Silver Splendor (17 page)

Pickering entered, bearing the silver tea service, which he set on the low table before Lady Beatrice. She busied herself pouring the steaming brew into blue and gold porcelain cups while the silent footman passed around a tray of rich pastries and dainty sandwiches.

“Would you care for a dish of tea, Lady Arthur?” his aunt asked.

“Please.” With birdlike fingers, Drew’s mother took the cup. “And do call me Philippa. I feel almost as though we’re old friends since His Grace knows your nephew.”

The duchess made a sound suspiciously like a snort.

Looking sharply at her, Nicholas saw her enormous white teeth sink into an eclair. Her broad face lacked expression as she chewed the morsel. He wondered what thoughts lay behind those dull dark eyes. Could she hate Elizabeth enough to concoct a plan to kill her? Did she possess the cold blooded cunning to hire a cutthroat? She was Elizabeth’s grandmother… or perhaps not. Perhaps Lucy Templeton Hastings had been born on the wrong side of the blanket.

Shifting impatiently, Nicholas sipped his hot, fragrant tea. He would find out soon, when he received Thistlewood’s next report.

“So, Philippa,” Beatrice said brightly, “do you also hail from Yorkshire?”

Philippa nibbled at a slice of cherry cake. “Yes, we — that is, Drew and I — make our home with the duke and duchess at Swanmere Manor. It was built during Queen Anne’s reign.”

“So was the plumbing, such as it is,” drawled Drew.

“Don’t like it, then move out, I say!” The duke leaned forward, a calcified grin on his face, his gnarled hand gripping the cane. “Be glad to set you up in trade, selling china plates or India cotton. Earn your own keep for a change.” A cackle of laughter erupted from him. “Do you good to experience the sweat of honest labor, by Jove.”

Drew’s elegant fingers went taut around the teacup, his eyes sharp and dark. “Oh, but I wouldn’t dream of leaving my beloved relations,” he said smoothly. “Especially you, dear Uncle. I do so wish to be a comfort to you in your old age.”

“Old?” bellowed the duke, glaring as he attempted to straighten his stooped frame. “Who are you calling old? I’m as hale as I was twenty years ago!” He drew in a gulp of air. “But you’d like to think —”

He stopped, wheezing.

Philippa’s cup clinked into her saucer as she leapt up to grasp the duke’s arm. “Are you all right, Your Grace? Lord Hawkesford, we must summon Doctor Marsh — he’s waiting with the coachman.”

Alarmed, Nicholas strode to the doorway and motioned to Pickering. “Fetch the physician from His Grace’s carriage. And be quick about it.”

The footman darted off as Nicholas returned to the duke’s side. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Perhaps a sip of tea?” Lady Beatrice seconded, worry wrinkling her patrician features.

“Or a glass of water,” Cicely said, glancing wide eyed at Drew.

“Just tell this female… to remove her claws.” Gasping, the duke shook off Philippa’s hand. “I’m fine… just need… to catch my breath. I’m not an invalid… no matter what… your son wants to think.”

“Drew is most concerned about your health,” Philippa protested, hovering over the duke. “Just as we all are.”

“Hah,” Hugh Sterling spat, his face pale. “He’d love to… see me choke… by Jove.”

Scowling, Drew leaned forward. “Come now, uncle, you’re carrying this entirely too far —”

“Excuse me.” A slender, fair haired man scurried into the drawing room. Clad in a plain brown suit, he looked harried and anxious. His blue eyes swept the gathering and stopped on the duke. “How are you feeling, Your Grace?”

“Fit as a damned fiddle… only a bit breathless.”

Marsh opened his leather satchel. “I’ll administer something to calm your nerves.”

Lifting his cane, the duke imperiously waved the doctor away. “Your potions put me to sleep. I’ll be fine … in a moment.”

“But Your Grace —”

“Quit your prattling. You fuss more than my wife.”

Biting into her second eclair, the duchess chewed and swallowed; then in a surprisingly intelligent, surprisingly deep voice, she asked, “Are you all right, Hugh?”

Good God, Nicholas thought, she
can
speak.

The duke leaned over and patted her sturdy shoulder. “Quite hale now, Addie,” he said, his voice steadier, the mockery back, “‘Twas just a spot of the asthma. You can set your mind at ease.”

“I already have.” Turning her brown eyes from him, she concentrated on the pastry again.

Marsh bowed to the duke. “Perhaps I should remain in the room, Your Grace —”

“Oh, botheration,” Hugh Sterling snapped, thumping his cane on the rug. “I don’t need you smothering me as well. Run along with you.”

The doctor’s lips tightened, yet he merely bowed again and departed. Sympathy stirred in Nicholas. It must be trying for Marsh to deal with a patient as irascible as the Duke of Rockborough.

“You gave us such a start, Your Grace,” Philippa said, fluttering her hands. “Oh, this wretched London weather. All the fog and smoke are enough to make anyone ill.”

Nicholas hid a flash of amusement. With those lime

geen sleeves flapping, she looked like a skinny parrot, e’d love to hear Elizabeth’s candid opinion — He caught himself short. Why should he care what Elizabeth thought? But he did, and that fact fed his irritation. The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece chimed five times. For God’s sake, what was taking Peebles so long? Nicholas shifted impatiently. If she failed to arrive soon, he
would
march this party to the conservatory.

Setting his cup on the marble mantelpiece, he strode forward and took Philippa’s arm. “Please sit down, my lady,” he said, escorting ner back to her chair.

“Oh, thank you, your lordship. You’re so very kind to think of me.” Discreetly she fanned herself with a damask napkin.

“Might I freshen your tea?” Aunt Beatrice asked in concern. “Or perhaps a soothing drink of tisane might refresh you. I can ring for the footman —”

“Thank you, but you needn’t bother,” Philippa said. “I’ll revive in a moment, I’m sure I will.”

Nicholas studied her features, wan against the bright green of her gown. She seemed frail, or was that a performance? As the widow of Hugh Sterling’s younger brother, she must have been left without monetary resource since she and her son lived with the duke. Did Philippa perceive Elizabeth as a threat? Was she determined to safeguard her son’s inheritance? Certain lands would be entailed to Drew, of course, but the duke must have other holdings, which he could will to whomever he pleased. Holdings that might one day sate her son’s hunger for card games and flashy mistresses.

A girlish giggle brought his eyes to Cicely, who shared a quiet conversation with Drew. Their heads were close, one chestnut haired, the other black. Displeasure formed a knot inside Nicholas. This tea has gone on long enough, by God.

“Your Grace?” he said. “Are you prepared to inspect your winnings?”

“Yes, by Jove! Thought you’d never ask.” Using the cane as leverage, he hauled himself up.

Nicholas yanked the bell rope. When the liveried footman appeared in the doorway, he said, “Fetch the chest, Pickering.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

A few moments later he and Dobson came in, hefting an ancient, leather trimmed chest between them and setting it down on the rug.

Cicely leaned forward, hands gripping the sofa, as if to restrain herself from leaping up in unladylike curiosity. “That chest is from the attic, isn’t it?” Blushing, she glanced at Drew. “Not that I’ve been up there recently, you understand… I remember it from a
very
long time ago, when I was only a child.”

“Open ‘er up, Hawkesford.” The duke hobbled closer, his violet eyes alight with greed. “Been cooling my heels since our game yesterday afternoon. Time to pay the piper, by Jove.”

Obligingly Nicholas flipped open the latch and lifted the lid, the leather hinges creaking. Inside lay a tarnished jumble of armor, the bait he’d used to entice the duke here, the winnings of the card game Nicholas had taken such care to lose. And all for nothing… so far.

“Pickering, if you would be so kind as to lift the armor for His Grace’s viewing.”

The footman sprang to obey, half staggering beneath the weight of the breastplate as he drew it up against himself.

“By Jove, it’s in near perfect condition.” The duke drew an old fashioned quizzing glass from his pocket and examined the armor more closely. “Persian… eighteenth century, I’ll hazard. Look at the gold inlay on the arm guard.”

Aunt Beatrice tilted her head in civil interest.

“Ah, that must be one of the relics the third earl, Nicholas’s

grandfather, brought back from his travels. I’m sure His race will display it to greater advantage than we ever have.”

She launched into a well bred discussion of antiquities, while Cicely fidgeted and Drew yawned and Philippa fanned and Adelaide ate. As the duke gleefully scrutinized his windfall Nicholas wondered, not for the first time, if Hugh Sterling himself might be the one. Was Elizabeth an embarrassment to him, perhaps the offspring of an outcast illegitimate daughter, the reminder of a blemish on the family honor?

Cicely’s low voice saying Elizabeth’s name caught his ear. “… and I’m taking sculpting lessons from her.”

“How novel,” Drew murmured, looking bored.

“She’s quite daringly unconventional,” Cicely declared. “You’d have had the chance to meet her today, but she lost her sketchbook —” Her eyes met Nicholas’s, widened, then lowered quickly, almost guiltily.

Lost
her sketchbook.
Suspicion made his blood run cold. Surely Elizabeth wouldn’t have ventured out —

“My lord.” A frown pinching his gaunt face, Peebles addressed Nicholas from the doorway.

Alarm sent him striding from the group without so much as a polite apology. “Where’s Elizabeth?”

The butler swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork. “That’s why I’ve come, my lord. I’ve searched the house, but Miss Hastings isn’t here, not anywhere.”

Dread clamped around Nicholas’s heart. “Send for my carriage.” Pivoting sharply, he said, “Cicely, come here. I need a word with you.”

She rose, smiling winsomely at Drew before coming to the doorway. “What is it, Nick?” she hissed. “I was engaged in conversation.”

“You’ll be engaged in having your backside paddled if you don’t tell me where Elizabeth has gone.”

Biting her lip, Cicely avoided his eyes. “She made me promise not to say.”

Tempted to wring his sister’s pretty neck, he bit out, “Promise be damned! Has she gone back to her old lodgings?”

Cicely’s guilty expression revealed the truth even before she said grudgingly, “I… yes. She wanted to see Kipp —”

Brushing past his sister, Nicholas marched to the group at the tea table. The duke gloated over his armor, the duchess consumed yet another eclair, Drew leaned indolently against the sofa, and Philippa looked all simpering attention.

“I’ve an urgent errand I must attend to,” Nicholas said. “If you will excuse me.”

Frowning, Lady Beatrice rose. “What is it —”

Heedless of his discourtesy, he strode into the entrance hall. Fear trembled inside him, squeezing his belly. Elizabeth was out there somewhere, vulnerable to attack. By God, when he got his hands on her, he’d leash her free spirited ways once and for all.

Where the hell was she?

Elizabeth sat on the steps of St. Mary le Strand, hugging her knees and marveling at the differences between London and New York. The church occupied a small island in the middle of the busy Strand. Humble drays and fine carriages crammed the cobbled street, liveried coachmen exchanging curses with common tradesmen. London was cramped and crowded, old and unyielding, an elderly maid set in her ways. New York, on the other hand, was brash and bold, with broad avenues and modern buildings, a vigorous young maiden embracing life.

Yet Elizabeth loved the ancient feel of London, the sense of being part of a rich and deeply rooted history. Generations of people had marched up and down the very steps on which she sat. After all the churches and museums she had visited, countless more awaited her, a vast treasure trove of antiquities still to explore and sketch.

A movement beside her drew her gaze; Kipp picked up a pebble and sent it skipping across the tiny courtyard. Clad in his usual dirty checked shirt and tattered knickers, he bent to retrieve another stone. As he aimed, his expression of boyish concentration brought a wave of affection to her heart. The palm shaped bruise beneath the dirt streaks on his cheek ignited a flare of fury.

“I won’t let you go back there,” she said, resuming their earlier argument.

He tossed the pebble across the yard before turning to her, plucky resolution in his dark eyes. “She’s me mum. I as to ‘elp ‘er.”

“It’s wrong to throw your life away, laboring in a workhouse, as she wants you to do.” Despising the need to be blunt, Elizabeth gently touched his bruised cheek. “Just so your meager wages can buy her more gin.”

“I can take care o’ meself,” Kipp said stubbornly, pivoting to hurl another stone.

His withdrawal opened a chasm of sympathy inside her. That spunky manner hid a defenseless boy, forced to become a man at too young an age. The thought of Kipp doomed to a life in a dingy factory made her shudder.