Silver Splendor (16 page)

Owen’s expression grew grave. “Lord Nicholas recommended me. That’s why he wanted to speak to me yesterday.”

The clay hung heavy in her hand as she stared at her father. Nicholas had done such a considerate deed? Arrogant, self serving
Nicholas?

Her cheeks burned. She had been offended by his wish to speak to Owen alone; she had accused the earl of using her father. She recalled the time Nicholas had been so kind to Kipp, shaking the boy’s hand instead of snubbing him. Was she wrong to believe Nicholas was so wrapped up in his own autocratic desires?

“Why didn’t you come tell me about this last night?” she asked.

Hands clasped behind his back, Owen paced slowly. “Because at first I was angry. I believed Lord Nicholas was patronizing me.” His gaze troubled, he looked at Elizabeth. “I came close to ignoring the interview. But I was letting pride rule me; I didn’t want to admit that a nobleman might truly want to help me.”

“I suppose even an earl can have a spot of goodness in him.”

“Perhaps,” Owen conceded grudgingly, “Lord Nicholas is the exception to the rule. Although he does act superior too much of the time.” His face brightened. “Well, enough of my lectures, Libby. I must be off to prepare my lessons — I start my employment tomorrow.” He strode out, whistling.

Elizabeth sat on the edge of the scarred table and stared at the clay in her hands. For a long time she didn’t move. She was glad her father finally had a mission to occupy his mind and drive away his grief. Yet she mustn’t let Nicholas’s generosity sway her. She mustn’t let herself go soft and weak because of a single act of kindness.

Her fingers dug into the earthen ball. Lord Nicholas Ware wanted to shape her like this lump of clay, to mold her into his image of a lady. Because in her present natural state she was an embarrassment to him. He likely regretted inviting her into his house to teach his sister.

She would do well to remember his motive.

“You’re not coming to tea?” Ckely said in surprise, the orchid pink Parisian dress clutched to her bosom.

“No,” Elizabeth said, “I have something else to do this afternoon.”

“Oh, pooh. Nick asked that all of us be there, you especially. Aunt Beatrice was most insistent about that.”

“I know.” Perched on a brocaded hassock in Cicely’s sumptuous dressing room, Elizabeth bit back a remark on what the earl could do with his orders. “Your aunt told me this tea was to be the test of every ridiculous rule she’s drummed into my head for the past two days. But I’m not going.”

“You’ll miss all the excitement. Not about the duke, mind you, but his nephew, Mr. Drew Sterling.” Cicely twirled dreamily, the pink gown billowing around her, “He’s
so
deliriously wicked. I’ve been simply
pining
for an introduction, but Nick would never let me within a furlong of Drew and his fast crowd. ‘An immoral influence,’he said.” Her face assumed an amusingly accurate parody of her brother’s most stern expression.

Elizabeth swallowed a smile. “I wonder why he relented, then.”

“Oh, pooh, Nick probably has some dreary political matter to discuss with the duke. While they’re busy, I plan to charm Drew.” Holding up the frothy gown, Cicely eyed herself in the cheval mirror. “Do you suppose this bodice is cut low enough?”

“It looks appropriately daring.”

“Good. Drew Sterling wouldn’t want a schoolroom miss.” Her eyes soulful, Cicely sighed, looking exactly like a schoolroom miss. “I can scarcely believe I’m going to meet such a worldly man. Someone who’s not stuffy like Lord Charles Garforth. Oh, this shall be the best afternoon of my life —”

“Then I’m sorry to miss it,” Elizabeth said, before Cicely could launch into another rapturous monologue about the Duke of Rockborough’s profligate heir. “But I must visit Kipp. I promised I would when I left nearly a week ago.”

“Kipp!” Cicely swung around, negligently tossing the dress into a heap on the rug. “Oh, but I want to go, too! Why don’t you wait until tomorrow?”

“You aren’t allowed to leave the house for another week yet,” Elizabeth gently reminded her.

Cicely’s face drew into a mutinous pout. “Drat Nick and his silly restrictions. I’ve half a mind to sneak out, anyway.”

“But you don’t want to miss the big tea party. Besides, it occurred to me that my blue sketchbook might have been left by mistake. I want to check at my old lodgings.”

“Oh, pooh. I did so want your opinion of Drew Sterling.” A crafty gleam entered her eyes. “Would you change your mind if I were to lend you my very best gown?”

“Which one might that be?” Elizabeth asked dryly, glancing around at the numerous wardrobes lining the walls. “You have enough clothes here to wear something different each day of the year.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Half a year, perhaps, but no more. And so many of these gowns are horribly outdated.”

Her frivolous manner exasperated Elizabeth. In some ways Cicely could be as narrow minded as her brother. “A family in Seven Dials or the Devil’s Acre could live for a year off the money just one of these dresses cost. For once they’d have a decent meal on the table and a fire in the hearth.”

“Really?” Cicely looked startled. “You mean those poor people can’t even afford food or heat? I never thought about that before.” Her eyes turned misty. “Dear me, all those wretched, hungry children…”

Elizabeth hadn’t meant to touch off tears. Rising hastily, she patted the girl’s hand. “It’s not your fault, Cicely. We’ll speak of this later. Now I must be going or I’ll never return before dark.”

“Nick will be blazing angry when he finds out you’ve left the house against his wishes.”

“Then do me a favor… don’t tell him I’ve gone. He’d only worry needlessly.”

Cicely lifted a negligent shoulder. “As you like. Believe me, I know how he can carry on.”

“I’m sure he’ll manage to sip his tea quite well without me,” Elizabeth said tartly, heading for the door. “And you may certainly tell him I said
that!”

“She said
what?”
Nicholas snapped, his voice echoing through the drawing room.

Cicely affected a sullen look. “Well, don’t shout at
me. I
haven’t done anything except relay what Elizabeth said, that she refuses to come to tea.”

She eyed him demurely, but the betraying twinkle in those blue depths told Nicholas his sister relished seeing someone else defy him. For once, he thought, she hadn’t an inkling of the upheaval her news had made of his plans. He wasted two entire days at Brooks’s, seeking the chance to strike up an acquaintance with the aging Duke of Rockborough.

Too impatient to wait for Thistlewood to uncover Elizabeth’s link to the Rockborough clan, Nicholas had contrived this tea so he could observe the reaction of the duke and his family to Elizabeth. When they saw the woman who looked so like Lucy Templeton Hastings, he hoped to catch a shocked expression, a guilty shifting of eyes, some clue to the identity of her would be killer.

Elizabeth’s absence would render the effort useless.

Pivoting on his heel, Nicholas strode across the oom.

“Where are you going, Nick?”

“To the conservatory,” he said, flinging the words over his shoulder. “Elizabeth
will
be here for tea.”

“Oh, but Nick, I don’t think…” Cicely’s voice ailed off, as if she’d reconsidered arguing. At the doorway, he nearly collided with Lady Beatrice.

“My pardon, Aunt.”

Her fingers waved away the apology. “Has the duke arrived yet?”

“No,” he said curtly. “And apparently Miss Hastings will be late.”

“Late?” Lady Beatrice said, frowning. “I informed her of your wishes. She had ample time to prepare.” She lifted one dainty shoulder beneath her gown of amber India silk. “Ah, well, we’ll simply put her manners to the test on another occasion.”

Another occasion wouldn’t do,
Nicholas thought darkly. If Elizabeth failed to cooperate, he’d invite everyone to the conservatory on the pretext of meeting the resident artist.

Peebles entered, his posture as rigid as a lamppost. “His Grace the Duke of Rockborough has arrived, my lord.”

Nicholas bit back a curse. Protocol left him no choice but to play host to his guests. “Go to the conservatory and fetch Miss Hastings,” he ordered the butler. “Tell her I want to see her here
instantly.
You’re to accept no excuses.”

Peebles looked faintly dubious. “Yes, my lord.”

Nicholas hoped that for once Elizabeth would have the courtesy to obey. Because the person who wanted her dead was most likely one of the quartet filing into the drawing room.

A shrunken man leaning on a cane led the troupe. Beneath a fringe of gray hair, his fossilized face bore traces of youthful handsomeness and his avid eyes all tested to a quick wit. Nicholas’s stomach clenched. Elizabeth was the only other person he knew with eye that rare shade of violet.

“Good to see you again, Hawkesford,” the duke said, his voice booming for so slight a person. Looking at the two women and man behind him, he let out cackle of laughter. “Tried to trounce me at the far table, by Jove, he did. But I won, fair and square. Fair and square! Isn’t that so, Hawkesford?”

Unwilling to expose his scheme, Nicholas injected a trace of chagrin into his voice. “You most certainly did, Your Grace.”

“Gambling, uncle?” drawled the dark eyed young man. “Tut, tut. I wouldn’t have thought
you
would engage in such an evil pastime.”

“Ungrateful wretch.” Scowling, the duke shook his silver topped stick; its swan crest matched Elizabeth’s ring. “I didn’t play for money. I played for a suit of armor and I’m here today to collect it.”

A storklike woman clad in fussy folds of lime green tulle minced forward. “Now don’t be angry, Your Grace. Drew meant no offense, did you, son?” Her skirt shifted slightly as she aimed a discreet kick at his ankle.

“Of course not, Mother,” he said in a bland tone. “I’m sorry, Uncle. It was not my intention to liken your vices to my own.”

“You’d best be sorry, by Jove!” The duke banged his cane for emphasis. “Unless you want me to tighten my purse strings again.”

With keen interest Nicholas observed the exchange, surmising it to be an ongoing family argument between the duke and his heir, with Drew’s mother acting as arbitrator. The elder woman who looked on silently, her features plain and placid, must be Adelaide, the Duchess of Rockborougn. Clad in a dreary dress of brown silk, she looked rather like a heavy draft horse.

Her face betraying a trace of shock at the quarrel, Aunt Beatrice dipped a curtsy to the duke. “I’m pleased to meet you, Your Grace.” Hastily she supervised the introductions and ushered their guests into chairs.

Cicely, Nicholas noted as he leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece, adroitly managed to insinuate herself beside Drew Sterling. Already she was tilting a bright eyed face to him and complimenting the cut of his morning coat.

Unexpectedly Nicholas felt his heart tighten. His sister looked so womanly in that flattering gown of pink Italian silk and Valenciennes lace. Somehow, without his ever noticing when it had happened, the mischievous hoyden had grown up into a pretty lady. But did she have the experience to handle a spoiled ne’er-do-well like Mr. Drew Sterling? As if to endorse the opinion, Drew eyed the low sweep of her bodice.

Nicholas’s gaze hardened. If even half the gossip were true, the duke’s heir was too slick, too reckless for any decent female. In his late twenties, Drew had a negligent air about him, a sulkiness to his aquiline features. Bloodshot eyes and a slack mouth gave testimony to the rumors. Yet in comparison to his other relations, he was a sleek racehorse in a stable of nags.

Chatting with Cicely, Drew leaned indolently against the sofa. Gossip whispered that in the few short weeks he’d been in town, he had already accrued colossal gambling debts. Could that fact give him cause to want Elizabeth dead?

Assuming she was indeed the duke’s granddaughter, did Drew wish to keep her from inheriting a portion of his uncle’s vast wealth?

Yet how did Drew — or any of them, for that matter — know she was in London?

Smiling graciously, Aunt Beatrice rang for tea. “I was so pleased to hear Nicholas had invited you to meet us, Your Grace.”

The duke snorted. “Don’t hold with all this visiting back and forth. Lots of dull witted conversation. I came to London to buy blades.”

“Blades?” Beatrice repeated, startled confusion beneath that veil of politeness.

“Yes, blades!” The duke thumped his cane on the carpet. “Collect ‘em, I do. Dirks, halberds, pikes, clay mores, any kind so long as they’re antique. Got two hundred cases of ‘em back in Yorkshire. And a collection of old weapons and armor to rival the Tower of London.”

“Good gracious. That’s quite… amazing,” Beatrice said, looking more appalled than impressed.

“Come to visit my agent here twice a year, see what knives he’s found me at auction. Always bring the whole family, let ‘em gad about town for a few weeks.”

Nicholas saw the sudden, ghoulish image of an ancient knife piercing Elizabeth’s breast. His blood chilled. What was keeping her? The sooner she arrived, the swifter he could solve the mystery.