by Regina Darcy
Petronella gave her cousin an alarmed look and scampered out the door quickly. Frederica refused to exhibit any signs of fear in front of her brother.
“Is something amiss?” she inquired.
The Marquess inserted the key into the lock of his study and gestured for her to take a seat in front of his desk. Remembering how recently she had been in this room, rifling through the drawers of his desk, Frederica quailed for a moment, wondering if she had left traces of her presence behind.
“Lord Oakland tells me that you have not gone riding with him for the past three evenings.”
Frederica’s relief at this reason for her summons to the study gave her courage. “Oh, as to that . . . I do not enjoy the rides.”
“It is not of any monumental concern whether you enjoy them or not, Frederica,” he said sharply. “He wishes to ride with you at that time and as a woman who will be, I should hope, a dutiful wife, you are to heed his wishes. Need I remind you that you are a spinster well past the age when you ought to be a wife?”
“I am two-and-twenty,” she protested. “I am not a crone.”
“You are well on the way to becoming one. A woman is presented at her debut and is expected to end the season with a proposal. That is how it is done. Luckily enough you are now an engaged woman—”
“As to that,” Frederica interrupted, forcing thoughts of how M’sieur de Bois would address the subject of convention in a future article out of her mind, “I have tried with all diligence to find matters of accord between myself and Lord Oakland and I have been able to think of any.”
Her brother was staring at her as if she had transformed herself into a variant species.
“You are female, he is male. What possible other means of accord do you need?”
“Interests, Rowland,” she replied. “Do you remember when we were younger, when our parents were living, and you would instruct me in how to wield a sword?”
“I was foolish to engage in such behaviour,” he said. “It clearly inspired you to abandon your role as a woman. I hope you do not intend to wear trousers next.”
“I do not,” she said, in her mind tucking away this new topic for the pen of M. de Bois. “But really, Rowland, can you not understand how confined I feel in Lord Oakland’s company?”
“You should have thought of that when you were refusing the proposals of the previous gentlemen who offered for you. You should not be an expense to me at this time of your life. You should have a husband who is responsible for your upkeep, not a brother. It is monstrous selfish of you, Frederica, to behave as if you have no obligation to marry. I know of no other man in England who is afflicted with such a wilful sister.”
“Is that all I am to you, an expense?” she whispered, willing herself not to show how much he was hurting her.
“Sisters marry and go to their husbands’ homes,” Rowland replied stubbornly. “It is the way of the world. Except here, where I am still feeding you and clothing you, providing you with the amenities to which you have become accustomed, when it is your duty to find a husband who will take on this responsibility. As you did not, I was forced to select a husband for you. Now you tell me that you have no common interests. As if that were of any significance!”
“The man is a bore,” Frederica said, driven past manners. “He speaks of the same topic every day. He presents me with his daily malady. I ought to hire myself out as a physician, I am so well versed in cures for gallstones and gout and—” “
“I hope you are not seriously intending to seek employment! Females of our class do not work, Frederica and I will not tolerate such radical ideas. You will marry Lord Oakland or you will be a spinster for the rest of your life, but you will not rely upon my generosity if you intend to pursue the latter. Do you understand?”
“Are you telling me that I am no longer welcome in my own home?” she cried, stricken by his cold-blooded rejection.
“I am telling you,” he said, leaning forward across his desk, “that you will be welcome here again when you arrive to visit as the wife of Lord John Oakland. You will come to tea or to supper, with your husband, and then you will return to your husband’s home. You will be most welcome under those circumstances.” He took a quill pen from his desk drawer. “Consider well what I have said. You are dismissed.”
Frederica rose and walked to the door, her head high and her back unbent. The posture that had been instilled upon her by her governess was a defence against the hurt that she felt. She would not let Rowland see her with tears in her eyes.
She walked to her room and summoned Carla, who came quickly.
“Miss?” Carla asked, peering at Frederica’s pale face. “What’s awry, then? You look as if you’ve had a dreadful shock.”
“Carla, I must leave. I am not welcome here, my brother has made it clear. I cannot take you with me just yet; if my brother suspected that you knew anything of my plans, he would see you punished. He is—very cruel. I will need Sam . . . for a chaperone.”
“Are you going to the Earl of Gilberton’s house, then?”
“There is nowhere else for me to go.”
“I don’t know as that’s at all wise, Miss, him being a bachelor gentleman and you an unmarried lady.”
“It’s quite all right, Carla,” Frederica said calmly. “I intend to propose marriage to the Earl. If he accepts, I will be able to return here because I will be sure that I need not marry Lord Oakland, although my brother, who will not know of my leave-taking, will assume that I am capitulating to his order.”
Carla’s eyes grew enormous in her round face.
“Proposing marriage, Miss? To the Earl? Isn’t that for gentlemen to do?”
“Just because it has always been thus does not mean it always should be so,” Frederica said. “If there is any man able to handle the anomaly of the situation, it is the Earl.”
“I suppose ... but what if he says no? He hasn’t married so far and some men like their freedom.”
Frederica bit her lower lip and turned to the vanity table, pretending to stared at some piece of hair ornament. The Earl of Gilberton’s freedom was at risk of being brought to a halt within days if he did not find a way to prove his innocence. Surely for the sake of his life and to keep her continued and full co-operation he would agree to her proposal…and there was also that kiss.
Absentmindedly she touched her lips. Surely no man kissed a woman like that unless he was interested in her.
Her resolve set, she gathered her skirts and turned towards her maid.
“I shall hope for the best. Will you send for Sam?”
“I shall, Miss . . . and I hope everything works out for the best. If his lordship asks for you, I’ll tell the Marquess that you’re abed with a frightful headache. He’s not likely to ask for Sam at this hour, and I heard him that Cook needn’t expect him for supper, so he must be going out.”
Frederica was relieved to learn that her brother was leaving. He was less likely to show any interest in her.
Sam, displaying a resourcefulness she did not know he possessed, found a hired conveyance for them and directed the driver to take them to the Earl of Gilberton’s residence.
By the time they arrived at their destination, night had fallen. With her cloak and hood concealing her features, Frederica was confident that her identity was not suspected.
She did not know that the Earl’s man, Hillard, who had maintained a watch over her presence while she was inside, was puzzled by the sight of her leaving. He hailed a hackney-coach to return to the Gilberton townhouse. Whatever was going on, his business was to see that Lady Beecham was safe and he couldn’t do that if she wasn’t in her own residence.
Frederica was admitted to the Earl’s home by the butler who did not bat an eyelid. Instead he apologised for the Earl’s absence.
“May I please wait for him?” Federica asked.
“I don’t know when he will return, ma’am.”
“Yes, I understand, but I really must speak to him.
It’s—it’s urgent.”
The butler was familiar with his master’s unpredictable itinerary. “Very well, ma’am,” he said, leading her to the drawing-room. “Please make yourself at home while you wait. Shall I bring you refreshment?”
“No . . . thank you. I shall just sit here by the fire and wait. Please give this money to my footman so that he may pay the cab and return.”
There was no point in having a chaperone if the Earl was not present and no point in putting Sam in jeopardy with an unexplained absence.
She sat in a chair by the fire and waited. But as time passed, her eyelids began to droop with tiredness. She moved to the cushioned chaise longue off to the side of the fireplace, where she could enjoy the warmth and recline as well.
She did not realise how tired she was, or how very comfortable the couch-lounge was. Suddenly there were voices in the drawing-room. One she recognised as belonging to the Earl; the other was unknown to her. They must have entered the drawing-room after she had fallen asleep. They were sitting on the other end of the room and were, she realised, unaware of her presence.
She sat up abruptly.
“My lord!” she exclaimed.
The Earl looked over where he beheld Frederica, endearingly drowsy, getting up.
“Lady Beecham,” he greeted her. “You have a novel way of appearing into my life. May I introduce James Carlington, the Duke of Summersby.”
His guest bowed. If he was puzzled by the presence of an unchaperoned female in the Earl’s residence, he gave no sign of it.
“Charmed,” Summersby said. “And who is Lady Beecham?”
There was no insult in his query. He was, she could see, simply curious.
“Lady Frederica Beecham. She has been assisting me in my efforts to prove my innocence.”
“Beecham . .. but you are the sister of the Marquess of Cumbershire?” Summersby exclaimed, clearly puzzled. “I say, that’s a bit out of place, is it not?”
“She believes in my innocence,” the Earl interjected.
“More likely, she believes in the Marquess’ guilt,” Summersby said. “But no matter. I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Lady Beecham, as we are allies in this endeavour.”
“Are you also engaged in helping the Earl to prove his innocence?” she asked.
“I am. And I intend to provide extra muscle, should it be needed.” He struck a dramatic pose and elicited laughter from Frederica.
“I hope it will not come to that,” she said, sobering. “My brother is skilled in swordplay. He taught me some basic elements of the art. Those were better times.”
“Why does it not surprise me in the least,” murmured the Earl as he poured a glass of wine for Frederica, “that you are no stranger to swordsmanship? It only surprises me that your brother taught you.”
“Like I said it was in better times,” she replied quietly.
“You know that Dennington is teaching his wife the art,” Summersby confided. “It must be a veritable trend. Georgette has, as of yet—Georgette is my wife—shown no interest in my swords. But she is rather direct in her means. I suppose she would slap me if she found me rowdy. She did that once,” he reminisced. “Before we were married,” he explained to Frederica, as if this were sufficient explanation.
“You speak of that blow often. And fondly,” Gilberton remarked.
“I suppose I do. But it was so spontaneous. Not one of those playful little taps that coquettes employ. She meant to wound. Oh, she was quite right,” he assured Frederica, who looked somewhat startled. “But it was rather remarkable. I didn’t know that women had such spirit in them. She was the first woman to show me that women have much more to offer than we can imagine.”
“Indeed,” Frederica exclaimed, enchanted by the Duke’s endearing candour.
“Oh, yes. We have not yet begun to plumb the depths of a woman’s nature. It is going to be the excavation of the century once we get down to it. I daresay you are unfamiliar with the writings of M’sieur de Bois, who writes upon occasion—alas, all too infrequently—of topics which most men have never considered. I read him with delight. You really ought to do so, Lady Beecham. You will find him wonderfully enlightened on a variety of subjects pertaining to the female sex.”
Frederica lowered her eyes before the Earl’s ironic gaze as she sipped her wine. “I must make a point of doing so, Your Grace,” she murmured.
TEN
“And now to the question of the moment: why are you here?” the Earl asked. He turned slightly to his friend “My dear Summersby, Lady Beecham has been an invaluable accomplice in my quest to find the man who murdered Dalton and stole the artefact. It was thanks to her investigating that I learned the name of the fence to whom the artefact had been taken for sale.” He turned towards Lady Beecham and continued “Summersby, with his contacts at London banks, is going to trace the trail of the money that Cumbershire must have used to pay the blackguards: the thief and likely murderer, Muller; the footman who has sworn that he saw me kill Dalton; and to pay for the stolen artefact itself.”
“Then the information on that piece of paper was useful to you?” Frederica asked. She had thought it of no consequence; how fortunate that she had kept it anyway and given it to the Earl.
“Useful enough to get me shot,” George said drily.
Frederica gasped. “Shot? But who would have known where to find you?”
“I suspect that Larkin’s abode was under scrutiny from the time the artefact was taken there. Cumbershire would know that I would be on the trail. We’ve tangled before, your brother and I, Lady Beecham and I know him to be a formidable foe.” He grinned. “But so am I.”
“But how can you prove what you know?” she asked. Her impromptu nap had left her rested and alert and well aware of the obstacles standing in the path of the Earl’s journey to reclaiming his innocence. She was also hungry; the wine, drunk on an empty stomach, made her feel giddy.
“As I said, Summersby will speak to his friends at the banks. He has an uncommonly expansive circle of friends and money seems to be the common denominator.” As he spoke, he went to pull the bell to summon a servant.
Summersby did not refute his claims.
“I find money fascinating, don’t you?” he said to Frederica.
“My brother certainly does,” she replied bitterly, recalling the conversation in his study when he accused her of being a financial burden because she had not gotten married.
“Oh, but that’s avarice,” Summersby said calmly. “I am referring to the ebb and flow of it, the Exchange, the means by which a product—say tea—or a journey to an uncharted land can suddenly revert the commercial realm. It’s fascinating.”
“Don’t let him go on, he will bore you to tears, Lady Beecham. Ah, thank you, Hawkins. My guest, Lady Beecham, is famished. Will you ask Cook to prepare something for her. No need to cook anything; I am sure that bread and cold meats will suffice, will they not? A cup of hot tea would also be of benefit, will it not, Lady Beecham?”
“Oh, a cup of hot tea would be sheer ambrosia,” Frederica said gratefully. How on earth had the Earl noticed that she was hungry? She had given no indication of it. Was the man clairvoyant that he could tell what she was thinking? She hoped that was not the case; she had spent the last several days thinking about the Earl in the way that she ought to have been thinking about Lord Oakland.
“It’s true,” Summersby said. “I’m a dreadful bore on the subject. Georgette finds it interesting, however.”
“She is likely only humouring you.”
“Perhaps,” Summersby replied, untroubled by the claim that his wife’s attention to his favourite subject was feigned. “But I daresay I shall find something of use for you.”
“How will you manage?” Frederica asked. “Even if you find proof that my brother was the source of the money—and I am not at all convinced that, even with banking contacts, you will be able to definitely prove how he spent the money he withdrew from his account—you will en
counter some obstacles in showing where he disbursed it.”
Her brother’s need for money, as pointed out by Summersby and the Earl, shed light on his irritation that she remained under his roof as what he viewed a drain on his finances. How much money was he spending if he was using it to purchase foreign artefacts and hire assassins?
“Pieces fit the puzzle once they are obtained,” the Earl said. “I am confident now, more so than when I began, that we have the pieces.” His smile was warm. “Much of that is thanks to you, Lady Beecham, and should I emerge triumphant in my efforts and escape Newgate, I shall be in your debt.”
To have the Earl in her debt suited Frederica and her intentions very well. But she merely smiled in what she hoped expressed only polite appreciation for the remark.
“I certainly hope that our efforts are successful,” she said. “You must not be hanged!”
Summersby, whose attention had been distracted by the arrival of the butler with a dinner tray laden with sufficient food for more than one appetite, looked questioningly at Lady Beecham. Her tone indicated something more than mere concern for the Earl’s mortal status.
“I see that Cook has, as she always does, come through splendidly,” the Earl noted as Hawkins removed the lid from the tray. There were plates for three and a sufficient array of cold meats to amply fill the loaf of bread, sliced, which accompanied the choices. “Cook is accustomed, you see, to feeding my visitors at all hours.”
“And she does so splendidly,” Summersby said. “Ladies first.”
“Oh—thank you.”
“Choose quickly, Lady Beecham, Summersby is forever hungry and will mistake your finger for a sliver of chicken if you do not move quickly enough. You have not yet enlightened us on the reason for your presence tonight, delighted though we are to share this repast with you.”
She did not wish to divulge her conversation with her brother, or her audacious intention, in front of the Duke.
“I wanted to see if you had discovered anything new,” she said simply.
“Dash it, there’s a female of spirit, Gilberton! Never mind that it’s past the hour for calling, and in any case not a time when a single female—or a married one, come to think of it—should be visiting a bachelor! She discards propriety for the Faustian that it is and simply shows up.”