Pride & Passion
- -
- 100%
- +
“She is,” he growled, “believe me, she is.” He thought of the murderer who had been carrying Lucy’s handkerchief. What the devil had she been about giving a man such as that any token of her affection? A strange sense of betrayal filtered through his blood but he shook it off, determined to try to think of other things.
“Why don’t you tell me what it is, so that I may aid both of you?”
He’d kept the secret well-guarded, deep in his heart. It haunted him at night, and he wanted to be purged of it, to forget he had ever discovered it. But was telling his sister the thing to do? Was it betraying Lucy?
“Adrian?” she asked. “There is no need to war with yourself over this. I just thought, well, sometimes secrets are a burden when one must shoulder them alone.”
Suddenly he was speaking, not thinking it through, only knowing he needed this, the ability to talk to another soul who might have some wisdom to impart to him.
“The man who shot Knighton,” he began, recalling the scene a few weeks ago when the pendant, one of the relics the Brethren Guardians were responsible for keeping, went missing, and Isabella’s—now Lady Black’s—former suitor, Knighton, had been found with it. “He was involved with Orpheus. Hell, he might even be Orpheus.”
Orpheus was a rogue Freemason. Adrian was certain. This Orpheus had an uncanny knowledge of the Brethren Guardians. Their existence was a secret. No one but the three of them and their families knew of it. No one knew that the relics they protected even existed. But Orpheus knew. And so had Wendell Knighton. The urge to find and unmask this Orpheus positively seethed and festered inside him. It should have been because of his oath—the liege he owed to the generations of his family who had successfully kept the chalice and the secret of the Brethren Guardians carefully hidden. But it was not. It was the knowledge that Lucy was intimately acquainted with the bastard that ate at him, made him want to discover Orpheus’s identity, and tear at him—destroy him. For what, he had asked himself? And the answer was always there, whispering in his mind. For taking the woman he loved, for turning her away so that she could not see him, or his need; for making her unable to accept anything he offered her.
“You’re woolgathering again, brother,” Lizzy murmured. The touch of her fingers pulled him out of his reverie and escalating anger, and helplessness that had been his constant companion these past weeks.
“This man who shot Knighton, he obviously didn’t want us to capture Knighton alive. Before he shot him, I spotted him on the roof of the lodge. I ran to the back of the building and gave chase, but he had quite a head start on me, and when he was out of sight, I stopped, deciding it prudent to return to Black who had been shot. And then I saw it. A lace handkerchief, with three initials.”
The memory made his stomach fall to his feet, just as it had when he’d picked up the lace and saw what he held.
“Lucy Ashton’s initials, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“I think I know the rest. She had given this man her favor—and he is the lover that she’s trying to connect with on the other side, via all the séances and soothsayers she’s been visiting.”
Adrian could no longer deny the truth to himself. “She loves him,” he said on a breath that he knew sounded pained. “She believed him dead, and when I gave her back the handkerchief, it told her that he was indeed very much alive and not killed in the fire as she had assumed. She doesn’t seem to give a damn that he’s a murderer, and my enemy, and also the enemy of her cousin’s husband. She’s obsessed with finding him,” he snapped. Lunging up from the settee, he paced the room like a caged lion.
“She’s determined to find him, even knowing that we search for him. She’s resolved to stand in our way, and if it makes her an enemy of us, so be it.”
“Then we must protect her for her own good.”
“How? She won’t do or say anything that might help us.”
Rising, Elizabeth held out her hand, and he grasped it, steadying her. “She won’t tell you, brother, but she’ll confide in a friend—I am sure of it. Now, I hear a carriage … that will be them. Take yourself off, Adrian. Your expression, I’m quite certain, is rather ferocious. It will hardly induce poor Lucy to share her confidences with me.”
He stood there, stunned. “You would do that?”
“Betray Lucy’s confidence?” She shrugged, and reached down to where Rosie, now off the settee, placed her head against Elizabeth. “Only so far as it might help you. Anything she says that is of no consequence to this case, or Orpheus, I will not share. I like her, Adrian. And I could not live with myself if she were to be hurt by this man.”
“Thank you, Lizzy.”
“There is no need to thank me, yet. I haven’t gotten her to confide in me—and I won’t if you’re standing around.”
“All right,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll head out to Blake’s. I’m meeting Black and Alynwick there.”
“A good idea. Be back for tea and I shall share what I learn.”
CHAPTER THREE
IF IT WASN’T for Elizabeth’s excellent conversation and friendship, Lucy wouldn’t dare step foot inside the huge town house. Despite its size, there was every possibility she might very well run into the duke—whom she was presently arduously avoiding.
“Ah, good day, ladies,” Elizabeth said as she breezed into the foyer with the help of a footman, her pet spaniel at her side. “You have brought the contraband, I hope?”
Isabella held up a stack of leaflets. “The penny dreadfuls. Hot off the press. I made Black run out early this morning to get them.”
“How fortunate for us that you have the ability to persuade your reclusive husband to leave his home, and at so early an hour.”
“There are some inducements his lordship is unable to resist,” Isabella murmured. Laughter filled the entry, and the footman struggled to hide a crooked smile.
“Well, my brother has gone to see Lord Black, so we have the house to ourselves. We may eat as many scones as we like, and drink pots of tea, without any tedious male intrusion.”
Lucy let out a sigh of relief. While she had been looking forward to visiting Elizabeth, she dreaded the thought of running into the duke. To know the house was devoid of him was something more than a sense of relief. It was gratitude.
“Come. I’ve decided to use the yellow salon in the hopes it might make the day brighter. I’ve been told it’s cold and dreary, and quite dull outside.”
It was. And Lucy despised it. Too many days and nights she passed by herself in weather such as this. Since Issy had married Black and moved out of the house they had once shared with Lucy’s father, Lucy had found herself at loose ends—and alone—again.
She had quite thought of Isabella as a sister, not a cousin, and was just getting used to having her about, when Lord Black had dashingly and passionately swept Issy off her unsuspecting feet.
It was rather uncharitable of her, but Lucy was resentful at times of Isabella leaving her. It wasn’t fair, of course. Issy deserved to have a life, and a loving husband. Lucy just wished she hadn’t had to leave her behind to have it.
They lived across the street from one another, and still it was not close enough for Lucy. The lonely nights, and the empty days seemed to be growing, and the sadness she had felt as a child and young woman seemed to be coming back—although darker and more ominous than before. Isabella claimed it was the effects of the occultism Lucy had begun studying, but Lucy knew it was something else entirely.
Refusing to sink further into her thoughts, Lucy shoved them aside, and followed Elizabeth and the footman down the long stately hall of Sussex House. Despite the gloom of the weather, the hall was bright and airy owing to the pale colored walls, and the enormous domed window that filled the ceiling. At the end of the hall was a glass conservatory that looked out onto the back gardens. Tall green palms and brilliantly colored hothouse flowers drew her eye, making her think of a warm summer day, although, behind the crimson petals were rain soaked windows and a bleak gunmetal-gray sky.
Still, what a lovely spot it would be in the spring, when the grass was green, and the trees newly leafed out. Hyacinths would be particularly pretty in that room, giving it a rich, feminine floral scent. Hyacinths always reminded her of a warm spring day. She gave the conservatory one last longing glance before turning the corner. She had always wanted a conservatory, but Papa had never been one to be pleased by gardening. He was even less pleased by the prospect of improving a house that was part of an entailment. Even though, that entailment might very well one day come to her own son, and his grandson.
“There now,” Elizabeth murmured as she allowed the spaniel to nudge her gently away from a chair that stood directly in her path. “Is this not nice? I can almost feel the sunshine.”
Indeed it was. The sitting room was bright and cheery; small, but warm, and with the fire that crackled in the marble hearth it was rather cozy. It was also very feminine and Lucy could easily get lost in the comfort of the room. Lemon-yellow walls with ornate white plaster cornices and mullions gave the room a light, but aristocratic flare. The curtains were a billowing concoction of white silk, edged with the palest of green fringe. The furniture was light and delicate, upholstered in shades of yellow and pink and pale green, with chintz pillows, and a thick carpet. Lucy could not help but imagine the imposing duke sitting down on the delicate rosewood settee that was patterned with big pink cabbage roses, sipping away at his tea. She could imagine what it must be like for a visitor to sit opposite him, to have those mysterious brooding eyes watching for faux pas, while he systematically stripped each layer away in his search for imperfections.
Those eyes … a woman could either be intimidated or besotted by those gray eyes. Thank heavens, Lucy was neither.
“Thank you, Maggie,” Elizabeth murmured as her companion, who seemed to come out of the ethers, took her by the hand and helped her to lower onto the very settee that only seconds ago Lucy had been imagining the duke sitting upon.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?” the portly but kind companion inquired while Elizabeth settled herself and arranged her skirts. With a gentle pat on the cushion beside her, she called her dog up, and Lucy could not help but grin at the sight of the very pregnant Rosie struggling to get her hind legs up onto the settee. Once the spaniel was settled and curled up by Elizabeth, she and Isabella took the chairs opposite their host.
“Thank you, Maggie. I believe we shan’t stand on ceremony and all the little rules to tea today.” She smiled, and her gray eyes began to shine with mirth. “I am quite certain that my companions will see to it that I do not take it into my head to play hostess and pour.”
Maggie sent Elizabeth a scowl, while Lizzy patted the companion’s hand. “Truly, Maggie, I am fine. Take the afternoon with my blessing. Lady Lucy shall act as hostess today.”
Surprised, Lucy straightened her spine just a fraction. She expected Isabella to have been given the honors. After all, she was married now—to an earl—and was the only married lady at the table.
“Will that do, Lady Lucy?” Elizabeth asked.
“I would be honored, of course.”
“Well, if I might dispense a measure of advice, Lady Lucy, it would be to watch that one,” Maggie said while pointing to Elizabeth who sat grinning. “Far too stubborn for her own good. Right then, I shall be on my way, but I won’t leave the house. Call if you need me.”
“She’s right, you know.” Elizabeth sighed as the salon door clicked quietly closed behind Maggie. Settling back onto the cushions, Elizabeth allowed her hand to rest affectionately on Rosie’s pregnant side. “I am far too stubborn. But I shall not repeat my performance of yesterday. I nearly scalded poor Sussex. My brother—” Her words were whispered as she smiled fondly. “What he won’t do to make his blind sister happy. Even make her believe she could play hostess and pour tea.”
There was warmth and a true sense of affection in Isabella’s voice when she spoke. “His grace seems so very nice. I cannot tell you how welcoming he has been to me since marrying Black.”
“He wasn’t always so indulgent,” Lizzy said. “He was rather spoiled and selfish as a child—quite mean, as well. In truth, I didn’t really like him, and he was horrid to Mama. Like me, she was afflicted with dwindling sight, and I think Sussex feared it might happen to him … he hid that fear by belittling her—a trait he learned from my father.”
“How horrible, Lizzy. To see you both together, one would never know the troubles between you. The duke seems, well, quite the perfect model as a brother,” Isabella observed.
“No, I agree. Sussex is an ideal brother. I don’t know what caused his change—one day he was insufferable, and then he fell ill and was removed from London to an estate that Papa rarely frequented in Wales. It was above a year, I think, before I saw him again—Papa wouldn’t allow me, you see. I was kept away for fear of my own health. When we next saw each other I was completely blind, but I could tell he had changed. His voice was softer, his pattern of speech slower, more defined. In all, he was quiet. Composed … given to contemplation and silence—so unlike his prior proclivities.”
“I suppose he became a man in that time spent away from you,” Isabella offered. “Little brothers, I should think, have a terrible tendency to grow up into men.”
Lizzy smiled. “Indeed they do. And Sussex’s transformation was quite welcomed. My mother, you see, had just died before he took ill, and I think it might have had a lot to do with the change in him. I know from experience when one is confined to bed, one has a great many things to think about—to ask forgiveness for.” Lizzy straightened then shrugged a little. “Well, then, enough about my brother, let us have some tea.”
Lucy reached for the teapot. “It’s milk and sugar, isn’t it?” she asked Elizabeth.
“Yes, please. And one of Cook’s lemon scones, with extra lemon curd. There’s no unearthly reason why we should let her delicious lemon curd go to waste. Slather it on, if you will, Lucy, and I shall instruct my maid to tighten my corset laces.”
“Oh, how I loathe tight lacing,” Isabella said with a shudder. “How does one take a proper breath?”
“I’ve never found any assistance from it,” Lucy murmured as she tipped the teapot and watched the amber liquid spill into the delicate cups. “One needs something of a bosom for tight lacing to be effective.”
Elizabeth tutted. “Well, when one possesses a figure like mine, tight lacing only makes you look like a sausage casing filled with too much meat!”
“Scandalous!” Isabella laughed.
“But true,” Lizzy said with a smile. “I can have enough bosom showing without the aid of tight lacing, thank you very much.”
Smiling, Lucy watched Lizzy and marveled at how composed and at ease she was. She was a beautiful woman, with long shining black hair and the most lovely gray eyes she had ever seen. Lizzy was blessed with pale, smooth skin that reminded her of moonstone. And her figure … Well, Elizabeth York was rounded in all the right places, and possessed a bosom that Lucy felt quite envious of. Nothing ever spilled out of her own necklines, despite the fact she had taken to making her own clothes.
Once the tea was poured, and the scones cut and swathed in lemon curd and clotted cream, they sat back with a collective sigh and kicked off their shoes, while assuming positions of comfort that no lady of gentle breeding would dare consider during an afternoon call to tea.
“I adore it when the house is devoid of men,” Elizabeth said on a sigh as she bit into her scone. “One can eat as much as they desire without speculation, and sit in the most unseemly positions. Do put your feet up, ladies, if you’re so inclined.”
Isabella moaned as she bit into a pink iced cake that oozed custard from its flaky sides. “This is to die for, Lizzy, the little square cake with the pink icing. What do you call it?”
“I have no idea what its proper name is, but Cook likes to refer to it as ‘the bit of sweet his grace adores.’ It’s Sussex’s favorite. All almond paste and marzipan and thick custard. What I wouldn’t give to see him sitting here with a delicate pink square in his hand.”
Laughter erupted as Isabella agreed, while wondering aloud what her husband would look like indulging in the fancy pastries, and little thin sandwiches. Try as she might, Lucy attempted to picture the mysterious Earl of Black, but instead of his image, a set of haunting gray eyes appeared, and she blinked it away, and instead finished off her scone.
“So, what news is there to be had?” Elizabeth inquired.
“As you know, I haven’t been out of the house in a fortnight,” Isabella grumbled, “but I do know that Lucy has some gossip to share.”
Elizabeth sat up a bit straighter, jostling Rosie in the process, who gave a little grunt of displeasure then stretched out onto her back. “Gossip? Oh, do tell!”
“Well,” Lucy hedged, “I don’t know if I should be repeating this. Gossip, you know, such a nasty thing.”
“Oh, hang it,” Elizabeth said on a laugh. “Regale us with it, Lucy, because like Isabella, I’ve been cooped up here, and Maggie absolutely refuses to read the gossip rags to me—she thinks she’s keeping my mind from being poisoned, but I assure you it’s far too late for that.”
“All right, but I warn you, it’s positively indecent, and I only know about it because I happened to witness it when I came out of the ladies’ retiring room. So it’s not really gossip, more like an eyewitness account.”
“Oh, better and better!”
“As you will recall, I was forced out of the house last night.”
“Oh, that is right—you went to the Moorelands’ soiree last night. How was it?”
“Dreadfully dull, but Mooreland is one of Papa’s closest friends, so I was somewhat obligated to endure it. But it was made all the more delightful by what I saw.”
“And that was?” Isabella purred as she finished off the last of the pink square.
“The Marquis of Alynwick caught red-handed kissing Lord Larabie’s new wife. And his hands … Well, I can tell you, his hands were really quite busy—one was beneath the lady’s skirt, and the other was wandering quite wildly over the bodice of Lady Larabie’s pink frock.”
“No!” Isabella gasped. “I cannot believe it. The Marquis …” She swept a glance between Elizabeth and Lucy. “Why, I thought him a gentleman.”
The excitement that seemed to glow in Elizabeth’s gaze dimmed. She tried to hide it, Lucy saw, by sitting forward and gently reaching for her teacup.
“I’ve never known Alynwick to be anything but an egotistical rake,” Elizabeth answered. “I see his shocking way of living his life has not changed.”
Elizabeth’s face was pale, the pink of her lips all but drained away. Lucy had done it now. She had shocked poor Lizzy with the gossip. It was rather scandalous for a man to be caught with any woman in such a way at a ball, but a married woman—one who was not his wife. Well, it was rather unseemly and to repeat it at tea, really was very common. And Elizabeth was the daughter of a duke, after all, whose manners were quite above reproach.
“And Lord Larabie?” Isabella asked, cutting into Lucy’s worries.
“Oh, he came charging down the hall and they fought. Fists flying, tailcoats waving in the tussle. Lord Pickett and Mr. Downing had a devil of a time separating them, and Lady Larabie stood there screeching like a cat that had its tail caught in a mousetrap.”
“My word, I had no idea that Alynwick was such a rake!” Isabella gasped.
“Believe it,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice so soft, her gaze distant, and perhaps a touch unfocused. “He is a disreputable heartbreaker.”
There was pain and sadness in Elizabeth’s eyes, and even though she could not see, she raised her chin high and gazed straight ahead of her, right where Isabella and Lucy sat.
“If there is anyone who knows how much of a rake the Marquis of Alynwick is, it is me.”
“Tell us!” Lucy demanded as she set her teacup and saucer down onto the table. “All of it, Lizzy, every sordid detail!”
Elizabeth smiled, and Lucy could not help but feel that something strange had shifted between them. “The day is dull and dreary, so let us make the most of it by playing a game, hmm?”
“What kind of game?” Isabella inquired.
“Truth or dare, shall we? Now then, for the price of my story, I shall extract either truth or a dare from …” Elizabeth paused for a moment as her fingers raked through Rosie’s soft white fur. “Yes, I think I shall require that from … Lucy.”
Nothing good would come out of this game. Lucy could sense that much, and what was more, she was certain that Elizabeth knew she was hiding something. She didn’t want to play, but knew that to disagree to it would cast more speculations. Besides, she dearly wanted to know how the very proper Elizabeth knew the Marquis of Alynwick was a wicked rogue.
“Very well,” she agreed. “I will accept your truth or dare.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SUSSEX FOUND BLAKE’S CLUB to be, thankfully, empty at this time of the afternoon. Servants buzzed about, preparing tables in anticipation for the crowd that would shortly arrive and not leave until well into the early-morning hours. Soon, he and Black would depart before they could be observed by anyone who might know who they were, or might find interest in seeing them together.
Part of being a Guardian was not to let anyone know you were one, and that meant keeping a polite distance from one another. As far as anyone in the ton suspected, Sussex, Black and Alynwick were acquaintances through their Masonic Lodge, and through the nature of their peerage. Anything closer would not be assumed, for they took great pains to never be seen socializing outside of any tonnish or Freemasonry events. They especially did not meet at any of the fashionable clubs in Mayfair. For them, it was Blake’s in the remotest part of Bloomsbury. Mostly the clientele were poets and writers, and the odd actor. People whose thoughts were altruistic, not peers who were plagued by ennui and the constant stream of gossip that made the monotony of a title bearable.
“Where the hell could he be?” Sussex snarled before taking a sip of strong, bitter coffee which had grown cold in the half hour they had waited for the recalcitrant Marquis of Alynwick. The brew needed more sugar—he adored sugar. Having never been allowed it as a child he had developed something of a sweet tooth in adulthood. Dumping more spoonfuls into the mug, he stirred it, took a sip and slammed the cup down onto the table once more.
“Where is he?” he growled irritably.
The pressed news sheet across the table from him rolled down, and Black’s blue-green eyes peered out at him from beneath heavy brows. “He’s always tardy. Why are you surprised?”
“Because one would think that the matters we need to discuss would be a bit more important than his damned beauty sleep!”
Black had the nerve to grin before folding the paper and slapping it down onto his thigh.
“Damn him! Does Alynwick treat everything in his life with such indifference?”
“He informed me yesterday afternoon that he had planned to do a bit of reconnaissance work last night. Perhaps it was a late evening.”
Sussex snorted in indignation. “There can be nothing worth exploring at a ball that will aid us in our case to find Orpheus.”
“Oh, I would most certainly disagree with that.”
Sussex glanced up in time to watch the debauched and unshaven Marquis of Alynwick flop inelegantly into a leather club chair. “Coffee,” he groaned as the waiter approached the table. “God, yes. Nectar of the gods, isn’t it?” he said as the waiter poured his cup full of the black brew.