I Thee Wed

by Amanda Quick

  “That would be the late, unlamented Lord Ames?” Edison asked.

  Swan nodded. “Yes. In any event, Miranda said something about him having died shortly after he collected his inheritance.”

  “Convenient,” Edison observed. “And you’re right about the vague aspect of the tale. I have made some inquiries but I was unable to locate any family connected to Miranda. There is a Lord Ames in Yorkshire but there is no relation.”

  “Miranda told me that her husband had no other relatives,” Swan said.

  Edison raised his brows. “So Miranda got the entire inheritance. Is that it?”

  “She said she used the money to return to England and take her place in the ton.” Swan looked at him. “That’s all I know about her past, I swear it. Except—”

  “Except what?” Emma prodded.

  Swan frowned. “I don’t think she inherited a vast fortune. Just enough to see her through one Season, in fact.”

  “That would explain why I was unable to discover any information concerning her investments,” Edison muttered. “She didn’t have any.”

  “What made you think she possessed sufficient funds for only one Season, Swan?” Emma asked.

  “Because she was obsessed with some scheme to make more money,” Swan said. “She hinted that if it worked, she would never have to worry about her finances again. I don’t know the details of her plan, but I do know that it involved you, Miss Greyson.”

  Edison looked thoughtful. “When did you conclude that Miss Greyson was necessary to Miranda’s scheme?”

  “During the house party at Ware Castle,” Swan said. “Something happened there that convinced Miranda that she would soon be richer than Croesus. I don’t know what it was. I only know that she was convinced that she required Miss Greyson to make the plan work.”

  Edison glanced at Emma and then returned his attention to Swan.

  “Did Miranda ever mention a special book or manuscript?”

  Swan’s brow puckered again. “No. Miranda didn’t have much interest in books and the like.”

  “What do you know about her special tea?” Emma asked quickly.

  Swan moved one hand in a dismissive fashion. “Only that she was forever serving it to her new lady friends when she invited them to play cards. She claimed it was a fine tonic, but I don’t think she ever drank much of it herself, to tell you the truth.”

  “Did she say where she acquired the recipe?” Edison asked.

  “No. Maybe it was something she learned when she lived in Scotland. I’ve heard that they eat and drink odd food there.”

  “Do you think Miranda and her husband ever traveled to the Continent?” Edison asked.

  “She said that they had never had the money to travel.” Swan frowned again. “But I did wonder once—”

  “About what?” Emma asked in a coaxing tone.

  “It’s nothing really But one time, Miranda lost her temper with a maid who spilled some tea on one of her fancy lady friends. She cursed the girl in a language I’d never heard. Afterward the guest laughed and complimented her on what she called her excellent command of the Italian tongue.”

  Emma saw a familiar gleam appear in Edison’s eyes. She knew what he was thinking, but she shook her head slightly, warning him to keep silent. She gave Swan another smile.

  “Many people learn Italian as well as French and Greek,” she said.

  “I doubt that many actresses learn all those languages,” Edison said.

  “Especially those who never made it out of a traveling company.”

  Emma paid him no attention. “Swan, did you conclude that Miranda lived in Italy for a time simply because she happened to know a few Italian curse words?”

  “When her guest teased her, Miranda said something about a childhood tutor. But the guest said no tutor would teach such gutter language. Miranda merely laughed and changed the subject. But I could see that the question had made her uneasy. I wondered about it at the time.” Swan paused. “But why would she have lied about whether or not she had ever traveled abroad?”

  “Why, indeed?” Edison repeated softly. “Tell me, what were you looking for the night you searched my study?”

  Swan blanched. Fresh panic flashed across his face. “You know about that? I swear I did not steal anything, sir. I only looked around a bit.”

  “I know you did not take anything. What did you hope to find?”

  “I don’t know. That was the problem, if you see what I mean.”

  “A rather odd way to conduct a search,” Edison mused.

  Swan licked his lips and gave Emma a pleading glance. Then he turned back to Edison. “I told you Miranda took odd notions from time to time. After we returned from Ware Castle she was obsessed with employing Miss Greyson in her scheme. I think she went so far as to try to force Miss Greyson into her service. But she said you stood in her way, sir. She wanted to learn more about you.”

  “Did she murder Chilton Crane in an attempt to make Miss Greyson lose her position with Lady Mayfield?” Edison asked.

  An unhappy, bewildered expression creased Swan’s features. “At the time, I told myself that my beautiful Miranda wouldn’t stoop to murder to further her plans. But now I’m not so certain. I do know that she was furious that night after you and Miss Greyson announced your engagement, sir. The next day she told me you had ruined everything, but she would not say how.”

  “She was convinced the betrothal was a fraud,” Emma said. “So she sent you to search Mr. Stokes’s study to find some proof.”

  Swan sighed heavily. “When I returned with no helpful information, she flew into a rage and told me I was useless to her. That was when she dismissed me.”

  “Was it you who took a shot at me in the woods that day outside Ware Castle?” Edison asked very casually.

  “Shot at you?” Swan was clearly shocked by the question. “No, sir, I swear, I never did such a thing, sir.”

  Emma glanced quickly at Edison. He looked briefly meditative and then he inclined his head, apparently satisfied at some inner logic.

  “It was most likely Miranda, then,” he said as though the incident in the woods amounted to nothing more than a brief, irritating encounter with a pesky insect. “A desperate effort to get rid of me before we all returned to Town.”

  “She did know a thing or two about pistols,” Swan allowed. “She always carried one with her, although it did her little good in the end. I asked her once if she feared footpads or highwaymen. She told me that it was another sort of villain who worried her these days.”

  “Did she describe this other sort of villain?” Edison asked.

  Swan shook his head. “No. I don’t think she knew who he was. She merely hinted that someone might be after something she possessed. In the end, she was right to be afraid, wasn’t she? He murdered her.”

  Edison looked dubious but he said nothing.

  “It’s the truth, I swear it, sir. She never wanted to talk about it. And as much as I wanted to protect her, I could hardly force her to tell me, could I?” Swan swallowed heavily. “I was only her footman, after all.”

  Edison watched him closely. “Why do you think this mysterious, unnamed villain may be after Miss Greyson now that Miranda is dead?”

  Swan hesitated.

  Tell me,” Edison pressed.

  “Well, sir, it’s just that after I heard about Miranda’s death, I got to thinking. The only thing she cared about was her secret scheme to make a fortune.”

  “So?” Emma prompted.

  It was Edison who answered. “Swan has leaped to the obvious conclusion, Emma. If Miranda needed you to make her scheme work, it stands to reason that whoever killed her for the secret might also need you.”

  That bloody tea recipe, Emma thought. “I see.”

  Swan gave her a wretched look. “I’m sorry, Miss Greyson.”

  She put her hand on his sleeve. “You must not feel guilty about any of this, Mr. Swan. It’s not your fault.”

  �
�I should have listened to the others,” he said wearily. “Everyone from the groom to the housekeeper gave me the same advice, but I paid no attention.”

  “What advice was that?” Emma asked. They all warned me that there’s nothing more foolish or hopeless than falling in love with your employer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A short while later Emma stood in the shadows of a tree, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and watched Swan disappear down one of the wooded park paths. In a moment he was lost to sight.

  “We were right. She must have been Farrell Blue’s mistress in Italy,” Edison said quietly. “She probably killed him after he succeeded in translating the recipe for the elixir.”

  “As his mistress she had probably learned enough about Vanza to suspect that someone else would likely come looking for the volume.”

  Edison nodded. “So she set the fire and tossed the book into the flames, hoping to cover her tracks. It all fits together.”

  Emma listened to the leaves rustling in the branches above, very conscious of Edison beside her. He had one hand braced against the trunk of the tree near her head, the other was thrust under his coat, planted on his hip. He, too, watched the space where Swan had vanished, his expression deeply thoughtful.

  She glanced at him. “It was very kind of you to send Swan to your estate in Yorkshire.”

  “Kind?” Edison frowned. “There was nothing kind about it. Sending him away was the only practical thing to do.”

  She hid a fleeting smile. “Yes, of course, sir. I should have realized instantly that when you told him to take himself off to your estate, you were just being practical, as usual. Sheltering a man who is wanted for the murder of one of the most popular figures in the ton is such an eminently commonsensical thing to do.”

  He slanted her an irritated look. “Swan will be safe enough at Windermere until I sort things out here in Town. More important, he will be out of my way.”

  “Meaning you will not have to worry about him while you go about your affairs.”

  “I do not need any more distractions than I already have.” He tapped one finger against the tree trunk. “Matters are complicated enough as it is.”

  “Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat. “Speaking of complications—”

  “What of them?”

  She braced herself. “It has just occurred to me that I have become one.”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  “You employed me to act as bait to hold Miranda’s attention while you searched for the missing book,” she said very steadily. “Now that she is dead, I no longer have a task to perform for you. I assume you will not be needing me any longer.”

  “Damnation, Emma—”

  “I quite understand, sir,” she assured him. “It’s just that our arrangement has obviously been terminated in an unexpected fashion.”

  “I suppose murder could be classified as unexpected.”

  “Which means, of course, that certain details not attended to in a timely manner have now become rather pressing.”

  “Pressing?”

  “You kept saying you would take care of it,” she said reproachfully.

  “But you never got around to it. And now our business together is finished and I really must insist that you fulfill your part of the bargain.”

  He turned his head to look at her. There was an ominous light in his eyes. “If this is about your bloody reference—”

  “You did promise to write one.”

  “Contrary to your assumption, you have not completed the tasks I engaged you to fulfill.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He kept his hand on the tree trunk beside her head and leaned very close. “I still need you.”

  His mouth was only an inch or two away from hers. She suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, Miss Greyson, I most certainly do.”

  He removed his hand from his hip and wrapped it around the nape of her neck. He moved so swiftly she did not realize his intention until she felt herself crowded back against the trunk of the tree. By then, it was much too late to protest, even had she wanted to do so. His mouth came down on hers, hard and fierce and urgent.

  The explosion of sensation was as sharp and intense as it had been on the other occasions he had kissed her. So much for her theory that one grew accustomed to this sort of thing, Emma thought. She gave a soft little sigh and twined her arms around his neck.

  He trapped her legs between his thighs. Deliberately he deepened the kiss. Her knees trembled. She gasped when he ended the embrace a moment later. When she opened her eyes she found him watching her with a dark, enigmatic gaze.

  “Now all I have to do is find a way to protect you,” he said.

  She was aware of her mouth opening and closing at least twice before she managed to pull herself together. His kisses had a positively devastating effect on her brain, she thought.

  A sudden, dreadful thought occurred to her. Life would become considerably less exciting when her term of employment ended and she no longer had Edison’s kisses to warm her senses. She did not want to contemplate the prospect.

  “Protect me?” She knew she sounded like an idiot, but she was still having trouble collecting her thoughts.

  “It’s possible that whoever murdered Miranda was after the Book of Secrets, in which case you are probably not in jeopardy. But it’s also conceivable that whoever killed her was simply after the deciphered recipe. And if that is the case—”

  “And if he knows about Miranda’s little experiments on me, the killer may think that I can be of use to him.” Emma wrinkled her nose. “Lovely. But you keep saying the recipes in the book are nothing more than meaningless occult gibberish. Who would believe they actually worked?”

  “Miranda, for one, apparently.”

  Emma groaned. “Yes, I suppose so. But who else would be so gullible as to put any credence in such arcane lore?”

  “A member of the Vanzagarian Society,” Edison said bluntly.

  “But surely the members of the Society are educated gentlemen such as yourself, sir. They would know better than to believe that the recipe was anything other than an interesting bit of ancient history. Surely none of them would commit murder to obtain it.”

  “You don’t know the gentlemen of the Vanzagarian Society. Most are merely enthusiastic students of Vanza. But some are so deeply into the philosophy that they have lost all perspective. They are inclined to believe the most amazing occult nonsense.” Edison looked past the tree toward Letty’s town house. “And in this case, one of them has gone so far as to kill because of his convictions.”

  Emma suppressed the uneasy sensation that shot through her. She certainly did not need any more premonitions of danger, she thought grimly. She was already quite worried.

  “Well, we must look on the bright side, sir. If this mysterious person killed Miranda for the recipe and thinks he needs me to employ it, he is highly unlikely to try to murder me.”

  True, but he may well hatch a plan to kidnap you.”

  “Oh.” Emma thought about that. “I suppose you would find such an occurrence a trifle inconvenient?”

  His mouth quirked. “More than a trifle.” The smile was gone as quickly as it had come. “The thing is, I do not think that I can keep you safe in Lady Mayfield’s house any longer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I intend to hire a couple of Runners to keep an eye on you. It will not be possible to do that without informing Lady Mayfield about what is happening.”

  “Where is the problem in that?” Emma rolled her eyes. “If I know Letty she will quite enjoy the excitement.”

  “She may enjoy it, but she will be unable to keep quiet about it. The tale will be all over Town by midnight tonight. If my inquiries are made public, the killer will be warned and will likely disappear before I can find him.”

  Emma winced. He was right. Letty’s love of gossip
would soon overwhelm any promise she might make to keep silent about events. “I see what you mean.”

  “I must find a more secure place in which to keep you.”

  “I wish you would not talk about me as though I were a valuable bauble that must be stored in a safe,” she muttered.

  “Ah, but you are an extremely valuable commodity, Miss Greyson. And I do not intend to lose you.”

  She could not decide whether or not he was teasing her, so she decided to ignore the remark. “Do you propose to pack me off to one of your estates, the way you did Swan?”

  He shook his head. “No, that will not do. If I sent you away, the killer would likely conclude that I am on his trail. He may well be provoked into doing something rash or into leaving the country altogether.”

  She spread her hands. “It seems that I have become a serious complication for you, sir. What will you do with me?”

  “The most practical thing,” he said slowly, “would be to move you into my own town house.”

  She stiffened. “No. Absolutely impossible. You cannot be serious, sir.”

  He eyed her speculatively. “Why not?”

  “Why not? Have you gone mad? A gentleman does not move his fiancée into his town house. I would be transformed into your mistress in the eyes of the ton. No reference, no matter how brilliantly written, would overcome that stigma.”

  “Emma—”

  “Why, I should be obliged to change my name, dye my hair, and invent a whole new past for myself. That would present a host of difficulties. I have my sister to consider, after all. I cannot simply up and disappear off the face of the earth.”

  “Emma, listen to me.”

  “No, I will not listen to you try to talk me into such a dreadful plan. I do not care how much more money you offer to pay me. I will not move into your town house and that is final.”

  “If it is the thought of being branded my mistress that distresses you so,” he said in a strangely neutral voice, “you could move in as my wife.”

  “Your wife.” She threw up her hands, exasperated beyond all reason.