To Lure a Proper Lady (11 page)

“He wanted me to ask you to leave when he heard about your fight with Pendleton.” She crossed her arms. “But I refused to do that.”

“Maybe your cousin had the right of it.” He strode for the door. Air had suddenly become a priority, preferably taken in a cool, calming place where he might indulge in a cheroot. “I should leave if the condition on my remaining has to do with my social rank.”

Elizabeth put out a hand, but stopped short of touching him. Thank God. “You're here to do a job.”

Christ, she would have to remind him of that little fact now. “Yes, you're right. Next time we end up in a maze together, we'd better keep that in mind.”

He yanked the door open and pulled up short when he came face- to-face with Great-aunt Matilda. He swallowed back a few more choice words.

“Ah, there you are.” The old lady beamed. “Lizzie, my dear, we've been looking all over for you. It appears you've won the game, which means Lord Dysart owes a forfeit. Perhaps you'd like to decide his fate.”

Lizzie stared at Great-aunt Matilda. The old lady was practically bubbling over with glee at having caught her and Dysart alone.

Dysart, on the other hand, stood rigid, shoulders stiff beneath his topcoat. Tension seemed to flow from him in waves like a shimmer of heat on a dusty road beneath the summer sun. Slowly he swung about to await her pronouncement. A muscle rippled in his cheek.

“I believe I'll save my forfeit for later,” Lizzie said. “I'd like to think up something really good.”

Great-aunt Matilda clapped her hands. “Capital idea. I always said you were the clever one. Although I must say your choice of hiding spot disappoints me. I expected the winner would find somewhere more creative.”

“I still won, didn't I?” Lizzie crossed to her aunt and took a bony arm in hand, the better to steer her away from Dysart. “Why don't we join the others?”

“Yes, let's. I can tell everyone I've found you.” Great-aunt Matilda yielded to the slight pressure Lizzie exerted and began to toddle away from the sitting room. “You've already missed the greatest fun. Lady Whitby's daughter was the first young lady to let herself be found, but Lord Allerdale didn't spot her, as I intended. That was your cousin Snowley, and…”

She turned to gaze over her shoulder. “Are you attending, Lord Dysart?”

Lizzie cast her own glance backward. Dysart had emerged from the sitting room, but to judge by his expression, the last thing he wanted to do was join the company and discuss frivolous party games. “Let him be. He's had a trying morning.”

With a final glare in her direction, Dysart headed the opposite way down the corridor, toward the back of the house and a handy escape. Lizzie waited for him to disappear before addressing Great-aunt Matilda. “What can you tell me about him?”

“Who? Lord Dysart?”

“You know as well as I do there's no such title.” Although the subject of their discussion was long out of earshot, Lizzie still felt obligated to keep her voice down. It was almost as if the portraits lining the corridor might listen in.

Great-aunt Matilda touched her forefinger to each of the digits of her other hand, like she was ticking names off a list. “I suppose there isn't. And how would someone like that manage an invitation? You did invite him here, didn't you? Who introduced you?”

Lizzie could hardly answer that question with the truth, but neither was she blessed with the talent of inventing a plausible story on the spot. The explanation she'd fed Snowley seemed awfully thin for Great-aunt Matilda to buy. “Papa knows him. He's here by Papa's permission.”

Her aunt's look was fit to peel off the wallpaper. “Then ask your papa.”

“If Papa wished me to have the details, wouldn't he have told me? At any rate, I prefer not to disturb him after last night. But think back. You must have heard something. Do you recall a family whose son may have left them?”

Great-aunt Matilda waved a hand. “I've heard so much gossip over the years, I can no longer sift the truth from the embellishment. The only stories I'm certain of are the ones I was involved in. But come.” She took Lizzie's elbow and began to steer her toward the front of the house. “You want gossip, you'd best ask Lady Whitby.”

No doubt, but did Lizzie wish to condemn Dysart to Lady Whitby's relentless scrutiny? “If she knew something, wouldn't she have recognized him by now?”

“That all depends on how long ago the events in question took place. Alas, but none of us looks exactly as we did years and years ago.”

“I've no idea how long it's been.” But it had to have been before her debut or she wouldn't have to ask. She'd have heard the story herself. “A decade? Even more?”

“A man doesn't show his face in society for a decade or more and some people might not know him. Or
wish
to know him. Not speaking of a man's true friends, of course, only the Lady Whitbys of the world.”

A thick layer of bracken muffled Dysart's footfalls, as he wound his way through the woodland—as far from the manor as possible. As far from Pendleton and Lady Elizabeth and her great-aunt—dicked in the nob, that one was—and all the rest of them. Some jobs simply weren't worth the blunt, and this one was fast entering that category.

He stopped for a long pull on his cheroot, letting the heat and smoke fill him. The combination ought to soothe; it was doing anything but.

By the time he retraced his steps and reassumed his role, she'd know. He sensed it in the way he could sense the various clues in a complicated case coming together to reveal a culprit. She'd quiz that great-aunt of hers and trip the old lady's memory. She'd have his name and his entire sordid history.

You could have told her yourself and saved her the embellishment gossip would add.

“It's none of her affair.” He cast the words to the wind, receiving nothing but the rustle of leaves in reply. “Bloody hell, of what importance is it, either way? I'm here to do a job. Nothing else matters.”

But somehow Lady Elizabeth's good opinion of him mattered—and once she learned the entire story, she'd turn her back. Just as the rest of his family had.

He tossed the stub of his cheroot to the path at his feet and ground his heel over it. He ought to take up his job and get it over with. The sooner the better, and he could leave Lady Elizabeth to get on with her engagement to her cousin. A shudder accompanied that thought, but he brushed the feeling aside.

He needed to forget Elizabeth's doings and question the servants again. He could track down Sherrington's estate agent. He could find a thousand more productive things to do than play bloody Hide-and-seek.

And what of Pendleton?

Yes, he was another problem. What was he after? The mare or Lady Caroline herself? Although Dysart was fast reaching the conclusion that Lady Caroline could fend for herself, he couldn't subject her to even the possibility of Pendleton.

And how was any of that connected to the duke's illness? If it was connected.

Dysart would like nothing better than to lay charges on Pendleton. His blood raced through his veins at the very thought. But he hadn't uncovered enough evidence.

Yet.

A dull rumble broke the woodland quiet, a constant rhythmic thrum that quickly crescendoed until it masked the birdcalls amid the trees. Dysart spun on his heel. Legs churning, a great brown beast of a horse bore down on him, relentless as any harbinger of the impending apocalypse.

“Cor!” He dove into the bracken.

A split second later, pounding hooves thundered past. Lady Caroline sat easily atop the mountain of muscle, her hands quiet on the reins. She wore a habit yet rode astride, her skirts rucked up to reveal a scandalous length of booted ankle and lower leg.

Dysart raised his head in time to see her rush a four-foot stone wall. She leaned forward in the saddle, and her mare cleared the obstacle in a graceful arc that left several inches to spare, before galloping on. Silence fell once more.

Christ, it was like he'd summoned the beast and its rider with his mere thoughts. Could Pendleton be far behind? But if the bastard did turn up mounted, Dysart was ill-suited to come to Caroline's aid.

He picked himself off the ground and brushed a few stray leaves from his garments. Just beyond that wall, the trees thinned. Checking his back to ensure he wasn't in imminent danger of being trampled by any followers, he approached the edge of the wood. Oaks, elms, and ash gave way to rolling fields dotted with tidy little cottages. No doubt Sherrington's tenants dwelled there, secure beneath tight thatching. Caroline's form seemed to float above the nodding heads of oats before disappearing behind a swell of land.

No one was going to catch her the way she was flying. Not unless they rode a far faster steed, given the lead she had. Dysart could return to the manor with a clear conscience.

But as he moved to retrace his steps, more sounds echoed through the trees. Not the thunder of hooves this time, but the ungainly shambling of a man puffing on foot.

Instinct told Dysart to duck low to the wall, and he always listened to his instinct. Just in time, for Pendleton jogged down the path in Lady Caroline's wake, but badly behind. A few yards away from the wall, he doubled over, hands on his thighs while he sucked in great gulps of air.

“What can he be thinking?” Dysart muttered to himself.

But a scenario immediately leapt to mind, one where Pendleton lay in wait on the path Caroline must take home.

Careful not to make a sound, Dysart crept along the base of the wall, looking for a likely spot where he could observe undetected. There. A cluster of bushes hugged the base of the stones a few yards off. While Pendleton occupied himself with regaining the ability to breathe, Dysart made for the shrubbery.

Only to encounter another obstacle the moment he settled himself amid the twigs and leaves. Crouching near the wall in a stance similar to the one Dysart had just assumed, a man approached, his gaze riveted on Pendleton. The creases on his face spoke of a life spent out-of-doors, but his clothes were a touch too fine for a tenant. Rather than nankeen and homespun, he sported a worsted topcoat, beeches, and bespattered leather boots. But he was not well enough dressed for a guest at the house party, either.

Dysart's job depended on the ability to pick up subtle cues from others' manner of dress, but he couldn't pin this particular man down.

A branch cracked under the newcomer's foot, and Dysart winced, but Pendleton didn't seem to notice. Nothing for it, though. Dysart was going to have to announce his presence before this idiot drew any more attention to himself.

Dysart cleared his throat, and the newcomer snapped his head about. His tanned skin lightened a hue or two until it took on an unhealthy shade of ocher.

“Ye'll have to find yerself another hiding spot.” Dysart kept his tone low, a single degree above a whisper, while adapting his accent to his audience. He hoped. If he guessed right, he might inspire a bit of confidence. “This one's taken.”

The other man glanced at Pendleton, who had taken to pacing and muttering to himself. “Keep your voice down.”

Dysart studied his hedgemate while the man eyed Pendleton. Dysart could ask for the man's name, but something told him his newfound friend wouldn't be forthcoming on that score. “So why are ye hiding from a nob like Pendleton?”

Not that he expected any more of an honest response to that question.

“Pendleton? Is that the bloke's name?” The reply came a bit too casually, enough to set Dysart's nerves on edge.

“Yeah, it is. Wot's'e got on ye?”

“Nothing. I've got my own reasons for being here.” Once again, the response slipped out like it was coated in butter.

“When someone's skulking in the bushes, it looks funny.”

“Says another skulker.”

“I asked ye first.”

“Not that it's any of your business, but sometimes a man intends to meet a friend of the female persuasion away from prying eyes.”

He couldn't have planned on meeting Lady Caroline. Could he?

“Ah, so yer meeting the nob's wife for a little Rumpy Pumpy?” Not that Pendleton had a wife, thank God. Dysart wouldn't wish such a fate on anyone, even someone like Lady Whitby. But whether this bloke knew that or not, Dysart had no idea.

“As I said, it's none of your affair.”

“Affair, eh? Interesting choice of words.”

The crumple of feet displacing dried leaves in bracken came to a sudden halt. Dysart's companion went rigid.

“Who's there?” Pendleton glared at the stand of bushes through narrowed eyes. “Show yourself.”

“Shite.” Beads of sweat broke out on the stranger's creased forehead. If Pendleton had succumbed to the parson's trap, Dysart would almost suspect this
had
been a tryst between the hapless woman and this stranger. So what was really going on?

Only one way to find out. Dysart unfolded himself.

Pendleton fixed him with a stare worthy of a bull about to charge. But he skipped pawing the ground in favor of a lunge. “You. I might have known.”

The crackle of breaking limbs was all the warning Dysart had. His companion crashed through the shrubbery, shoving past Dysart, before tearing away through the trees.

At the sight, Pendleton let loose a stream of curses that would make a sailor blush. With a final glance at Dysart, Pendleton pounded off after the other man—whoever he was.

“May I present our winner,” Great-aunt Matilda crowed the moment she and Lizzie entered the parlor.

The company turned to watch their entrance, and Lizzie fought off a blush, whether in response to her aunt or what had happened in the course of the game, she wasn't exactly certain.

“Cheers!” Lord Allerdale raised a tumbler of amber liquid toward the ceiling. “And where is Lord Dysart? I say it's rather unsporting not to present himself for a proper ribbing when a young lady has outwitted him.”

Great-aunt Matilda tittered like a chit fresh from the schoolroom. “I've no doubt he's off to console himself over his loss.”

Lord Allerdale lifted his glass once more, this time to his lips. “That must have been one cracking forfeit Lady Elizabeth demanded. Pity none of us was about to witness it.”

“As it happens, I haven't decided on his forfeit,” Lizzie said.

For some odd reason, Lady Whitby caught her attention. The older woman was staring at her with what could only be termed a calculating expression. Beyond her shoulder, Snowley tucked his lips between his teeth.

“Hah!” Allerdale let out a bark of laughter. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. What do you say, Wilde?” He clapped Snowley on the shoulder. “You might have inherited some of your cousin's wits. Asking Miss Anna to answer a simple riddle. Really, old boy, you've quite missed the point of these things.”