Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2)

by Cassandra Dean

  “Ah.” Wainwright paused. “Do you truly believe she is like a sister?”

  He stared down at his clenched fist, the cards bending in his grip. “Yes.”

  “Then you have no say. She makes her own decisions. Unless you give her a reason to change her mind, you cannot interfere.”

  “What if she is behaving recklessly with her reputation? You did not see them, Wainwright.”

  “I would wager Lady Lydia had everything well in hand.”

  The cards blurred. Wainwright spoke truly. Lydia always had everything well in hand.

  “You cannot wait, Roxwaithe,” Wainwright said, compassion stark in his tone. “She is surrounded by suitors. You will wake up one day and discover her affianced, and then married. Do not live with regret, my friend. It makes a poor bedfellow.”

  Oliver shook his head. His friend had no idea of what he spoke.

  Wainwright sighed. “I tried,” he said to the heavens.

  “Tried what?” Lady Wainwright took her seat next to her husband.

  “Tried to change Roxwaithe’s mind. A feat doomed to failure.” He looked at the empty seat beside his lady. “Where is Miss Hurcombe, my dear?”

  “Cynthia was asked to dance.”

  “Ah.” Turning his gaze, Wainwright studied Oliver.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You are like a woolly mammoth. When are you going to shave? I can lend you my valet, should your own be subpar.”

  Lady Wainwright walked her fingers up her husband’s arm. “I wouldn’t be so quick to remove it. I find all that hair…affecting.”

  Wainwright’s eyes brightened. “Really? Well, my lady, shall we talk about that some?”

  Oliver studied the ceiling as Wainwright and his lady flirted outrageously. He often told himself he wasn’t jealous of his friend, but every now and then, envy snuck up on him. A wife who loved him, joyous children who bestowed hugs and kisses even on their hairy uncle Roxwaithe, a life that was shared….

  Across the room, Lydia played her cards, laughing as she folded her hand and batted her fan on the forearm of the gentleman beside her.

  Sometimes, envy snuck up on him.

  Chapter Four

  Standing in the doorway of her sister’s bedchamber, Lydia said suddenly, “What are you doing?”

  Alexandra jumped. “Good god!”

  Grinning, Lydia entered the room. Complexion unnaturally pale, her sister still held her hand to her chest. Hmm. Maybe she had been a little too enthusiastic in her approach. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” Still scowling, Alexandra picked up a—perhaps a fichu—off her bed.

  Lydia’s gaze drifted over the assorted clothing scattered over the covers. “It looks a lot like packing. Why are you packing? You must be going somewhere. Where are you going?”

  Alexandra folded the….Lydia was fairly certain it was a fichu. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

  “Where are you going?” she repeated.

  “Why must you be so annoying? I told Mama I wanted a sister after she and Papa burdened me with two brothers. More fool me.”

  “Where?” she demanded.

  Alexandra shot her a gloriously disgruntled look. “Northumberland.”

  Northumberland? Their family’s ancestral estate was in Northumberland. “Why are you going to Bentley Close?”

  “No reason. Don’t tell Papa.”

  How interesting. “Don’t tell Papa what? That you are travelling or that it is to Bentley Close?”

  “You know, I enjoyed it when you were on the Continent.”

  Lydia smirked. “Don’t tell Papa what?”

  “That I’m going to investigate a possible ghostly sighting at Waithe Hall,” Alexandra gave in.

  Lydia folded her arms. Her sister studiously continued to pack, avoiding her gaze. “Why wouldn’t you want Papa to know that?” she said slowly.

  Alexandra’s breath exploded. “Because it is none of his concern. I am a grown woman with wealth of my own from our aunt, thus my movements are my own. If I wish to visit Bentley Close, I shall. I am allowed to travel between our estates.”

  “You are,” Lydia agreed.

  “I am allowed to investigate the spiritual as well.”

  “I didn’t say anything to the contrary.” She watched Alexandra rather aggressively continue to fold garments. “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said, shoving something that might have been a chemise into a bag.

  “I suppose I can avoid him until after you leave.”

  “Thank you ever so.” Quite obviously resolving to ignore her, Alexandra continued to pack.

  She watched her sister silently. Alexandra’s hobby of spiritual investigation was an odd one, but it was also fascinating. Their parents were mostly indulgent of her interest, and Oliver spoken of her father’s pride in their discussions on the subject, especially when Alexandra had managed to get a paper published with the Spiritual Society of North London. In any event, her interest was no less strange than George’s obsession with the medical, grotesqueries in particular. And if she were pushed, she could admit her own interest in ancient architecture and urban planning was not within the normal interests of young women. Actually, her family was really quite odd when she thought about it.

  Picking up the cricket ball that usually resided on Alexandra’s dresser from the bed, she began tossing it in the air. “What about Mama?”

  “What about Mama?” Noticing Lydia was handling the ball, a shadow passed over Alexandra’s face. “Please be careful with that.”

  Moving the ball between her hands, she said, “Are you going to tell her you’re going to Bentley Close?”

  “No, and I don’t have to. Mama is distracted by Harry’s wedding. She won’t even notice I’m gone.” Her sister’s gaze followed the movement of the ball.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I would say she will notice when you don’t attend the breakfast table three days in a row.”

  “Ah, but in three days, I’ll be almost at Bentley Close.” As if unable to help herself, Alexandra snatched the ball from Lydia’s hands.

  Curling her fingers, she watched as her sister carefully placed the cricket ball back on her dresser. “How are you travelling?”

  “Stagecoach.” Alexandra gave the ball a final pat before returning to her packing.

  “Stagecoach? Alexandra, you should at least take the family coach—”

  “I shall have my maid, and there’s no call to engage staff that are not required. I shall only be there a few days. No sense rousing the grooms and farriers and coachmen just for a few days.”

  “Alexandra—”

  “It will be safe. You can remain here and continue to cut a swathe through the male population of London without worrying about me, though I do not know why you are cutting this swathe.” Frowning at another chemise, she said, “What happened to your plan of marrying Roxwaithe?”

  Lydia froze. She couldn’t— She— “I—I grew to realise it the fancies of a girl.”

  Alexandra frowned. “Fancies? It’s all you’ve spoken of since...I cannot remember.”

  “Well, it was the fancies of a young girl. The Continent taught me much” Saucily, she smirked and ignored her heart set to pound right out her chest. “What is to be investigated at Waithe Hall?”

  Alexandra’s expression brightened. “The villages are reporting strange lights in the servant’s wing. Papa and Roxwaithe think it to be nothing, but it could be some sort of paranormal activity. There is so much lore surrounding Waithe Hall, more than most houses I’ve investigated. Did you know a woman walked to her death from a parapet about a century ago?”

  Thanking her lucky stars Alexandra was so easily distracted, she said, “Good god, Alexandra, that’s macabre.”

  “That’s not the best bit,” she continued, her eyes alight. “A few years later, there were reports of a woman walking the roof only to disappear. There was that story
, you know, about the housekeeper forever doomed to search for keys lost. Perhaps these lights are in fact her.”

  “Or perhaps it is squatters trespassing on Roxwaithe property.”

  “Either way, I shall find out.” Alexandra patted the clothes she had placed in the trunk. “Is that why you don’t visit Roxegate anymore? Because you have decided you do not want to marry him after all? You used to practically live there.”

  It was the abrupt change in subject that set her heart to race once more, or perhaps it had never stopped. Nothing more. “I did not.”

  “You did. You were always over there. We only saw you for breakfast and occasionally dinner.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “Not much of one.” Alexandra studied her. “Did something happen?”

  Lydia willed her features still. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Are you saying I don’t know my own mind?”

  “No. It’s just odd, is all. You and Mama swept off to the Continent with barely a word. Mama returned, but you remained for almost two years. You’ve been back for three months, we haven’t really talked, and now you tell me your insistence you would marry Roxwaithe as soon as you were old enough was merely a fancy.”

  “Justina Westhoffe invited me to stay with her family. I could not say no, especially when it meant staying longer in Paris. Besides, we never talked before I went away. Why would we do so now?”

  Alexandra lifted a shoulder. “I had hoped perhaps we could be closer.”

  “Is that why you have not broached this subject until you are literally leaving for Bentley Close?”

  Instead of answering, Alexandra studied her.

  Lydia exhaled forcefully. “What now?”

  Alexandra shook her head. “Nothing. I did not see you much at the Fanning ball.”

  Honestly, her sister’s lightning change of subject was enough to give one whiplash. “That’s because you were squirreled in the corner, probably discussing spirits or the occult or whatever it is you discuss with those paranormal people with whom you like to associate.”

  “You were not on the dance floor.”

  “I felt more like cards and conversation.”

  Staring at her half-packed trunk, Alexandra said absently, “Roxwaithe asked after you.”

  Her chest tightened. “Oh? When?”

  “When I saw him yesterday. He wished to know your movements.” Alexandra frowned at a petticoat. “I think I am packing too much. Do you think I am packing too much?”

  “Probably. It’s quite a lot for only a few days” She paused. “Why did Roxwaithe wish to know my movements?” she asked as casually as she could.

  “He always asks of you.” Alexandra’s brows drew further. “Perhaps it will be longer than a few days I am away. Maybe a fortnight?”

  “What do you mean, he always asks after me?”

  “Oh, you know, while you were away. He would always ask about everyone in the family, but he would pay particular attention to any discussion involving you.”

  “He did?” Lydia kept her expression politely inquiring, as if what Alexandra had next to say was not of vital importance. “He never wrote me.”

  “Well, that would not be appropriate, would it? He is not related to us, for all we were children together: he, Stephen and—” Her voice broke. “Maxim,” she finished softly.

  Oliver’s brother, the one who had died. Lydia remembered the funeral, how sad everyone had been. She remembered standing beside Oliver and watching as person after person offered their condolences, as his jaw became tighter and tighter. Alexandra had been grief-stricken for months, locking herself in her room to emerge for meals only, sombre and pale-cheeked.

  “Why are you calling him Roxwaithe?”

  Lydia blinked. Another lightning-fast subject change. “Excuse me?”

  “You never call him Roxwaithe. It’s always ‘Oliver’ this, and ‘Oliver’ that.”

  “It is his name. His title. I am no longer a girl, I should refer to people as is proper.”

  “You always did, but not him. What has happened?” Alexandra’s gaze sharpened. “And you never said why you went to the Continent.”

  Heat rose in her cheeks. “Yes, I did. It was for my trousseau.”

  “What trousseau? You were not, and still aren’t, engaged.”

  “It was not for a wedding. It was for my debut.”

  “For a year? Before you were even presented?”

  Her cheeks felt as if they were ablaze. “It was Mama’s idea. Ask her.”

  Alexandra looked in no way convinced.

  “Where do you want me to tell Papa you went?” she said hastily.

  Alexandra pressed her lips together. “Tell him I went to Bentley Close,” she finally said. “However, perhaps wait three days before telling him.”

  Nodding, Lydia rose from the bed and edged towards the door. “I will.”

  “Lydia, about Oliver—”

  She stumbled in her haste. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I?”

  “Lydia—”

  “I won’t tell Papa. Have a good journey.” Rushing through the door, she fled to her room and, closing her bedroom door behind her, sagged against it. Everything always circled back to Oliver.

  Moving further into her room, she stared out her window. Her bedchamber looked out on the shared garden, and she knew it to be the same view he saw from his bedchamber. Cupping her elbows, she leant her forehead against the window pane. She remembered him again as he’d been last night; his brows drawn over grey eyes, his strong jaw clenched, his wide shoulders tense.

  She couldn’t be so wholly wrong. All her life, she’d know they would be married. Perhaps she had been too young, but the Continent had given her polish, had introduced her to other experiences and, yes, other men. Now that she’d returned, now she was older and wiser, many seemed overjoyed to have her attention, to engage in flirtation, to desire her kiss. Many, but not him.

  Turning her back on the window, she looked around her bedchamber. It all seemed foreign to her. It had last been decorated when she was fourteen and obsessed with green. She had thought to one day decorate Roxegate in the same colours, but to do that, she would have need to be Oliver’s countess and he, stubbornly, insisted it would not happen.

  Laying down, she stared at the canopy above her bed and, quite deliberately, resolved to think of nothing. And, mostly, she did.

  Chapter Five

  Fingers speared through his hair and hand bracing his head, Oliver scratched yet another amendment to the document before him. His eyes felt sandy and swollen, his brain muzzy, and he was desperate for sleep, but there was too much to do. It had been another long day after an even longer night, where he hadn’t returned to Roxegate until the early hours of the morning. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his brow. That was something he’d done more times than he cared to remember in the last week, and he was again to attend a dinner that evening.

  The quiet snick of the study door heralded Rajitha’s entry. The heel of his hand pressing into his forehead, Oliver continued to work on the report before him, knowing his secretary would wait silently. It would not be anyone else. After the Fanning ball, the faint hope it might be Lydia was all but gone.

  “What is it, Rajitha?” he asked.

  “Your secretary is still in his office.”

  Surprise jerked his head up. Out of all the people who could have entered his office, he would never have expected it to be his brother.

  Stephen lowered himself into the seat opposite, his expression carefully blank. His brother was a rangy fellow, a leanness contradictory to Oliver’s own more solid build. His deep-set eyes were the same grey as Oliver’s but his hair a lighter shade of golden brown and his cheekbones boarded on sharpness. They looked like each other except when they didn’t. Perhaps Maxim would have bridged the gap. If he had lived.

  “What brings you to Roxegate, brother?” It had been a good six months since he’
d last seen Stephen, and then it had been at a dinner hosted at Torrence House. Before Lydia had returned.

  “I am here to beg for funds.” Stephen’s expression remained impassive.

  “You do not have to beg for funds.” Christ, his brother made him out to be a cruel fiend, jealously holding the purse strings and making him beg for the smallest of crumbs. He did no such thing. He was judicious in the release of funds, because Stephen too often sought to waste his. Their mother had left each of them funds independent of Roxwaithe, and Stephen had burned through his by the time he was twenty-five. Oliver would not allow him to do the same with what the Roxwaithe estate gave him.

  Stephen’s eyes hardened. “I should like funds to allow for the continued study of the mythic.”

  Oliver blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he finally said.

  “The mythic. The spiritual. That is what Alexandra calls it, isn’t it? You know. Ghosts and such.” He smiled thinly.

  “The spiritual.” Oliver shook himself, but it still made no sense. “You wish to study the spiritual?”

  “As I said.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since when what?”

  He gritted his teeth. “When did this interest begin?”

  “I have always possessed an interest.”

  “Not that I have observed. You were more likely to be outside occupying yourself with some sort of ball sport than traipsing through halls with Alexandra and Maxim hunting ghosts.”

  “And if Lord Roxwaithe didn’t see it, then it must not have happened?”

  “No, I—” He exhaled. “I did not mean it such. It is a surprise. What do you require the funds for?”

  “For my studies.”

  “Yes, I understand, but what specifically? Is there equipment that must be purchased? Dues to be paid? Are you looking for further study? Where, exactly, does one study the spiritual?” He frowned. “I do not recall Lord Demartine mentioning Alexandra petitioning him to fund her interest.”

  Scowling, Stephen turned his cheek. “I should have known you would not help.”

  Irritation nipped at Oliver. “I did not say that. It is good practice to ask these questions.”