Most Eagerly Yours (17 page)

“Ah, but there is. For example, I’ve known Melinda all my life, but not once did she ever mention you. So tell me, how
are
the two of you acquainted?”

“We were not, previous to my coming to Bath.” The truth came easily. She paused, seeking strength in the formidable outlines of the room’s furnishings before embellishing her story. “My mother served at Kensington Palace as a lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of Kent. Melinda—”

“Yes, I know, she was a companion to Princess Sophia, also at Kensington. So your mother and Melinda met there.”

“Not exactly. They were at the palace at different times.”

Beneath the tumble of his dark hair, his brow creased in confusion. Silently Laurel damned the man for his inquisitiveness and wished she had never left Melinda’s side to venture into the dusky, perilous trap the drawing room seemed to have become.

If only Victoria had devised a more straightforward story, but they had needed to account for the fact that no one in Bath, or anywhere in polite society, had ever heard of Mrs. Edgar Sanderson.

“At Kensington, Melinda and my mother both became acquainted with Mrs. Lehzen, the queen’s former governess,” she explained, praying this would satisfy him. “It was Mrs. Lehzen who arranged for Melinda to introduce me into society here in Bath.”

“But why Bath?” His mouth quirked in a maddening show of enjoyment. “There are so many more agreeable places to visit nowadays.”

“But Bath is lovely. Besides, you are here.”

An infinitesimal twitch of his eyebrow revealed how her statement must have sounded, not as the countercharge she had intended, but as though
he
were the very tie that bound her to the city.

As if she had come here seeking him.

“Wh-what I mean is . . .”

“I understand.” He smiled again, faintly, pensively. “I myself came to Bath in pursuit of an investment.”

The upward note on which he concluded implied it was now her turn to elucidate. Before she did, a figure appeared on the threshold.

Laurel jumped to her feet. “Dr. Bailey, how is she?”

The despondency in his eyes, magnified by his spectacles, caused her pulse to stumble.

“Good heavens . . . ,” she whispered. Her hand went to her throat.

But in the next instant whatever emotion she had perceived in him vanished. His furrowed brow conveyed only professional benevolence. “Lady Fairmont is well on the road to recovery. I have persuaded her to eat more and spend the remainder of the day resting. She should be restored by tomorrow, although I have prescribed extra rest for the next week or so.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I shall see that she gets it,” Aidan said, sounding relieved.

Had he also anticipated sorrowful news from Dr. Bailey? Perhaps Laurel hadn’t imagined the turbulence in the man’s expression.

She turned back to the doctor. “Do you know what caused her to faint?”

“Fatigue and a touch of hunger, as best I can tell.” Gripping a lapel, the man strolled farther into the room. “I’ve been advising her ladyship for some time now that, despite appearances, she is not the young woman she once was. Charity work, her involvement with the Bath Corporation, social functions . . . I fear the countess is running herself ragged.”

“Lady Fairmont is involved with the corporation?” Aidan asked. “In what way?”

Dr. Bailey made an apologetic gesture with the flat of his hand. “I am afraid you shall have to ask her ladyship, for I know little about the matter. Only, please leave it for a few days, Lord Barensforth. As I said, Lady Fairmont needs her rest.”

Promising to return the next morning, the doctor made a hasty retreat, leaving Laurel with the impression that he could not quit Fenwick House fast enough.

“I’m going to check on Melinda. Care to join me?” Aidan started past her.

Without thinking—or she would never have done so—she reached out and closed her fingers around his sleeve. A shock of awareness, of the stony vitality of his maleness, shimmied through her, through him as well. He flinched, stopped, and turned. Their gazes met, sparking with sentiments that were both illicit and reckless.

In the power of that moment, Laurel yearned to know how his chest would feel against her cheek, how the swells and hollows of her body would fit against the planes and sinew of his.

Those same desires flickered in his eyes with a need that frightened her. Unlike a fleeting kiss or a stolen dance, or the duel of wits they had played in the Pump Room, this attraction suddenly threatening to ignite between them was no longer a game. Neither moved a muscle, as if each feared the consequences of doing so.

That he didn’t press his advantage said something surprisingly contrary to everything Victoria had told Laurel about him, something she would consider at a later, quieter, safer moment. For now . . .

She snatched her hand away.

“What is it?” he whispered, the sound heavy in the silence.

“I’m sorry, I . . . It’s just that . . .”

Gathering himself to his full height, he moved back a step, opening space and allowing cooler air to rush between them. “Tell me.”

“Dr. Bailey,” she said, fighting past the roiling clash of her thoughts. “I do not believe he is being entirely forthcoming about Melinda’s condition.”

He searched her features. “Why would you say that?”

Because it took a liar to know one? “I cannot explain exactly, but every instinct tells me he has left out something important.”

T
hree nights later, Aidan rapped softly at the door of a one-room flat located at the dodgy end of Avon Street, close to the wharves. Rife with drunkards, prostitutes, and cutthroats, it was not an area men of his rank typically frequented, but at least here he would not stumble upon any of his acquaintances as he met with his Home Office contact.

Without waiting for an answer to his knock, he turned the knob and walked in. Phineas Micklebee was expecting him. Grinning with one side of his mouth, the man motioned Aidan to take a seat at the oak table that filled a good portion of the room. In the corner, a brazier sat cold and dark. Beside the door, a narrow bed filled an entire wall. A rickety wardrobe and a few teetering cupboards completed the room’s furnishings, while the single window looked out at the moldering wall of the tenement next door.

Micklebee had taken the tiny room for convenience’s sake. Cheap and discreet, the place provided the secrecy they required to trade information.

Aidan scraped back a spindle-backed chair. Straddling the seat, he huddled into his cloak. “Christ, doesn’t the Home Office cover heating expenses?”

Scratching his unfashionably bearded chin, Micklebee chuckled. He pushed a tin cup in front of Aidan and poured a generous measure of whiskey into it.

“This’ll warm your cockles. Straight from Ireland. Only the best.”

Aidan tipped his cup in Micklebee’s direction, waited for the other man, thin almost to the point of gauntness, to do the same. Tilting their heads back, they drained their cups and smacked them on the tabletop.

Micklebee poured another round. It was an established ritual between them. Then the agent leaned forward and said in his Manchester drawl, “What’ve you got?”

“Paid a visit to the City of Bath Corporation yesterday.”

“About time. And did our good aldermen reveal anything useful?”

“The name of the investment firm backing the Summit Pavilion is Bryce-Rawlings Unlimited. They’ve an office in London on Red Lion Court, just off Fleet Street.”

“Hmm.” Micklebee’s hand returned to his whiskers; he gave a scratch and a tug. “Never heard of ’em.”

“Neither have I.”

“I’ll send word to Wescott to have someone track the place down.” Micklebee held his cup close to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. “Anything yet about Roger Babcock’s death?”

“A beginning.” Aidan swirled his whiskey, staring into the tawny liquid. “Contrary to the information the Home Office had on Babcock, he apparently owed money to Arthur Steele, Viscount Devonlea. Sounds like it had been a relatively recent development. I’m told Devonlea covered some of Babcock’s gambling debts for him, although the more I think about it, the more unlikely that sounds.”

“How so?”

“I know Devonlea. He’s a gambler, yes, but generous?” Aidan shook his head. “My guess is old Dev extended the MP a loan for a venture that guaranteed a lucrative return on his investment.”

Micklebee narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

“Perhaps this Summit Pavilion everyone is bursting to sink their money into. But I doubt it. It’s too easy an answer and besides, Devonlea is putting his own money into the project. Why help Babcock? No . . . it must have been something only Babcock had access to. . . .”

He sipped his whiskey, a silken flame that glided down his throat to warm his gullet. “And then there’s the Marquess of Harcourt. Apparently he and Babcock had locked horns, although over what I don’t yet know.”

“You don’t know much,” Micklebee pointed out. He’d been listening closely, though. He always did.

Once, early on in their acquaintance, Aidan had demanded the man take notes. Micklebee had merely laughed and told him notes were dangerous. Later, Wescott had explained that, like Aidan, Phineas Micklebee possessed his own unique talent. He never forgot a face or a fact. Never. Which made him the perfect go-between, relaying Aidan’s reports to the next link in the chain, someone who remained nameless and faceless to Aidan himself.

“Damned, but you’re right.” Aidan drained his cup, placing his hand across the rim when Micklebee once more lifted the bottle. “There’s something else I need investigated.
Someone
else, I should say.”

He explained about Laurel—Mrs. Edgar Sanderson—suddenly showing up in Bath seemingly out of nowhere, having connections to prominent people yet never actually having made their acquaintance previously. “I tell you, there is something about the lady that fails to tally. I don’t believe she’s even a widow.”

He knew he wasn’t giving the agent much to go on, leaving out a host of details that supported his suspicions concerning her. For instance, he didn’t mention her tendency to lead during a waltz, or how innocent she—a formerly married woman—had felt in his arms, or how ingenuously she had gasped when he’d kissed her that day in London.

Or how the slightest touch of her fingers around his wrist could stir up an explosive desire in him.

By his own design, he had barely seen Laurel in the three days since Melinda had fallen ill at the Pump Room, despite the fact that he had stayed at Fenwick House, inhabiting his old guest chamber and ensuring that Melinda got the rest Dr. Bailey had prescribed.

Aidan had observed Melinda closely in their time together, and was unable to decide whether traces of her illness continued to plague her or she had simply begun to show her age. She had always seemed so animated to him, so eternally youthful. He had tried questioning her about her health in recent months, but she had responded with good- natured scowls and a hasty change of subject. In accordance with Dr. Bailey’s orders, he had not yet asked her about her involvement with the Bath Corporation.

Laurel usually arrived in the afternoon, bringing Melinda thoughtful gifts of books or flowers or tea cakes. Each time, Aidan had found excuses to absent himself from their company. He wouldn’t go far. Out to the terrace, into the next room, close enough to observe without falling prey to the truth—that he burned to see her, to be alone with her, to touch her again in the hopes of discovering whether that lightning-sharp zing he’d experienced had been real or imagined.

Precisely because he could not get her out of his mind, he knew he must avoid her, at least until he discovered more about her. There were still too many questions that needed answering, too many reasons he could not—did not—entirely trust her. He dared not let himself become distracted from the task he had come to Bath to accomplish, and investigating Laurel Sanderson had become an integral part of that task.

Micklebee studied him with an amusement Aidan chose to ignore. He pushed to his feet. “Find out what you can about her and that deceased husband of hers.”

“
If
he existed.”

“Yes,
if
. In the meantime, I’ve arranged to spend tonight in the company of an individual who might unwittingly provide some of the answers we need. Wish me luck.”

Some ten minutes later, he descended from his cabriolet outside the graceful arches of the Theatre Royal in Beaufort Square. Inside, Aidan relinquished his great-coat and beaver hat to a cloakroom attendant and made his way into the lobby, greeting acquaintances as he went. An obliging servant offered a glass of champagne, which he accepted.

A group milled at the foot of the grand staircase, and he spotted familiar faces: those of Fitz, Beatrice and Devonlea, the Marquess and Marchioness of Harcourt. Not far away, Geoffrey Taft and Margaret Whitfield chatted to Claude Rousseau. Once again, Mrs. Whitfield might have been mistaken for a respectable wife, clad in a pale rose hue that brought out the richness of her dark hair. Diamonds winked from around her neck and wrist. Taft apparently treated his mistress well.

That thought made Aidan pause as he remembered Taft’s display of frustration in the Pump Room three mornings previous. He had decried the delays in breaking ground for the Summit Pavilion, and implied he was having second thoughts about his investment.

Perhaps the retired captain found himself short of funds these days.

Continuing his perusal of the group, Aidan noted that tempers between Beatrice and Devonlea did not appear to have cooled. Oh, any stranger would have thought them happily at ease as they smiled, greeted friends, and exuded the flair of a sophisticated, aristocratic couple.

But further study revealed their disinclination to exchange a word or even a glance. Side by side they stood, separated by a wall of icy discord. Aidan guessed they were still residing under separate roofs. Presently, Beatrice was making a show of being charming to Captain Taft and Mrs. Whitfield, a woman Aidan knew incurred Beatrice’s acrimony merely by being younger and prettier.