by Nancy Butler
“But why?” Jemima immediately discounted the obvious, but highly unlikely, reason that he might have wanted to keep her near him.
Bryce sighed. “Because I feel responsible for what happened in the woods; it occurred on my family’s property, after all. And I can’t keep Lovelace safe if you whisk her off to London. But I didn’t mean to make you start flying at shadows, Jemima. So stop looking so frightened.”
“I’m not frightened,” she said. He gave her a shake. “Well maybe just a bit.” She laid both hands over her face and lowered her head. “You must think me a total loss. There’s Lovelace, who witnessed a bloody murder, completely composed by dinnertime. And here I am, totally undone by a bit of petty thievery and a doddering old gentleman.”
“Lovelace has the resilience of youth on her side,” he said with a grin.
“Oh, and what have I got? The decrepitude of old age?”
“Give yourself a little credit,” he said stoutly. “Middle age, at least.”
She drew back from him with a chuckle. “You are a wretch, you know.”
He was delighted to see that her eyes were now dancing up at him.
“If I had any pretensions to anything,” she said, “you would quickly shoot them down. I only wonder that with such a barbed tongue, you are able to attract any women at all.”
He gave her a long, intent, and very speaking look. “Oh, I have my moments.”
They both returned to packing up her brother’s scattered belongings—Bryce realized it would never have occurred to Troy to stir himself to look after his own things. He lifted a slim leather diary from the desktop and was about to place it in the valise on the bed when Jemima backed into him, carrying a stack of shirts. Since he’d much rather have caught her about the waist than hold on to her perishing brother’s book, he let the diary go flying and danced her back against the bedframe.
“Thank you,” she said politely, trying to tug out of his arms. “I was in no danger of falling.”
“Maybe I was,” he said and gave her an exaggerated leer.
She looked up at him and shook her head in exasperation. “Do your paramours find this sort of childish behavior at all entertaining?”
“My paramours?” he echoed, his brows raised teasingly. “You shock me, Lady Jemima. And no, I don’t know if they do—they’re usually too busy with…um, other things to sit in judgment on my manners.”
“Insufferable man,” she muttered as he released her and bent to pick up the book.
He smoothed one of the blank pages, which had become creased, and was about to lay it in the valise, when Jemima caught his wrist. “No, wait!” she cried softly. “Open it again.”
He did as she bid and saw that four or five pages had been torn from the stitched binding.
“Troy uses this for the poems he’s currently working on,” Jemima said, running her fingers over the rough, deckled tears. “It’s a new notebook—I purchased it for him only last week—and it looks as though everything he’s written since then has been torn out.” She looked up at Bryce in disbelief. “Why would a thief steal Terry’s poems?”
Bryce shook his head. “I couldn’t imagine. No one would dare to publish Troy’s work under their own name—your brother has too distinct a style.”
Jemima sighed. “This is very troubling. I hope that if Sir Walter found Troy’s poems on the murdered man, he hasn’t disposed of them.”
Bryce grinned. “I doubt if Sir Walter knows a poem from a pork pie. He’s one of those hearty, hunting mad types. Probably illiterate, for all that he’s a magistrate. Don’t fret, sweetheart. I’m sure that if the dead man was carrying Troy’s papers, they will be returned to you. And speaking of murder, let’s get back to the Prospect and see whether your brother has done bodily harm to the Portia of the Provinces.”
Chapter Four
They found Troy scribbling away in the library. He was undismayed at the loss of the notebook pages—he was deep into another poem now, he declared—but was relieved to get his watch and ring back.
“Can’t think why anyone would bother to take my things,” he said as he slipped the ring onto his finger. “Jemima would be a more likely candidate—she travels about with all sorts of valuable fripperies.”
Bryce eyed the fine pearl necklet that adorned her throat. He’d purchased enough fripperies himself—for various deserving ladies—to know the value of the piece. Not that the pearls could compete with Jemima’s pale skin for beauty or luster.
She was frowning at her brother. “Yes, but I never leave my things lying about, Terry. I hide them in a very clever, secret place.”
“Which would be?” Bryce coaxed. He was vastly interested in all Jemima’s secret places.
“No longer a secret if I told you, sir,” she responded with a sniff.
Then, with boyish, bloodthirsty enthusiasm, Troy asked Bryce for the particulars of the murder. Bryce settled into an armchair, poured them each a glass of claret, and launched into the tale.
Jemima drifted out through the open French window, murmuring that she would take a stroll in the garden. Not that anyone appeared to notice her departure. An air of good-natured male camaraderie had already pervaded the room—which pleased her unaccountably.
For some reason—and she chose not to examine this too closely—it was important that the two men grow to like each other. She knew Bryce thought her brother lacked a proper fraternal attitude and she suspected he hadn’t approved of Troy’s drunkenness last night. Nice judgment, that, coming from a notorious womanizer. But she wanted Bryce to appreciate the finer aspects of Terry’s makeup: his keen intellect—which he went to great lengths to obscure from some people—his wry sense of humor, and his easy charm. And she likewise wanted Terry to admire Bryce, although she hadn’t a clue as to why. Except that it was always good policy to be in charity with one’s host, and it appeared they would all be living under Bryce’s roof until the murder got sorted out.
She strolled around the house toward the gardens behind the colonnade and had only just stepped onto the brick walkway, when she spied Lovelace, sitting in a white dovecote. Once again there were tearstains on the girl’s pearly cheeks.
Jemima tried to sneak away—she’d had her fill of melodrama—but Lovelace caught sight of her among the peonies and called out, “Lady J! Please, sit with me.”
Jemima sighed and then made her way to the trellised folly.
“Any news of my family at the inn?” the girl asked softly as Jemima sat beside her.
“There was some news, but not from the inn. The magistrate’s son saw your family’s coach late yesterday afternoon; it was heading south, toward Grantley.”
“Grantley?” Lovelace gasped. “They were supposed to be going to London. Papa had booked us into a theater in the West End.” Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, this is not possible.”
“Please don’t cry, Lovelace.” Jemima leaned forward and rubbed her consolingly on the back. “I know this is very difficult for you. Shall I ask Troy to sit with you and read you some of his poems?”
The girl drew back with a smoldering expression on her face. “Your brother is not a very nice person, Lady J. He called me a rattle-pated featherwit and said if I was going to prance about like the Queen of Sheba, then it was no wonder everyone went off and left me.”
“Oh, dear.” Jemima tried not to grin. “Did he really say that?” She knew Troy was not at his most tolerant after a night of carousing. “I’m sure he was only teasing you. He has three sisters, you see, and teasing comes naturally to him.”
Lovelace looked slightly mollified. “I know I talk a great deal more than I should, Lady J.” Her eyes widened in dismay. “Oh! I forgot, you don’t like that name.”
“I’m getting used to it,” Jemima responded with a sigh. Bryce seemed to have latched on to it in his perverse fashion, though there were times it sounded almost like an endearment on his lips.
Lovelace continued her snuffling discourse. “It’s just that I… I
become nervous around strangers. Before last night, I’d never sat down to supper with a titled lady and a gentleman as polished as Mr. Bryce. My mama just clouts me on the ear when I start in to talking and ‘tooting my own horn,’ as she calls it.”
“My dear, I promise you neither Mr. Bryce nor I will clout you on the ear. My brother, however, I cannot answer for.”
Lovelace responded with a watery chuckle. It was the first sign she had given Jemima that she possessed any sense of humor at all.
“How did your parents come to be actors?” Jemima asked, hoping to distract the girl.
“Papa was tutor to an earl’s son near Norwich and Mama was the steward’s daughter. They ran off together—it was such a scandal.” Lovelace grinned slightly. “At first Papa wrote plays to support them. Then a theater owner in York asked him and Mama to perform in one of them.”
“I take it they were successful.”
“Oh, yes. They started their own troupe after a while. Papa is a wonderful playwright. And my parents were so looking forward to their first London production.” She sniffed. “But now everything has gone awry…. I only pray the theater manager hasn’t booked another play into the Orpheum.”
Jemima took up her hand. “I will ask Troy to write to him, if you like, explaining the delay in their arrival. My brother…has a certain influence in the city.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Lovelace said. “I’m sorry I made such a scene at breakfast, but I have had an abiding passion for your brother ever since I read “The Crucible of Byzantium.” It was too oversetting to realize he had been sitting beside me the whole time, and never once mentioned who he was.”
Jemima gave the girl an encouraging smile. “You are in the public eye, Lovelace, so you know how people clamor after those who are…set apart. My brother does not like to capitalize on his name and often introduces himself as Terence Vale. He didn’t intend to deceive you. Now come inside and have your luncheon. We brought my luggage over from the inn, and if you are still here at dinnertime, you can wear one of my dresses. I have a rose-colored gown that would suit you perfectly.”
“I don’t want to have dinner with your brother.” Lovelace grumbled, for once immune to the temptation of appearing in a flattering shade of pink. “He makes me even more nervous than you or Mr. Bryce. And then I will begin to chatter on and on.” She lowered her eyes. “And no one really cares to hear about my sorry little life.”
Oh, dear, Jemima thought. Lovelace had gone from monumental hubris to sniveling self-pity in less than twenty-four hours. It was the girl’s age, she knew, that caused it. The wild flights of fancy giving way to the deep valleys of despair. As much as she dreaded the dogged approach of middle age, Jemima vowed she wouldn’t be seventeen again, not on a bet.
“If you come along now,” she coaxed, “I’ll tell you a secret. When you are nervous around people, the surest thing is to ask them about themselves. That way, they think you charming and astute. And Troy is the perfect subject—he’ll natter on about himself forever if given half a chance.”
* * *
As Bryce concluded his tale of the murder and its subsequent aftermath, Troy rose from the desk and went to pour himself another glass of claret.
“Poor Lovelace,” he said as he resumed his seat. “She’s had a rotten time of it. I gave her quite a setdown this morning—I’m not very tolerant of other people’s weak natures. Still, she is a little beauty. Even if she has the brain of a peahen.”
Bryce smiled. “Some men might consider that an asset. And speaking of beauties…”
Troy looked up from the glass that he was twirling between his ink-stained fingers. “No, no, don’t say it. You needn’t tell me to mind my manners around Lovelace, old chap. I’m not in the petticoat line, not when it comes to veritable babes in the wood.”
“I wasn’t referring to Miss Wellesley. I meant your sister.”
“Jemima?”
“Of course, Jemima. Unless you have another sister hidden in the house. I find her to be quite…enchanting.”
“Jemima?”
A slight frown appeared on Bryce’s brow. “Stop saying it like that, Troy. You’d think your sister was an antidote.”
Troy shrugged. “She’s long past her last prayers, Bryce. Anyone can see that. And a good thing, too. I’d be desolated if some old sparky came along and whisked her off. She’s the best of sisters, and looks after everything for me. Here, now, I’ll tell you what. You know your way around women—if even half of what they say about you is true.” Troy gave him an especially speaking look. “Why don’t you spend some time with her, you know, do the pretty, dose her with a bit of charm. Poor old Jem could do with a bit of cheering up; she’s been rather glum lately, blue-deviled like I’ve never seen before—though I couldn’t tell you why.”
Bryce suspected the reason was sitting across from him in blond splendor, knocking back a glass of claret. But he couldn’t tell Troy that he, Jemima’s own brother, was likely the one who was sullying her spirits. One didn’t preach at one’s guests, especially when they were offering you carte blanche with their willowy, chestnut-haired sister.
It was clear that Troy was blind to any allure Jemima might possess and that he was likewise insensitive to her need for some kind of recognition. How wearing it must be for her to always be in the company of a self-indulgent genius, Bryce reflected. Though he didn’t much care for Troy’s florid poetry, he had a feeling history would judge the man quite differently. Poor old Jem, indeed. She, who couldn’t see her own worth beyond the bright light that fairly glistened off her brother.
* * *
By the time Jemima peeked into the library, the masculine bonhomie was as thick in the room as the smoke from the cigars the two men were enjoying. It was well past lunchtime—the ladies had been left to fend for themselves and had opted to dine outdoors, on the stone terrace that ran along the back of the house. Terry and Bryce were deep in the throes of reminiscence by the sound of things, and since they couldn’t see her through the cloud of smoke, Jemima decided to listen at the door.
“Eleanor Astoria? I remember her.” It was Troy’s voice. “Never say you had her after Bothwell?”
“I did indeed,” Bryce replied in a voice mellowed with claret. “She was a taking little thing.”
“Took Bothwell for all he was worth!”
There was the sound of hearty, deep-pitched laughter.
“And whatever happened to…oh, what was her name, the opera dancer from Clapham?”
“You mean Harriet Travers? She married some young lordling whose family shipped them off to Ireland in disgrace afterward.”
“And was she one of your conquests, Bryce?”
There was a slight pause. “Ireland is a very beautiful country.”
Troy gave a shout of laughter. “You mean you had her after she was married?”
“Before and after. Harriet’s lordling was a trifle…unexciting.”
Jemima stepped back from the door, and stood for some time unmoving on the hall carpet. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she knew. Beecham Bryce made no claims to being a saint. Quite the opposite in fact. But it was one thing to hear his exploits being recounted over tea by the insatiable gossips of the ton and quite another to hear the man himself bragging about them.
She wanted to pack up her newly arrived luggage and storm out of the house, but there was nowhere to go, except back to the inn. And when Terry came to fetch her, there would be a scene when she refused to return. What could she tell him, what excuse could she give? Bryce had not made any improper overtures to her. Oh, he had flirted with her, in his sardonic way, but that was a usual occurrence between men and women of the ton. No, Bryce had done nothing that would excuse her fleeing from his home. Nothing except confirm his reprehensible reputation—a reputation she was well aware of before she agreed to stay beneath his roof. But it was most curious that overhearing something she already knew to be true could still cut like a knife.
Behind
the partially closed door, the two men began to move about. Jemima barely had time to slip into the front parlor before they emerged.
Troy was clapping Bryce on the back. “I might just take you up on that offer. I haven’t done any fly-fishing since Jem and I were in Scotland last summer.”
“Your sister might not wish to remain here,” Bryce remarked as they walked past her hiding place. “Not once the murder is solved.”
“Jem? She’s never any trouble. Follows where I lead, just like a faithful hound.”
It was a good thing the gentlemen were out of earshot when Jemima left her hiding place or they would have heard her say a most unladylike word.
Dinner was a subdued affair at best. Jemima had entered the drawing room only just ahead of the butler, who had come to announce dinner. During the meal she focused all her attention on Lovelace. Bryce was surprised by that development—the two ladies appeared quite in charity with each other. Lovelace seemed in a less ebullient mood than last night, and when she wasn’t conversing with Jemima, she addressed her male companions in a quiet voice, inquiring artlessly about their respective lives.
Jemima, however, continued to pointedly ignore the two men. By the time the custard tarts were carried in, Bryce decided it was time to draw her out.
“Lady Jemima,” he said, turning to her with an encouraging smile. “Your brother mentioned that you visited Scotland last summer.”
“Yes,” she said without looking up from her dessert.
“And did you enjoy your stay?”
“Yes.” Her spoon scraped against the porcelain dish.
“And how did you find the people to be?”
“Scottish, for the most part.”
She then turned away from him and asked Lovelace about the new play.
Bryce recognized a snub when he was handed one. He shot a questioning look toward Troy, who merely shrugged.