by Cheryl Bolen
“You did not get on with your half brother?”
She shrugged. “James--my half brother--resented that Papa remarried after his James' mother died, and his resentment, I’m afraid, extended to Rebecca and me. My brother and his wife made life quite impossible for my sister and me and, of course, they heartily disapproved of my separation from an English lord.”
So poor Maggie really had nowhere else to turn. “Then I hope you’ll be able to make your home in England.”
“With an honest man!” she added with a laugh.
He stood. “We dine at half past six. Then we’ll go to Drury Lane.”
* * *
Since Harry Lyle might be called upon to watch Maggie when Edward was unable to do so, Edward had invited him to be one of their number tonight. Rounding out their group were Basil Cook, who had been at Cambridge with Edward, and Lord Aynsley, a widower who was a dozen years Edward’s senior. Since Edward’s party was late arriving at the theatre--owing to the fact Miss Peabody (who dressed quite as elegantly as her sister tonight) had misplaced her spectacles--the three gentlemen awaited them in the Warwick box.
Edward introduced Maggie--as the widow of his late uncle--to the three, then said, “I hope you gentlemen can help me ensure Lady Warwick’s first visit to London is agreeable.”
The three men nearly knocked each other over while offering Maggie their services. Edward was rather pleased that Cook and Aynsley sat on either side of her, clearing him from culpability in reports to Fiona. He sat next to Harry in the row behind Maggie.
While Cook and Aynsley vied for the lady’s attention, Harry whispered to Edward, “You bloody, lucky dog.”
Edward raised a brow. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m referring to your houseguest. Why did you not tell me she was a diamond of the first water?"
“Oh, do you think so?”
“Any man who is not blind would think so. Would that I’d drawn your assignment.”
“I tried, old fellow.”
“I will be most happy to keep a watch on the countess when you’re unable to. I never thought filling in for you would be so rewarding a task.”
Rewarding in what way? Surely Harry did not think to make love to her!
The theatre hushed when the curtains opened. Edward tried to concentrate on the production, but he was unable to do so. The elegant neck and bare, lily white shoulders of Maggie, who sat in front of him, drew his attention away from the play, along with the immature antics of Cook and Aynsley, who were acting like a pair of schoolboys. “Are you too cool, my lady? Shall I get your shawl? Is the light too dim for you to read the program? Have you seen “The Tempest” before?” Edward was convinced neither man had absorbed a single word of the drama.
And for her part, Maggie was behaving entirely too charmingly. Did she have to feign such flattered interest in the pair of cads? It was positively provocative the way she lowered those lashes of hers when she spoke to them in that melodious voice.
Edward fumed. He should have known Cook would be the buffoon over Maggie. Because of his rotund appearance it was unlikely he had ever sat this close to such a beauty before. But for Lord Aynsley to make such a cake of himself! Had the man no pride?
By the fourth act, Harry bent his head to Edward and made a whispered declaration. “I believe I’m in love.”
At first Edward thought Harry was referring to something about the play he himself could not get interested in. Then he followed the direction of Harry’s glittering eyes. They never left Maggie.
“She needs a husband,” Edward whispered, “and you, my friend, are certainly in no position to take on the responsibility of a wife and her young sister.”
Harry glowered. “I’ve been putting a little away.”
A moment later, Harry added, “Let me come with you tomorrow when you go to the British Museum.”
“You can’t be spared,” Edward snapped, seething. “You’ll have my work to do now, too.”
“You bloody, lucky dog,” Harry said, a grim set to his mouth.
* * *
On the carriage drive back to the townhouse Edward queried the pair of beauties who sat across from him. “How did you enjoy the play?”
“I’ve never enjoyed anything so much!” Rebecca said. “Thank you ever so much, my lord, for taking us.”
He cocked a brow and met Maggie’s gaze. “And you, Maggie?”
“I adored it,” she said. “It was a most delightful evening, and your friends were exceedingly solicitous of me.”
Rebecca scowled at her sister. “Men are always solicitous of you, Maggie.”
“You shouldn’t say such things in front of Lord Warwick. I declare, pet, you shall put me to the blush.” She sent his lordship a humble look. Oddly, Maggie did not wish him to think her a practiced flirt.
“I believe you’ve made a conquest of Mr. Cook and Lord Aynsley,” he said.
“And they are amiable men?”
“Honest men, yes. Cook’s somewhat immature, and Aynsley, you must know, is a widower who seeks a mother for his seven children.”
Why would his lordship have invited the men if he did not approve of them? Each of the men had been perfectly agreeable. A pity their appearances compared so poorly to Lord Warwick’s. Maggie found herself wishing Lady Fiona had never been born. “He did not tell me he had seven children,” she mused. “What ages are they?”
“How should I know?” Lord Warwick said with an agitated shrug. “I believe the eldest boy is at Eton. The rest must still be at home.”
“Where does Lord Aynsley make his home?” she asked.
“In Shropshire. Why anyone would choose to live in that God-forsaken place I cannot tell you,” he grumbled.
She felt responsible for Lord Warwick’s ill temper. He obviously had not enjoyed the play, and he undoubtedly disliked having to ferry her and Rebecca around the city--almost as much as he disliked having the vexatious females invading his house. The poor sourpuss. “I shall ask Lord Aynsley about it tomorrow when he accompanies us to the museum. I’m sure there must be much to recommend the place.”
Lord Warwick harrumphed.
“Since Mr. Cook and Lord Aynsley have so graciously consented to come tomorrow, you really don’t have to, my lord,” Maggie said. “You must have more important things to do than play city guide to a pair of colonials.”
“I’m coming,” he barked. “You--and your sister--are my responsibility, and I’ll not be trusting you to a pair of buffoons.”
“My lord,” she said in a scolding voice, “how very unkind of you to malign your friends in such a way. Being very agreeable does not make them buffoons.”
“I shouldn’t have called them that. They are, both of them, fine men. And you’ll meet more tomorrow night at Almack’s. Expect to receive vouchers in the morning.”
“Vouchers?”
He shrugged. “No one is accepted at Almack’s who has not been approved by its formidable patronesses, aristocrats all.”
“Then you’ve obtained vouchers for Rebecca and me?” she asked, her admiration for him soaring.
“Actually, my friend Lord Carrington did.”
“How very kind of him.”
When they arrived at the townhouse, Maggie asked if they could eat a bite before retiring. What she did not tell him was that she hoped Lord Warwick would be in better humor once his belly was full.
They went downstairs to the kitchen and scrounged up three servings of plum pudding, then Lord Warwick walked with them as they mounted the stairs to their bedchambers.
When Rebecca reached her chamber door, she took the knob in her hand, then faced Edward, her eyes glistening with excitement. “Thank you again, my lord, for taking us to see Shakespeare.”
“It was my pleasure,” he said as she entered the room.
When they reached Maggie’s door, she turned to him and offered her hand. “I’m ever so much indebted to you, my lord.”
For once he did not speak
to her as if he were the guardian and she the small child. “It’s I who hope to be indebted to you, Maggie,” he said with one of his rare smiles. Perhaps her ploy to improve his mood with food had worked.
She smiled and entered her bedchamber.
And screamed.
Chapter 4
“What the devil?” Edward spun around and raced to Maggie’s room.
Her chamber door still open, she stood a few feet inside the room, a trembling hand cupped to her mouth as she surveyed the mammoth disarray in every corner of her chamber. “Someone’s gone through all my things,” she said in a quivering voice.
The linen press had been emptied, her entire wardrobe flung around the room as if by a cyclone. Contents of the dressing table spilled over its glass top; its drawers gaped open. Books fanned over the heaps of clothing, and all the coverings were stripped from her bed.
Grumbling a curse, Edward bolted to the adjoining dressing room and study in the hopes of catching the person responsible for this. “Bloody hell!” he cursed. Those rooms, too, had been completely ransacked.
And the intruder was gone.
When he returned to Maggie’s bedchamber, that maid of hers, wearing a wrapper, her gray hair unbound, was attempting to sooth her mistress at the same time as Miss Peabody came flying into the room. Edward stalked to the windows and searched behind the draperies, then opened the casement to see if the perpetrator might be lurking outside. The sheer forty-foot drop to the pavement below convinced him no one could have come through these windows.
Next he went to the bed and looked under it. “Ouch!” he hissed, snatching back his hand.
Maggie raced to him, trembling all over. “What’s wrong?”
“I believe your cat dislikes me excessively.”
Maggie dropped to her knees and angled her head under the bed. “Poor Mr. Tubs,” she crooned. “Did that bad man scare you?”
Edward was outraged. “I’m not a bad man. It’s your damn cat who’s the bad one.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean you were bad, my lord. I was referring to the intruder. He must have frightened poor Tubby out of his fur,” she said after she coaxed the cat from beneath the bed and cradled it to her generous bosom. With a cracking voice, she added, “I was afraid whoever did this might have harmed Tubby.”
Edward could be so lucky. “Whoever did this is long gone,” he reassured Maggie. He had expected to find tears racing down her cheeks since his brief acquaintance with her had confirmed her propensity to hysterics. Surprisingly, no tears gathered in her frightened eyes now, even though she was more upset than he had ever seen her.
“See if Mama’s pearls are missing,” Rebecca instructed her sister.
Petting the loudly purring cat, Maggie strode to an open drawer of her dressing table and began sorting through the jewels it contained. “They’re here,” she said in a lifeless voice.
“Try to remember what jewelry you had so we can determine what’s missing,” Rebecca said.
The sister’s roles reversed, he thought. The trembling elder sister was nearly in shock while the younger sister kept a level head.
He came to set a gentle hand on Maggie’s bare shoulder. Fortunately, the damn cat didn’t try to draw blood this time. “You’ve nothing to fear,” Edward said in a low voice. “Whoever did this had no wish to face you. Rest assured I’ll have a footman guard your room every night you’re here.” His voice gentled. “Sit down, pull yourself together, and try to determine what’s missing.”
She lowered herself into the chair in front of her dressing table which was illuminated by a pair of crystal lustres, and she began to more carefully examine the jewelry drawer. “I had very little in the way of valuable jewels,” she said, her voice still shaking. “Here’s the ruby ring The Scoundrel placed on my finger the day we married. He also gave me an emerald necklace I sold to finance our trip to England.” She continued to examine what looked to Edward to be mostly worthless jewelry. “I don’t think anything’s missing,” she said, looking up at him with sorrowful eyes.
“Now would you look at this!” the maid shrieked. She held up a green silk gown, its bodice slashed as if by a knife.
Rebecca rushed to the maid. “Why would someone do this to Maggie’s clothes?”
Edward had a very good idea. Someone was looking for something. Something that Lawrence Henshaw must have given to his wife. Or something that someone thought Henshaw had given to his wife. “Sarah,” he said, rather pleased that he had actually remembered the elderly maid’s name.
She eyed him with a quizzing gaze. “Yes, my lord?”
“Will you be able to determine if any of your mistress’s clothing is missing?” he asked.
“I most certainly can. Just give me a few minutes.” She and Rebecca set about restoring the clothing to the linen press, both of the women issuing oaths as they discovered every dress slashed.
“There now, Miss Maggie, don’t you fret,” Sarah said. “We’ve got just enough pieces of fabric left to repair these beautiful gowns, and no one will ever be able to tell that a madman went on this rampage.”
“He certainly was a mad man,” Rebecca concurred as she folded a piece of gauzy linen--a nightshift, if Edward wasn’t mistaken. Against his sorely tried will, he pictured Maggie in the soft, lacy shift. And cursed his traitorous physical reaction.
Maggie gave Edward a morose look. “Why would someone do this to me?”
He set his hand to her trembling shoulder. “Someone obviously believes your late husband left something valuable in your care.” Something valuable to the Foreign Office--or to the French. That someone was aware that Henshaw’s widow was in London, that she was staying at Warwick House, that she had gone to the theatre tonight. The very idea of someone sneaking into his house chilled Edward.
Almost as much as the realization that Maggie could be in grave danger.
Maggie’s lashes lowered, a look of pain clinching her face. “What if I hadn’t insisted Sarah not wait up for me? Would they have harmed her?”
He wished he could reassure Maggie, but he honestly did not know how far this depraved person was willing to go to get whatever it was Henshaw had. “You mustn’t worry yourself over what ifs. All that matters now is my pledge to you that this will not happen again, that I will make sure you’re always protected.”
“And Rebecca and Sarah?” Maggie asked in a woeful voice.
“Miss Peabody and Sarah will be fine.” It’s you they want.
“Your lordship?” Rebecca said.
He met the girl’s gaze. “Yes?”
“Nothing’s missing.”
“I wish something were!” Maggie exclaimed. “I’d much rather this vile person be a common thief than a---” She looked up at him with a questioning gaze.
He wished he could lie to her, to reassure her that nothing like this would ever be repeated, but she was too intelligent to be deceived by empty promises.
He summoned a housemaid to make Maggie’s bed, then he called for Wiggins. “Someone’s entered the house tonight with the intention of stealing Lady Warwick’s things,” he told the butler. “Did you--or any of the servants see anyone?"
“No, my lord, and I’ve questioned the footman. Hawkins had duty in the front hall, and he swears he did not sleep. No one came up the front stairs.”
“What of the servants’ stairs?” Edward asked.
Wiggins shrugged. “After ten o’clock--when we were in our beds--no one was stirring in the back of the house. Whoever did this---” He eyed Maggie’s bed chamber, “must have sneaked in after we were asleep.”
“Was the back door locked?”
“I couldn’t say, my lord.”
Edward cursed. “Please question all the servants and let me know if you learn something. And, Wiggins?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Make sure the doors are locked at all times.”
“Very good, my lord.”
With the housemaid’s assistance, Rebecca and Sarah wer
e able to finish tidying the chambers in ten minutes, then Edward dismissed them.
Maggie still sat before her dressing table, the candlelight flickering in her dark tresses, her hand absently stroking the contented cat in her lap.
“Whether you are aware of it or not,” he said to her, “your husband must have entrusted something to you. Something that someone here in England might be willing to kill for. Think, Maggie. Was there anything Henshaw gave you for safekeeping?”
From where he stood, Edward could look down at her and see that the bodice of her snow white dress barely contained her rounded breasts. Breasts Henshaw would have touched, might have pressed his lips to. Damn the man.
Her eyes flashing, she suddenly leaped from her chair and raced to her dressing room, Edward on her heels.
“It’s gone!” she said.
“What’s gone?”
“The Scoundrel’s things. I kept his effects in a small leather case.”
Edward’s gaze swept over the room. “What things?”
She sighed. “A ring, a pair of diamond spurs, a letter from a man in Greenwich, a Fielding book. . .” She bit at her lip. “There was something else . . .oh yes, a map.”
“A map of what?”
She shrugged. “Some county in England. One of those that begins with an H.”
“Hampshire? Hertfordshire?”
“Hertfordshire,” she said.
“Was there any marking on the map?”
She shook her head.
“What about the Fielding book? Any markings on it?”
She thought for a moment. “In the flyleaf. There was a name. I thought it the previous owner of the book. There was a name and city.”
“What name?”
She frowned. “I paid no attention to it, really. If you were to call it out right now I doubt I’d recognize it. But I remember distinctly the name of the man in Greenwich. It was Andrew Bibble.”
The name meant nothing to Edward. “What did the letter say?”
She frowned in concentration. “It was only a sentence or two. It seemed Mr. Bibble was going into mourning after having buried their mutual friend.”