An Inconvenient Wife

by Caroline Kimberly

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Brandy perhaps?” Lady Eleanor asked.

  Conroy nodded. “Kettle’ll accompany you. The butler is as good a place to start as any.”

  Lady Eleanor swept from the room as regal as ever, the Bow Street Runner on her heels. Conroy turned to Kyra and grinned. “You look a lot different in that fancy dress than you do in breeches. Almost didn’t recognize you.” He tapped the side of his nose, and looked around the room. “So, you married him, did you, girlie? Good for you.”

  “Perhaps not, Mr. Conroy,” Kyra said acerbically. “Considering.”

  “I imagine Grif’s servants are a loyal lot,” Conroy said without a trace of malice. “Once yer mother-in-law lets that poker-faced molly butler of yers know what to say, it’ll spread through the household like wildfire.”

  Kyra shrugged, nonplussed. “As I said, the servants will confirm what we’ve already told you.”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt they will,” the mountain of a man said as he wandered around the room, casually studying the furnishings. “So, did he do it?”

  “Did he kill Brumley?” Kyra thought about that for a long moment. “No,” she said, honestly. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Conroy studied her, his gaze much sharper than she remembered. “You mean that, don’t you?” At her nod, he grunted. “Aye, I don’t either.”

  “If that’s the case, Mr. Conroy, why are you hunting him?” Kyra asked.

  It was Conroy’s turn to shrug. “I wanted to make sure this was done right.” At her bemused expression, he grinned. “You ain’t the first job Grif and I worked together, girlie. He’s a decent man. I didn’t want to see him go to the noose fer something he didn’t do. Least I think he didn’t. Though we both know he’s capable of it.”

  “Mr. Conroy,” she said slowly, “if Grif didn’t kill Brumley, who did? For that matter, how was Brumley even released?”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “Good questions. Which is why I’m here. I want to make sure they get answered proper.”

  “I can give you the name of Grif’s solicitor,” Kyra said helplessly, feeling rather wrung out from the past two days. “He may know where to find Grif. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.”

  Conroy shrugged again. “I’ve already been to Mr. Duprey’s office,” he said, naming Grif’s man of business. “The man knows as much as you do. But I got a pretty good idea as to where he is.”

  She tried, and clearly failed, to smother the spark of interest that registered on her face. Conroy, who was not a slow man after all, chuckled. “He really does keep you in the dark, then.”

  Kyra shot him the frostiest glare she could muster.

  “Yer quite good at playing lady of the manor,” Conroy said, winking at her. “But I seen yer skinny hide in breeches, girlie. You don’t cow me.”

  “So, Mr. Conroy,” she said acidly, “enlighten me. Pray tell where my husband has absconded.”

  “Kent,” he said simply.

  “Kent?” Kyra repeated. “Why Kent?”

  “‘Cos that’s prime smuggling territory,” Conroy stated.

  “Are you telling me that my husband, the earl of Griffin, is a...a...smuggler?” Kyra asked, not nearly as surprised as she ought to be. Really, she should be thankful it wasn’t something worse, though how it could be was quite beyond her.

  “I’m just telling you your husband is likely found in Kent at this time of the year.” Conroy shook his big head. “That blond bloke, Hart, knows Grif’s business better’n I do. Ask him for the details.”

  “I believe I will.”

  Kyra exhaled and sat down, weary to her bones. She mulled over her latest discovery for a few moments, until she was certain of what to do next. “Mr. Conroy,” she began, “I’ve heard the Runners sometimes...consult for private individuals.”

  At his bemused expression, she blurted out, “Might I hire you for a side job?” He started to protest, but she held up her hand. “It’s nothing that would interfere with your investigation. In fact, I believe it might be relevant to Brumley’s murder.”

  “I’m listening,” he said, suddenly very attentive.

  “I’d like you to look into Edmund Ashford.”

  “Grif’s uncle,” Conroy said, chewing it over. “What would you like to know?”

  “Everything,” Kyra said. “I want to know everything.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Six Weeks Later

  Kyra surveyed the marquess of Fletcher’s overfull ballroom and sighed. The marchioness was famous, or rather infamous, for her masquerades and tonight was likely no exception. Masks were compulsory. No one was announced, of course, to heighten the mystery and to protect the innocent—or the guilty. Kyra could feel the excitement thrumming through the cramped room of revelers who were more than happy to drop their inhibitions and their morals for a few hours free from society’s mores.

  At her side, a masked highwayman groaned. He looked exquisite, if she did say so herself. His stark white shirt and black breeches were offset by a short black cape and polished black boots. A black mask hid the top half of his face. He removed his tricorn hat, scratching at the scrap of silk Kyra had made him tie around his head to hide his thick blond locks. “Gads, I hate these things,” he muttered.

  Kyra smiled sweetly. “You look delicious, darling.”

  Thomas scowled at her when she removed her cloak. He looked her over from head to toe. “And you look a little too bare.”

  Kyra felt too bare, in truth. Her toga-inspired gown was a gorgeous shade of lilac, trimmed with a violet ribbon that wrapped around her just below her shoulders and snaked asymmetrically down around her waist to her knee. The whole thing was shot through with silver threads, which shimmered like moonlight in the dim candlelight of the ballroom. Maggie had powdered her hair a dramatic silver and had piled it high on her head, leaving a few suggestive tendrils to snake down her neck to her breast. The finishing touches were gorgeous silver sandals and a silver and diamond diadem.

  She looked down at her almost ample bosom—one of the perks of pregnancy—and smirked. “Of course I’m too bare, Thomas. I’m Hera, queen of the gods.” She fluttered her fan of peacock feathers at him. “You’re lucky I’m wearing anything at all.”

  Thomas snorted. “I am going to kill your husband for this.”

  She gave him a saucy smile and resettled her silver half mask in place. “Consider it penance.”

  Annabelle joined them, dressed exquisitely as Psyche, goddess of the soul. She wore an eye-catching sea-green toga trimmed in silver. Not as daring as her sister-in-law, Annabelle had chosen to cleverly cover her arms with two long pieces of green fabric pinned at each shoulder. She wore silver sandals and a silver headband to anchor her gorgeous curls, which she had wisely chosen to color with lavender powder. Her silk fan was adorned with an expertly painted butterfly image. Her mask, too, was shaped as a butterfly and fringed with black feathers.

  Thomas took one look at Grif’s sister and then glowered at Grif’s wife. “You’re corrupting Annabelle too?”

  “Hardly.” Kyra sniffed. “The goddess costumes were her idea.”

  Annabelle chuckled. “Good evening, Thomas,” she said sweetly. “You look quite dashing.”

  Thomas scratched his head again. “Grif will kill me if he finds out I’ve brought you two here.” He gestured impatiently at them. “Especially dressed like...that.”

  “I thought you were going to kill Grif,” Kyra said pertly.

  “It will be a double homicide,” Thomas muttered, flopping his hat back on his head. “All right, ladies,” he said, eyeing the goddesses in front of him. “Let’s get this over and done. Stay together and do not leave the ballroom.”

  Annabelle immediately went her own way, recognizing one of a dozen Cleop
atras as her bosom friend Mrs. Leticia Dalton. Thomas sighed. Kyra badgered a passing footman into fetching her a glass of lemonade and arched a brow at her escort. “So, Highwayman, are you going to dance with me tonight?”

  “Not when you’re practically naked,” he said, becoming even more surly.

  “It’s not like my husband is here to object,” she mocked, sipping the sweet drink. At his stony silence, she shrugged again. “You’ve become something of a bore.”

  “And you’ve become a bitter little fishwife,” Thomas shot back.

  Kyra ignored the truth of his statement and shrugged a naked shoulder nonchalantly, the gesture drawing admiring stares from the nearby gentlemen. She smiled coyly at a couple of them but bit her lip, pouting inwardly.

  She was bitter, she reflected. Bitter and numb. It was quite likely that nothing could really affect her anymore. Grif had been gone well over a month, a few days shy of six weeks if one were keeping count, with no letter, no messenger, no communication whatsoever. Right now, she really had no idea whether he was even alive. The gut-wrenching fear and overwhelming heartbreak that had consumed her for the first weeks after he left had slowly burned down to mere embers. Now, she was just empty. And lonely.

  The fact that most of polite society had cast her off was merely a trifle. In truth, she’d expected as much after Brumley’s death and Grif’s disappearance. That the earl appeared to have fled in the face of murder charges stigmatized his whole family. It was only due to Lady Eleanor’s spotless reputation and to Charles and Patricia, who were so well connected, that Kyra was still welcome at the larger events, though the house visits and teas and dinner parties that made up the daily life of the ton were no longer open to her. Annabelle, too, was beginning to feeling the chill of Kyra’s social ruin due to her close association with her sister-in-law. Unfortunately, Annabelle’s husband, Graham, was still abroad, which only made it easier to ostracize the earl’s younger sister.

  Kyra had no doubt that Lady Fletcher would have cut her from tonight’s list if there had been the opportunity to do so. Unfortunately for Lady Fletcher, the invitations had been issued long before Grif took off, so she was able to darken their door with her presence.

  Knowing that she was persona non grata kept Kyra on her best behavior. She made sure her manners and conduct were impeccable, and anyone who eyed her with dislike she treated as nothing more than vermin, as though she were above it all. Still, it grated.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, Kyra vowed, she was going to have fun. Even if it killed Thomas. Tonight she was going to dance and flirt and laugh. She might not be able to conquer the emptiness in her heart, but she could fix loneliness. Not that she intended to cuckold her husband. That was not fathomable to her. However, a harmless flirtation or two might make the empty feeling subside for a while. Besides, she didn’t plan on being here when the masks came off, so what matter how she spent her evening?

  A tall, nicely muscled rake she recognized as one Mr. Horatio Pitt passed by, smiling suggestively at her. He was dressed as Julius Caesar, probably to show off his lovely physique. Not far from her stood handsome young master Roland Diggs, dressed as Harlequin, who was laughing gaily and eyeing her surreptitiously. Either man would do just fine. So would the lovely highwayman in front of her, she reasoned, if he could manage to get over his unreasonable indignation.

  “My husband charged you with my keeping, darling,” she said with a tight smile. “If you’re not going to entertain me, perhaps you could watch over me farther away from my person.”

  Thomas just snorted. She waved imperiously at him. “Dance with me or go away. You’re scaring off my quarry.”

  Thomas glared at her from behind his mask. “You’d be much more appealing if you weren’t nursing a grudge against the world, Kay.”

  “My grudge isn’t with the world, Thomas,” Kyra said lightly. “It’s with my husband. And with you.”

  “Are you really going to do this, you little fool?” he asked.

  “Just what is it that you think I’m doing?” Kyra retorted, sending her most alluring smile toward Mr. Pitt. The young man’s eyes twinkled and he immediately cut himself from the small group of ladies he was regaling. “Since my escort isn’t willing to attend me, I’m merely smiling at a handsome young man in the hope that he offers me a dance.”

  “I know Grif has hurt you, Kay,” Thomas said softly, grabbing her arm, “but this will not make you happy.”

  “Happy?” Kyra laughed derisively, patting his hand. She looked at Harlequin and bit her lip, raising her eyebrow. The boy immediately began making his excuses to his party. “I’m not looking to be happy, Thomas. I just want a little diversion. Something to help me temporarily forget the empty cesspool my life has become.”

  Thomas sighed and let her go. “Playing with schoolboys is beneath you. Just promise me you won’t do anything I’ll regret later.”

  “I promise I won’t do anything that young married women aren’t supposed to do once they’ve been cast aside by their spouses,” Kyra teased. She gave Thomas a flirtatious smile and said suggestively, “I wouldn’t have to play with schoolboys if you would play.”

  Thomas eyed the two young men doggedly working their way to Hera’s side. In answer, he said, “No man wants to be with a woman who’s in love with another man.”

  Kyra looked at him, a tight smile playing across her lips. “Care to bet on that, Highwayman? Because I think you’ll find the odds are not in your favor.”

  “I said man, Kyra,” Thomas said. “Boys aren’t as exacting.”

  Kyra ignored the sting of that. Harlequin made it to her side first. Kyra curtsied, just low enough to give him an adequate view of her cleavage. As she’d anticipated, the young man seemed rather poleaxed. Caesar, who happened to arrive at that moment, capitalized on his competition’s lapse and asked her to dance.

  Shooting Thomas a pert look, she allowed the young emperor to lead her into the next set. And for the next several hours, Hera, queen of the gods, ruled gloriously over the mere mortals attending Lady Fletcher’s masquerade.

  * * *

  Grif watched Kyra from the shadows and tamped down the urge to simply drag from the ball. He appeared to be one of only two men immune to Hera’s considerable charms. The other was Thomas, who thankfully intervened whenever any particular suitor got a bit too cozy with Hera. He never managed to whisk her away completely, however. As soon as one suitor was dislodged another appeared to earn the goddess’s favors. It didn’t help that droves of ladies kept vying for Thomas’s attention every time Kyra eluded him.

  Grif pulled his domino around him more tightly and adjusted his mask. Being here was a foolish risk...he was still wanted for Brumley’s murder. If he were caught, he’d stand no chance of clearing himself. Yet he couldn’t stay away any longer.

  It was a unique brand of torture to witness the goddess—his goddess—dance and flirt and laugh with eager consorts all night. It didn’t bother him that she so adeptly charmed every single man who crossed her path. He expected that. What bothered him was that she seemed to do so with a vengeance that bordered on desperation. It hurt his teeth to watch.

  He’d ridden hard these last two days to be with her. Six long weeks away had made him realize that he didn’t want to live without her. He would swallow his damnable pride and tell her everything. He would throw himself prostrate at her feet if need be.

  Grif glowered at his wife as Thomas once again dragged her away from another overly eager suitor. This one was dressed as the Emperor Constantine. Before the highwayman was done cutting the rebuked emperor, Julius Caesar reappeared and Hera was off again. Realizing what had happened, Thomas threw up his hands in disgust. If this was the way Kay had been acting in his absence, Grif realized, he owed Thomas more than he initially thought. Much more, he noted, as his wife leaned suggestively toward the
young Roman.

  He beckoned Thomas, who’d caught sight of him at last. Thomas made his way across the crowded ballroom to the side of the room where Grif stood. He leaned against the wall and said wearily, “Thank the gods. Mighty Zeus has returned to reclaim his errant wife.”

  Grif’s lips twitched. “Having fun?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to peel a drunken emperor off of a vengeful goddess?” He looked at Grif for a long moment. “You have quite a mess to clean up,” Thomas told him.

  “How bad?” Grif asked.

  Thomas shrugged. “You’ve pretty well destroyed her. She said tonight was a diversion. This is the first time she’s allowed such reckless behavior, but I fear it won’t be long before she lets things go beyond simple flirtation. Not unless you do something.”

  Grif nodded. Then he cursed. “Caesar appears to be leading my goddess out onto the veranda. Isn’t there a yew maze outside?”

  Thomas nodded and clapped him on the back. “Glad you’re back. I’ll go round up Psyche and go home.”

  Grif paused. “Psyche?”

  “Annabelle,” Thomas stated blithely.

  “Wonderful.” Grif sighed, starting toward the veranda. He called back to his friend, “I owe you for this.”

  “Yes, you do,” Thomas agreed, taking off in the opposite direction.

  By the time he’d gotten onto the veranda, he’d lost sight of them. Grif swore and looked around. There were dozens of places a young emperor could lure an inamorata. His stomach clenched. Was Kay really so angry with him that she might let some young buck take liberties with her? Was she already kissing him?

  Would she be unfaithful? he wondered.

  A loud smack, followed by an audible oomph, caught his attention. Grif exhaled, feeling a little less tense, and trotted toward the small grove where the sound had emanated. Unless he missed his guess, Kyra was not quite through with him. His relief was palpable.

  Closer to the grove he heard a muffled kick—this time followed by a rather nasty curse word—signaling their hiding spot. Before he could get there, however, he saw a very angry Hera storming out. Her toga was slightly askance, revealing a little more cleavage than it had previously. Young Caesar came out next, rubbing his shin and trying to placate her.