is it our killer, my lord?” she asked Lucas.
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