Cloaked in Danger (3 page)

Chapter Three

Aria dropped her reticule and wrap on the table in the entryway of her home with an exhausted sigh. The sun had been flirting with the horizon when she’d walked in the front door, so she shouldn’t be surprised how much her feet ached.

Her head pounded with exhaustion and her back was as tight as a saddle cinch from being pulled and prodded in wrong directions by dance partners with a decided lack of finesse. Why would anyone willingly choose to do this not once a year, but every night? “You’ve returned.”

“Safe and sound.” Aria braced herself before facing her stepmother, ready for the inevitable argument.

The pretty English Rose, as Aria’s father called his wife, was seven years older than Aria’s twenty and burgeoning with child. And not a day had gone by since Aria had been dumped in London that she and her stepmother had found even a small slice of common ground.

“Lady Beasley fell asleep in the carriage,” Aria added, “so I had the driver leave straight away to deposit her home.”

Emily’s hand rubbed gently over her belly. “Did you fare well tonight?”

“I did not douse anyone with my punch or say something I shouldn’t or ruin my reputation.” Not a complete lie.

“After every misstep, I receive calls the next day highlighting your escapades. I simply wish to be prepared for tomorrow’s litany.” Her stepmother’s soft tone was underscored by a thread of irritation. “You are bound to—”

“Bound to make a disaster of things? Yes, so you’ve said.”

“If your reputation is ruined, those invitations allowing you access to society events will cease.”

“And what do I care?” Aria knew what was at stake, but she had grown weary of the refrain that she was but one wrongly uttered word from ruin.

“Without the ton’s by-your-leave, you won’t be allowed in the same room with a person on that list.” She waved a hand in the direction of Aria’s reticule. “And you will have ruined my future, as well as your future brother or sister’s future in the process. You must take heed, and I need to know what damage to fix.”

“And Lady Beasley was not here to give you the bald truth. She proved a fine chaperone, nonetheless.” In that she left Aria to her own devices. It had suited her perfectly.

“I am tired and...for heaven’s sake, must we snipe at each other?” Emily ran a hand over her temple.

Aria waited for the headache to be billed as her fault as well.

“You do not understand this world. These are unforgiving people. One slight, one wrong step—”

“And they will tie me in chains and throw me into the river. You’ve made it abundantly clear.”

“Your father would not approve of your actions.”

Anger flared in Aria’s gut. “My father would not want me to sit idly by, wasting my time on embroidery.” The words flew out like desperate birds, and Aria clamped her lips shut to keep any more from escaping. Emily was pregnant. Fragile. She liked embroidery. She loved her world.

Emily’s hand flattened against her back, and she let out a sigh. “Did you meet any of them?”

“Ravensdale. And the Lord of Merewood.” Aria’s stomach flipped in an altogether annoying way at the thought of him.

“The Earl of Merewood, or Lord Merewood. Not the Lord of Merewood.”

Aria stifled a curse she knew would bring back the long-suffering gleam in Emily’s eyes.

Aria’s lack of patience regarding the usage of titles—did it have to be so blasted confusing?—had been a thorn in Emily’s side since she’d started tutoring Aria, an admittedly reluctant pupil, on how to behave like a proper society debutante.

“Fine.” Aria shook her head. Over a year of sharing the same house, attempting to get along, had worn them both down. They had stopped trying months ago.

And being locked in a room full of debutantes had addled her wits.

She had been in close contact with two of the men on her list, and what had she done?

Nothing. The onslaught of emotions when Lord Merewood had mentioned her father had sent her running from the room before she did something truly ghastly.

Like cry on his shoulder.

True, she’d had to return the key, but it was a costly mistake. She hadn’t discovered a blessed thing about Merewood other than he had a healthy distrust of his future brother-in-law. That was gossip fodder, but hardly helpful.

“What about the others on the list?”

“I never saw them.” A sense of helplessness washed over her. “I hate this. I am going to parties when I should be doing something! People think I am bloody title hunting, for God’s sake.”

“Then stop. Your father left you with me to ensure you had—”

“Proper training on how to be a lady. I know. And so we’re clear, when my father returns, I plan to leave with him.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear. And what of Mr. Wade?”

“How does this concern him?” He was a friend, a companion, and yes he would be upset by her actions, which was why she hadn’t told him anything. His feelings didn’t take priority over finding her father.

“The man has the patience of a saint to court you,” Emily muttered. “He has waited, without a sign of frustration, for Gideon to return. You
know
he intends to ask for your hand, even though you act as if you don’t, and you plan to leave posthaste.”

“He has not professed any intentions regarding marriage.” At least not overt ones. “In any case, that doesn’t matter right now.”

“It matters if you ruin yourself. I hate it, but we have to prepare for the possibility that Gideon may not return and—”

“He will.”

“And if he doesn’t? What then? You need to think about this. If you ruin yourself beyond repair, Mr. Wade’s affection for you won’t matter. And has it occurred to you—” Emily’s hand fell to her extended belly, “—that if you ruin yourself, you also damage this family?”

Her father would return, so Emily’s concerns were well-intentioned but pointless. She glanced toward the corridor, placing her hand over her mouth to cover a yawn. “How is Uncle John?”

Emily paused, then let out a sigh. “He woke for a few moments.”

“And you didn’t tell me the moment I walked in?” Aria tried not to snap, but the ridiculousness of her evening had worn her patience. “Was he lucid this time?”

“He talked for a few minutes, but he’s exhausted. He was in so much pain that I did not want to push him.”

“Emily, he was
there
.” Aria strode into the parlor off the left of the entryway.

Emily followed. “Now? You wish to interrogate him in the middle of the night? He needs his rest.”

“He’s been here a month, and this is the first time he has been able to answer anything. We need to know what he remembers.” She continued up the staircase.

The shuffle of Emily’s footsteps followed her up the stairs, into the corridor and to the set of doors on the left. Aria stopped in front of one and offered a gentle knock. No answer.

“He’s sleeping,” Emily reminded. “Good heavens, it is morning. We all need some rest.”

“Go to bed, Emily. You must take care of yourself and the babe.” She placed a hand on the doorknob.

With a shake of her head, Emily waddled down the corridor.

Aria turned the doorknob and gently pushed the door open. Darkness filled the room inside, so she stood a moment to adjust. Once the shadows of furniture grew clearer, she ventured toward the bed, her steps hesitant, her lungs struggling to catch hold of a breath of stale air.

She didn’t need light to know what she’d find, and she steeled her shaky limbs against the visage that lived in her mind like a violent crime witnessed and never forgotten.

John Dobson, her father’s business partner and dearest friend, the man she called Uncle John, lay still. His prone body was thin and fragile now, a stark contrast to the robust, strong man she had worked beside.

The dim light cast shadows on his skin, mottled with aging bruises, a muddy mixture of fading yellow and black. Scabbed-over scrapes and cuts framed his right eye, which had been swollen shut when he arrived. A bandage was wound around his hair to protect the still-healing wound above his ear.

Aria unlaced her slippers, then sighed. She sunk into the nearest chair, weary in every inch, but itching to demand answers. To know more.

But she wouldn’t wake John, no matter what she’d said to Emily.

Not when the even keel of his breathing was the first thing to settle her all day.

She reached up and pulled the pins from her hair. The curls bounced out of their restraints, and after she set the pins down, she ran her fingers over the achy parts of her scalp.

She stood and moved to the window, pushed open the pane to watch the spires of red-hued morning light that slashed across the buildings.

“I miss you, Papa,” she said to the icy wind. The now-familiar ache oozed like an open wound inside her chest.

“Scamp.”

“Uncle John.” Relief buckled her knees. It was startling to realize how deep her fear had gone that she would lose him.

She hurried to the chair by his side, her feet sinking into the plush Turkish rug. “I was starting to worry, old man.”

He gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. “God Almighty, my head feels like it split in five parts. And not one of them filled with spirits, shame.”

Her gaze lifted to the bandage wrapped around his head. “It was. Split, that is. The doctor was here again today. The blood has stopped—he said ’tis a good sign.’”

John winced. “No talk of blood. Ye know I can’t stomach it.”

Her lips twitched. “I recall a bloody knee of mine you had particular issues with.”

“I failed ye.” Somber regret and pain was etched in the set of his brow, the downturn of his mouth.

She placed a hand on his arm, squeezed. “You couldn’t fail me. Or Papa.”

“I’d been drinkin’. We all had, to be certain. Celebrating, as it were. But it was my job to protect him and I failed.”

“Tell me what happened. The man that brought you home told us nothing.” Not that she hadn’t tried to demand answers.

“I told him to keep his mouth shut, for your own good. I didn’t want you getting involved and getting into trouble.”

“Papa is
missing.
”

“I know. But this isn’t for you, dearie. You leave it alone.” He reached up, grabbed her hand. “Promise me.”

She squeezed back, alarmed at his lack of strength. “I can’t, Uncle John, and you know that.”

The single light in the room dimmed. “What trouble have you found?”

Aria stood, walked to the desk in the room, pulled out another candle. “I have done naught but attend parties.”

“I don’t believe you. These people are not to be trifled with. I need your word.”

She held the candle to the stub that remained lit and watched it flare with light. John turned his head away from the small flame, and Aria realized he was in more pain than he let on. “Let me get you some laudanum.”

“No.”

“I love you, but you look like hell. Take the damned medication.”

“Watch your language, young lady.” He sucked in a slow breath. “No medicine. And I’m not telling you a thing. I’m not getting better, and I can’t go chasin’ after ye.” His words came out in dry croaks.

“Why are you talking that way?” A painful lump ballooned in her throat. “You need to rest, reserve your strength. Take the medicine, John.”

“Damn female.”

“You’ll do what I say eventually. Might as well give in now.”

The quickness with which he surrendered added to her fear. But she quickly administered it, before he regained a burst of energy.

She sat back in her chair. “Tell me about that night.”

“Forget it.”

“John, where was my father when you last saw him? What was he doing?”

“I’m not answering your questions, scamp.”

“Did you find the treasure?”

“We found two crates of antiquities. And one contained jewelry, Cleopatra’s style. We’ll obviously need to do more work to confirm our beliefs... Damn it, they took it all didn’t they?”

Aria’s nod turned into a sympathetic shake of her head. “Nothing returned with you.”

A flash of anger burst across his features. “Damn them to hell! If I get my hands on them...” Anger flashed out and a determined sadness flattened the lines of his grim-set jaw. “We are not talking about this. The night is all a bit of a blur, anyway. I’d been partaking liberally that night.”

“You and Papa coveted the idea of this find for years. Ancient belongings of Cleopatra? Who wouldn’t celebrate that?” Aria leaned back, pretending a mild interest when she wanted to shake him for answers.

“When Gideon discovered the journal of that pirate ship captain discussing their booty...” John’s voice took on the familiar, revered awe whenever he and her father had gotten on their hours’-long discussions of digging things up.

“It would have been a great find,” she replied, with a sigh of regret. “And you had great investors backing you. I saw the list on Papa’s desk. Do they know what happened yet?”

John shook his head in slow motion, and the wince that followed was just as awkward. “Who would’ve told them? Your father always handled the money portion of things. Except the damn bastard who came to the site.”

Aria tensed, sitting straight up. The man who’d done this was in Egypt when it happened? He’d gone to the encampment?

She forced herself to lean back in her chair, appear relaxed. The drug was lowering John’s guard, and Aria wasn’t opposed to using that to find out what she needed to know.

“Who was he? How did he know where to find you?” Her foot furiously tapped the inside fabric of her gown. Her father had always kept their location quiet to avoid competitors and locals, but he’d felt his investors had paid for the right to know. It’s why she had believed the answers would be found in those names.

And she had been right.

“I didn’t see the man. Was too in my cups to remember much, but the man’s voice was of London. Your father knew him—argued with him. And hell, if they’d been in throwing distance, anyone could have heard us.” He paused, pulling in a long, noisy breath that made Aria’s heart ache. “Plenty of drinkin’ and merrymaking going on.

“We’d brought the chests back to camp. Jewelry, pottery, embroidered linens. One item—a necklace. You’ve never seen anything so irresistible, Aria. Cleopatra must ‘ave endowed it with some of her fire.” His words had begun to slur, and the glassy look of pain had started to fade.