by Nancy Butler
All around her bees hummed, busy at their nectar gathering. In her girlhood, when she lived in the country, her family had kept honeybees. There was a groundsman, Tom Paulie, who watched over the hives, and he had given her a skep of her own to care for. She had learned bee lore from him. And the one thing she recalled above everything else was that the hive was for the worker bees and the queen. The drones, the male bees that mated with the queen, eventually died, cast out from their hive.
She thought about Beecham Bryce and the empty, licentious life he lived. And how he avoided the park during the prime social hours to save his pride. If he performed any service in the ton, it was after hours, in the dark. By daylight he was not welcomed by his peers.
Jemima wondered if she should tell him about the bees.
No, she sighed, he’d probably end up making some ribald comment about the birds and the bees.
* * *
Bryce found her sitting in a field of glorious color—pinks and lavenders and soft, shimmering purples. In her pale yellow gown she looked like an overgrown buttercup. He stood at the edge of the meadow letting his eyes drink in the sight of her. She was leaning back, propped up on her elbows, her head tilted up. It put her body in very pleasing relief—her gown clung to her full breasts and the rise of her hips, the fabric molding to the flatness of waist and stomach. He had a hunger to lay her back on those burgeoning blossoms and run his hands over the slim, beguiling length of her.
He was still trying to figure her out. More so now that he’d learned she was Troy’s sister. The boy ran with a fast crowd, he knew that much. Sporting gentlemen and gamesters. High-flyers and opera dancers. Troy was even a member of Bacchus, though Bryce himself had wearied of the club by the time the poet had been invited to join. Their paths had never crossed before last night.
He wondered how Jemima had been able to preserve her virtue, in light of all the rascals she must have met through her brother. But the fact remained that she had—he of all men knew an untouched woman when he stumbled across one. And that only heightened her appeal. She was as ripe for plucking as an August peach.
Bryce moved toward her and when she saw him approaching she shifted up into a kneeling position. It took all his strength of will not to kneel himself and pull her up against him.
“That didn’t take long,” she said, shading her eyes from the sun with one hand.
He sprawled down beside her. “Sir Walter is not much for conversation. And he’s not pleased that we are back where we started—with an unknown corpse on our hands. He sent to Bow Street last night to call in the Runners, thinking he needed reinforcements to look into the murder of so famous a man. By now, unfortunately, the word will be all over London that your brother was killed.”
Jemima sat back on her heels. “That’s dreadful news. All his friends and admirers will be devastated.”
“Sir Walter is sending a messenger to London, posthaste, to recant the story. It will become just one more chapter in your brother’s not inconsiderable legend.”
His legend. Jemima looked amused at his choice of words. “Sometimes it’s hard to credit that the headstrong boy who wouldn’t wash behind his ears is now elevated to the pantheon of great men.”
Bryce broke off a stalk of burdock and began plucking the purple chaff from its head. “What’s it like then, being sister to a legend?”
Jemima shrugged. “He’s changed very little from the younger brother I looked after. Perhaps he’s a bit more full of himself than before. He has money now, which we didn’t have when we were children in Sussex. We weren’t dreadfully poor, but we had to practice economy every day. Now he has taken London by storm, and I am glad for him. Sometimes dreamers should see their dreams come to pass.”
“And what of your dreams? What would Lady J dream if she stepped out from her brother’s shadow?”
She frowned slightly. “That’s not where I am, is it? In his shadow?”
“Where then?”
“I’m not sure. I have my own life. Through Troy I’ve met many clever people, men and women both. I have a salon once a month, for aspiring poets and painters.” She tipped her chin up. “Just because I am not talented, doesn’t mean I cannot recognize ability in others.”
“So you are a patron of the arts.” He leaned back and grinned. “Is that your dream—to set some young talent on the road to greatness? It must be very ennobling to have such lofty, selfless aspirations.”
Jemima swung her gaze away from him. “You mistake the matter. I am not selfless in the least.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bait you. If it’s any consolation, I myself have a rather selfish dream.”
“Oh,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I can just imagine a libertine’s dream. Let me guess—orgies in the seraglio? Primitive revels on a South Sea island?”
“Tame stuff,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But until I am with aim’s ace of achieving my dream, it’s going to remain a secret.”
“I doubt I will achieve mine,” she said with only a tiny trace of wistfulness. “Which is often the way with dreams. I… I think we should be going back now.”
She climbed to her feet but Bryce stayed where he was, stretched out on the carpet of flowers. Jemima wished he didn’t look so…healthy, reclining there at her feet. The breeze was playing with his unruly forelock and the bright sun had turned his eyes the color of platinum. And his mouth, relaxed now into a lazy curl, was beckoning her. She wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by such a man as Beecham Bryce. To have that lazy mouth curve around her own…slightly open, tasting her, coaxing her to respond. Not that she would require much coaxing, she thought.
Jemima felt the throbbing start up again, deep, deep inside her, due south of her belly. She fought off the disturbing sensation with an audible sniff.
Bryce looked up. “Head cold coming on?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said evenly. “Just a bit of pollen. The bees you know. Well, are you coming along? The Wandering Minstrels might have wandered back to the Iron Duke by now.”
“There’s no hurry,” he said, shifting onto his side to face her. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Wellesley’s troupe passed through here late yesterday afternoon. One of the squire’s sons saw them drive past the green. They looked to be heading toward Grantley, which is about ten miles south of here.”
Jemima cocked her head. “But Lovelace said they were heading to London. Grantley would be in the opposite direction.”
Bryce nodded. “It makes no sense to me. But then if the rest of Lovelace’s family are as bubble-headed as she is, it’s a wonder they can find their way out of a privy, let alone all the way to London.”
“Well, that’s washed it,” she said softly. “Poor Lovelace, fallen out of her nest, just like a baby bird. And her parents clearly haven’t spared a thought for her. If they started out for London, and then did an about-face to head for Grantley, that means they had to go right past the Iron Duke. What would make them drive past the inn and not stop to pick up their daughter?”
He sucked in his cheek. “Good sense?” She gave him a furious glower. “No, no. I’ll stop belaboring the point. The child needs looking after…and she’s welcome to slay on at Bryce Prospect until they return from their quest, whatever it may be.”
“Troy and I can take her back to London with us,” she said. “She could stay on at our house until her family returns to the city.”
Bryce made no comment, but his eyes had lost all their mirth.
“Well, you certainly don’t want us overstaying our welcome,” she pointed out reasonably. “Troy will eat you out of house and home for one thing. And Lovelace will talk you to death.”
“And what will you do to me, Jemima?” he asked softly. He was gazing up at her with those quicksilver eyes, making her stomach go all wobbly.
“I’ll—” She looked frantic for an instant. “I’ll hang indecipherable drawings over all your walls.”
“Surely an undeserved fate,” he said as he climbed to his feet and dusted off the back of his driving coat. “But London is not a good option. Our murderer knows she was heading there and he’s seen her face, don’t forget. Even in a city of that size—full of beautiful women—Lovelace Wellesley is bound to attract notice. I take leave to doubt her acting talent, but her looks are unassailable. Your only recourse would be to keep her with you, inside your home. Day and night.”
He waited a moment for the full impact of his statement to sink in. “Yes, I see the look of horror dawning in your eyes, Jem. Prisoners of war have cracked under less strain.”
“I could send Lovelace to my Aunt Sophie in Richmond—she’s nearly stone deaf, poor dear. But unfortunately, Sophie is in the Lake Country at present, caring for an ailing cousin.”
“It looks like you’re stuck here,” he said as he turned for the stable. “That is, unless you are willing to admit I have no interest in the chit; then your services as chaperone would be unnecessary.”
Jemima mulled this over while they walked across the field. She owed nothing to Lovelace Wellesley and wondered that she should feel compelled to look after her.
“Oh, I don’t know what to do,” she grumbled as she trudged along behind him.
Bryce waited at the edge of the field. “Stay,” he said quietly as she came up even with him.
Her head darted up. He was looking away from her over the slate roof of Sir Walter’s tidy manor house. “What was that?”
“Stay,” he repeated. “Here with me. For now.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said as he took her arm and led her to his waiting carriage. “You might be in nearly as much danger as Miss Wellesley.”
“That’s preposterous,” she said as he lifted her onto the seat.
“Not at all.” Bryce walked around the carriage and climbed up beside her. “The dead man had Troy’s things on him. A most strange circumstance, don’t you think? It’s possible the murderer was after the real Troy, which places both you and your brother at risk.”
“If you are trying to frighten me,” she said heatedly, “it’s not working. I have very little sensibility in that direction. Lovelace is the one in danger, not me or Troy.”
“Still, I think it’s best if you all remain at Bryce Prospect, at least until things get sorted out. The man from Bow Street will be here tomorrow. We’ll see what he has to say.”
Jemima was frowning as they bowled along the main street. She chewed on his words for a time and then asked, “Tell me again, what was the dead man carrying that made Sir Walter think he was Troy?”
“Ah,” Bryce said as he fished in the pocket of his driving coat. “I nearly forgot. Sir Walter gave me these to return to their rightful owner.”
Jemima took the gold watch and the signet ring from him, and then shook her head. “My brother is so careless sometimes. He leaves his valuables lying about at every inn we visit. I’ve warned him it’s an invitation to theft.”
“A man rarely goes out without his watch or his signet.” Bryce glanced down at his own unadorned fingers—he had left off wearing his own signet ring for a variety of complex reasons he still hadn’t fully come to terms with. “Do you have any idea why he wasn’t wearing them yesterday?”
“Oh, he never takes his valuables with him when he goes off to prizefights—too many pickpockets.”
“There’s some sense to that, though he’d have done better yesterday to have kept them with him. By the way, that’s a rather florid inscription in his watch.”
She flicked it open and read aloud, “ ‘My dearest Troy, time only increases my love for you.’ ”
Bryce made a face. “Obviously a gift from a besotted admirer.”
Jemima chuckled as she closed the watch and tucked it into her reticule. “You could say that. Our grandmother gave it to him. Terry is her only grandson, and she lavishes all sorts of gifts on him.”
“Your grandmother calls him Troy?”
“I’m the only one in the family who still calls him Terry. He’s been Lord Troy since he was seven.” Her voice lowered. “Bryce, do you think the murdered man broke into my brother’s room yesterday?”
He sighed. “It would seem the obvious conclusion. Tolliver’s servants have been with him for years, so I doubt we can look for the thief in that quarter.”
“But it makes no sense. There were several well-to-do gentlemen staying at the inn yesterday. Why would Troy have been a target?”
“He might not have been the only one. Maybe there was a rash of robberies at the Tattie and Snip.”
“The Iron Duke,” she stated, correcting him with a grin.
Once they were at the inn, Bryce went off to discover if Tolliver had heard of any other thefts, or if he’ d seen any suspicious looking characters loitering about the previous morning. Jemima went to her brother’s room to see if anything else had been stolen. She checked the top of the bureau and the nightstand and looked through the tall wardrobe that sat in one corner.
“Is anything else missing?” Bryce was leaning against the doorpost, his arms folded over his chest.
“Not one thing,” she replied with a sigh.
“How can you tell?” He motioned around the room. Troy’s possessions were scattered throughout the small space—random piles of books, heaps of discarded clothing, and a hazard of writing implements and inkpots. “Your brother is a veritable pack rat.” A naval officer’s bicorn had been tossed onto the window seat. Bryce crossed the room, took up the hat, and gave her a sweeping, theatrical bow.
Jemima grinned. “That hat is rumored to have belonged to Nelson,” she explained. “One of Troy’s idols.” She began stacking her brother’s books into neat piles. “So, did Tolliver shed any light on things?”
Bryce had moved to the bed and now sat, idly swinging one crossed leg. “There have been no other complaints of theft. And he thinks everyone here yesterday morning was on the up and up. But since there was so much traffic from the prizefight, he can’t swear that no one was creeping about up here.”
Jemima set the books on the bed beside Bryce, trying to disregard her heightened awareness of him. Here in this small chamber his presence was overwhelming. And she had a feeling he had placed himself on the bed just to be provoking.
As she turned to lift Troy’s valise down from the tall wardrobe, Bryce sprang up, and elbowed her gently aside. “Here, let me.” He looked down at her as he lifted the case from its high perch. “Why don’t you take care of things in your room, Jem. I’ll see that the gilded poet gets packed up.”
Jemima went across the hall and began to remove the numerous gowns from her wardrobe. Even though she and Troy had expected to be away from London for only a few days, experience had taught her to pack more than she needed. Her gregarious brother often met up with friends while traveling, which, of course, necessitated a prolonged visit. This wasn’t the first time she and Terry had started out booked at an inn and ended up overnighting in an elegant home. Fortunately she had brought several dinner gowns with her, in addition to her day dresses and her riding habit.
When she was finished, she went out to the hall to call for the porter and nearly bumped up against an elderly man in a tight black coat. He was tall, cadaverously thin, with unkempt white eyebrows that thrust out from his brow. He gave her a narrow-eyed look and then his face brightened in recognition.
“Lady Jemima Vale,” he said as he bowed.
“Sir?” Her face remained blank. “I believe you have the advantage of me.”
“Sir Richard Hastings, ma’am, late of His Majesty’s Navy. We met at Lady Hammersmith’s rout in May.”
“Oh,” she said in her best society voice. “Are you staying here at the Iron Duke?”
He pointed to the room beside her brother’s. “Came over from Canterbury for the mill. Pleasant little inn, what? And Tolliver does stock a fine cellar. Though it’s likely smuggled goods, being we’re so close to the coast. B
ut my excise days are behind me, thank heavens. Now I get to drink the stuff, instead of chasing after it up and down the Channel.” He chuckled softly. “Well, good day to you, ma’am. I’m heading home this afternoon.”
He glanced over her shoulder through the open door of her room. “Ah, I see you are also packing up for home. Which is just as well…there are unpleasant things afoot in this place, Lady Jemima.”
“What?” A shiver of apprehension sketched over her spine at his tone. “Do you mean the murder?”
He shook his head. “That’s nothing you need trouble yourself over, ma’am. Still, you’d do best to return to London.”
Bryce had come out into the hallway at the sound of voices. The older man gave him a curt nod, shot Jemima a meaningful look, and then went off in the direction of the stairwell.
“Who was that?” Bryce asked gruffly.
Jemima was still staring after the old gentleman. “I’m not sure. He says he’s called Sir Richard Hastings and that he met me in London at a ton party. It’s just…odd.”
“Odd that you don’t remember him? You can’t expect to remember every man you meet, Jemima.”
“It’s not that… He said there were unpleasant things afoot here. And that I should return to London. Why would he say such a thing to me? Do you think he knows something about the murder?”
Bryce tapped his finger over his lower lip. He was sorry now he had tried to frighten Jemima into staying on at Bryce Prospect. She hadn’t shown any fear then, but now there was something very like it in her eyes. He drew her into her brother’s room and shut the door.
“Listen to me, pet.” He set his hands on her shoulders. “If I’m not mistaken, Sir Richard Hastings is a retired admiral. I’ve never met him, but he’s an acquaintance of my father’s. He probably heard about the murder from Tolliver, and was merely cautioning you out of gentlemanly concern.”
“But he gave me such a start, Bryce.”
“You’re just feeling edgy because of what I said back there in the field…but that was nothing more than a lot of gammon. Of course the killer isn’t after you or Troy. I was only suggesting it to prevent you from going back to London.”