To Lure a Proper Lady (16 page)

From just beyond the reach of the candlelight, Dysart watched the dancers whirl across the ballroom. The strains of a waltz floated on the evening breeze through the open casement. With the party guests thus occupied, it was the last place he ought to be. He should take advantage of the diversion to go through the bedchambers in search of clues.

But he'd had to check on Pendleton, and he'd found the bastard, lurking in the corner, eyes riveted on Lady Caroline. And then Dysart found his own eyes riveted on Lady Elizabeth and that damnable gown that hugged her curves like a second skin. Worse, that particular shade of pale pink might as well
be
her bare skin.

He grew hard at the thought of her, under all those candles, dancing in nothing but the flickering wash of light. The glow would cast tempting shadows across her bobbing breasts and the gentle rounding of her hips.

God. Such a waste of a fine woman on that idiotic cousin of hers.

Dysart clenched his fists, wishing his hands circled that waist, his arms pulled her closer, his lips eased toward her hair to whisper into her ear. The hardened points of her breasts would brush against his chest.

But she wouldn't stiffen in his embrace. Oh, no. She'd melt into him willingly, the way she had beneath his kiss. Her smile, as she gazed up at him would be true and natural, not some mask she donned for society's benefit.

The devil take them all. He wanted Elizabeth, but she didn't come alone. The sweeping train of her skirts brought an entire retinue of servants, family, acquaintances, hangers-on with all the accompanying manners and protocol. And, above all, the hypocrisy. The very society he'd turned his back on a dozen years ago.

Now, here he stood mooning, rather than doing something productive. His inquiries this afternoon had proved fruitless. None of the jewel-toned cordials lined up in their vials at the duke's bedside resembled anything approaching that bright green he recalled. Nor had his inspection of Lady Philippa's paints.

He'd questioned servant after servant yet again and turned up a load of nothing. This entire investigation was one enormous exercise in frustration on any number of levels.

As if on cue, his gaze picked Lady Elizabeth out of the crowd once more. Whatever her cousin was saying to her, she wasn't particularly pleased. Someone less observant might miss the clues, but his trained eye picked up the tension about her lips and shoulders and the way she studiously averted her glance. She looked anywhere but at her partner, even when the music ended and he led her from the dance floor.

The moment she rejoined the onlookers lining the sides of the room, she placed as much distance between her and Snowley as possible. Good.

Or perhaps not.

The next thing Dysart knew, she'd lifted her skirts, the better to hurry to the opposite end of the ballroom. Snatches of sound escaped the open casement. Not the opening notes of the next set, but an outcry, gasps, exclamations of concern.

Good God, Sherrington. He'd been in fine enough fettle this evening, dancing, laughing, and Lord only knew what. But he might have taken a turn. Someone else might have ensured his grace suffered another one of his sick spells.

Cursing under his breath, Dysart slipped through the nearest casement. No one noticed his intrusion. Not Snowley. Not Pendleton, who had emerged from his corner. The scene near the fireplace had captured everyone's attention.

Lady Elizabeth waved her fan over a mound of bright scarlet silk. Not the duke, then, unless he'd foundered beneath his latest dance partner. But no, he knelt by the inert form, patting a gloved hand. A pair of embroidered dancing slippers protruded from voluminous petticoats supported by panniers, of all things.

Only one of the party guests wore such outdated fashions. By all appearances, Great-aunt Matilda had succumbed to a malaise. Or perhaps not. Abandoned next to her outstretched hand lay a half-empty wineglass, the remains of its contents spreading out on the floor like blood.

Dysart pushed through the crowd and lunged for the wineglass. Too late, for the contents had drained. He touched a fingertip to the stain on the floor and wafted it under his nose. Nothing.

Neither did the drop taste of anything besides claret and possibly dust, but that didn't mean anything. “Where did she get this?”

Lady Elizabeth left off with her fan to stare at him. “Do you think—”

He followed the direction of her gaze to the empty mantelpiece. Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth.

“What is it?” he asked, low.

Lady Elizabeth glanced about and jerked her head once.
Not here. Not yet.
She might as well have said the words aloud.

He reminded himself they stood at the center of attention in a room full of guests. Now would not be a good time to grasp Elizabeth by the shoulders and urge her to tell him all she knew. Because she did know something. He read as much in her expression.

She straightened and signaled a footman. “Send for Sven. He'll know what to do.”

With considerably less ease of movement, Sherrington unfolded himself. “Capital idea.”

“Good heavens, does no one carry smelling salts?” Lady Whitby sidled up next to the duke, standing rather too closely. Her arm nearly brushed against his.

From somewhere behind him, Lady Caroline snorted. “Carrying smelling salts implies one expects to swoon.”

Lady Whitby cast a dark look past Dysart's shoulder. “And that's precisely what's occurred here.” She produced a vial from the reticule hanging off her wrist. “Anyone can see she's laced herself far too tightly.”

She uncapped the vial, but before she could wave it beneath Great-aunt Matilda's nose, Lady Elizabeth clamped her fingers about Lady Whitby's wrist.

Lady Whitby emitted a loud gasp. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I think it's best if we allow Sven to see to her.” Elizabeth forced the words between her teeth. That tone brooked no argument, not even from one such as Lady Whitby.

She stepped back, forcing Elizabeth to loosen her grip. “Never…not in all my life…”

Lady Whitby continued to splutter, her offense seemingly so great, she could not adequately express it, while Elizabeth fixed her with an unflinching gaze worthy of any magistrate in the courts.

Dysart narrowed his eyes. Not only did Elizabeth know something, she suspected something. Or someone.

He bent the entirety of his will in her direction.
Over here. Tell me.
But her focus remained on a retreating Lady Whitby.

An interruption in the form of a hulking Swede parted the crowd. However the footman had managed to communicate the need, Sven had heeded the call. He strode through the assembled guests, his strides lengthening when he spotted his employer. He began to bark a series of unintelligible orders. Perhaps he'd only asked the onlookers to back away. At least they did as much, melting into a wider circle about Great-aunt Matilda's inert form.

Dysart took advantage of the confusion to grasp Lady Elizabeth by the wrist. “The terrace.”

She nodded her assent, and fell into step beside him. “I'd like assurance Great-aunt Matilda is going to be all right.”

Any number of women of Dysart's acquaintance would have made such a statement in a wobbly voice. Not Elizabeth. If anything, she sounded determined. Despite the gravity of the situation, Dysart couldn't deny the burst of warmth that filled his gut. Damn, but she was strong. For all that her life as the daughter of nobility should have left her unprepared, here was a woman who had the strength to face any challenge life tossed her way.

“You know I cannot give you that.” For some reason admiration roughened his tone to a rasp.

“That is not what I mean.” She hailed a passing footman. “As soon as there is any word on Lady Chaloner's condition, I should like to be notified.”

He should have known she didn't wish for meaningless words of comfort. She wanted facts, the same as him.

As soon as they slipped into the darkness of the terrace, he turned to face her. “What happened in there?”

“I'm not completely certain.”

“But you suspect something. I can read you at least that well.”

She crossed her arms. The night air carried a chill and a penetrating humidity against which the silk of her ball gown offered little protection. “I've no means of telling whether it was the same glass, but Lady Whitby offered Papa some wine earlier. He did not drink of it that I saw, but he placed that glass on the mantel.” She rubbed her upper arms with gloved hands. “When I finished dancing with Snowley, the mantel was empty and Great-aunt Matilda had a glass of wine in her hand. What if…what if it was the one meant for Papa?”

Dysart swallowed a few choice words. The last thing he needed was another complication in this case. “Tell me what you know about Lady Whitby,” he prompted. “Do you think she'd have a reason for wishing his grace ill?”

She hugged herself, and the shadowed crease between her breasts deepened. “That's just it. It makes no sense. Great-aunt Matilda told me earlier that Lady Whitby had her eye on Papa when she was younger. By all appearances, she seemed ready to take up that acquaintance again tonight.”

He shrugged out of his topcoat. It was cut of rougher wool, not the fine fabrics intended for a gentleman's evening attire—but then, he hadn't dressed for dinner. It would still serve to warm her. It was that or put his arms around her, and he didn't need the distraction. Neither of them did.

“Put this on before you catch a chill,” he muttered.

“What of you?”

“I'll manage.” Besides, the cold might do him good. Anything to keep his mind focused on the problem before them rather than how delectable Lady Elizabeth looked in that low-cut bodice. Anything to stop him from imagining the texture of that creamy skin swelling above the pale pink silk. Anything to stop him from thinking about the effect of the chill on her nipples.

God, he wanted to peel that dress from her body and warm her with his own, flesh against flesh.

When she still hesitated, he set the topcoat firmly on her shoulders. She clutched at the lapels, and he tried not to be jealous of a yard or two of tweed.

He cleared his throat. “As for Lady Whitby, maybe she's decided she'd like revenge for your papa throwing her over.”

“But why wait until now?”

“She may harbor ambitions for her daughter. If she can't be a duchess, she can try to make Anna one all the sooner.”

“Assuming Snowley offers for her.” She stepped farther from the casement, as if she was afraid her cousin might miss her and come searching on the terrace. “But Lady Whitby's such a stickler for propriety. Why would she resort to such extreme measures?”

“Because she's such a stickler, she thinks no one would suspect her of any wrongdoings.”

“And what of your claim the source of the poison had to be my sister's paints? How does Lady Whitby fit that theory?”

The devil take it, she had him there. “It doesn't, but I cannot discount the new possibility. I'm also no longer convinced your sister's paints are the source.”

“That only puts us back where we started this morning.”

“Unfortunately.” Damn it all, he would have to go through his notes again. He'd missed something, he was sure of it.

Lizzie left Dysart to his considerations and took a roundabout route to reenter the manor. The last thing she wanted was to run into a party guest and have to cluck over Great-aunt Matilda. It wasn't that the old lady's state
didn't
worry Lizzie—on the contrary. But she didn't see the use of the social sort of picking apart of another's constitution into its constituent aches and complaints for the sake of putting on a show. The bigger the display, in Lizzie's experience, the smaller the actual heartfelt concern.

So she tiptoed her way up a back staircase and edged along the corridor, toward her bedchamber. As long as Sven wasn't guarding the door like some oversized blond watchdog, she stood a chance of learning more of her great-aunt's fate.

She turned a corner, only to nearly crash into Snowley, who was striding from the opposite direction. He backed up a step and placed his hands on his hips. Somehow the stance made him span the corridor.

“And just where have you been?” He may as well have tacked
young lady
onto the end of that question.

Well, really. “I was somehow under the impression this was my home and I could generally do as I pleased without answering to anyone for it. Or at least anyone who wasn't styled
your grace.
”

“I
saw
you.” He made it sound like a hanging offense.

“I beg your pardon. You saw me what?”

“I saw you sneak off with that Dysart person. And here I'd hoped you'd had the sense to ask him to leave.”

“Not that it's any of your affair”—not that she hadn't reminded him of that fact a hundred times by now—“but he and I had an important matter to discuss.”

Snowley sniffed. “Oh, is that what you're calling it?”

“It was
business.
”

“Oh, naturally. On the terrace, in the middle of a social event, out of the sight of others. I can just imagine what sort of business you were conducting.” Good Lord, could he sound any more jealous?

“Even if we were—which we weren't…” And more was the pity, because several of Dysart's perusals of her form had been positively scorching. His looks had tempted her to behave in all sorts of scandalous ways. They'd gone so far as to make her wonder how he'd watch her if she started peeling her gown off for him. Not only that, but what else she might provoke him to do once she was naked. “…it has nothing to do with you.”

“As the man you're expected to marry, I beg to differ.”

Blast his and Papa's scheming.

“You haven't even made me an offer yet.” The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she'd put her foot squarely in it. Had Papa claimed she possessed sense? She didn't possess so much as an ounce. If she did, she'd have realized in advance that was the worst thing she could possibly say.

Sadly, Snowley took her up on the challenge. “I can remedy that matter. In fact, it's high time I did.”

To her utter horror, he dropped to one knee.

“You cannot be serious,” she said before he could launch into a speech that involved her making him the happiest of men.

“I am completely serious.” Dash it, his tone backed that statement up.

“This is hardly the time, given your grandmother's state of health.”

With a sigh, he heaved himself back to his feet. “Shall we look in on her?” He sounded entirely too confident.

“What do you know?” Even if he announced that his grandmother was dancing an Irish jig on top of her mattress, Lizzie wouldn't believe him without seeing for herself.

“Only that she fainted, just as Lady Whitby said. Sven brought her round after you went out on the terrace.”

“I wish to see for myself.”

“You can try.” He jerked his head back, indicating over his shoulder. Farther down the passage loomed a tall, broad-chested figure. Sven's normally good-natured features had settled into something implacable.

The stance reminded her of Dysart in the corridor, standing guard over Papa—or had he stood guard over her? But now was no time for such considerations. With her luck, Snowley would figure out how to read her mind.

She pushed past her cousin. Anything to get away from him and his absurd idea he must propose here and now. Good heavens, when she'd dreamed as a young girl of receiving an offer from a gentleman, she never imagined it would come in the middle of an upstairs corridor, in the middle of a house party, in the middle of what had to be the maddest episode of her life.

At her approach, Sven crossed his arms and lowered his brows.
“Nej
.
”

“Oh, please. I'd only like to inquire after my aunt's health.”

“Nej
.
”
This time he shook his head to drive the point home.

She hardly knew what else to expect by way of response. Even if he had understood the gist of her plea, she'd never have grasped the meaning of a longer reply.

Behind him, the door swung open, and a mobcapped young woman slipped out. Jane, one of the upstairs maids, but Great-aunt Matilda had commandeered her to play lady's maid for the duration of the house party. On catching Lizzie's eye, Jane blanched.

Oh, dear. “Please, can you tell me how my aunt is faring?”

Jane dropped into a quick curtsey. “I'm so sorry, miss.”

“Sorry? I'm not certain I follow.”

“It were my fault she fainted.”

Good Lord, could Lady Whitby have had the right of it? “Do you mean her stays really were laced too tight?”

Jane studied the ground at the hem of her brown woolen skirts. “Yes, miss. She begged me to get her into that gown, ye see, and the only way I could do it was to stick me knee in her back and pull hard as I could.”

“I'm sure everything will be just fine.” Lizzie patted the girl's shoulder. “Think no more of it. You were merely doing as her ladyship wished, now, weren't you?”

Once more, Jane bobbed. “Yes, miss.”

“That will be all.”

As she watched Jane scurry off, Lizzie's thoughts began to spin. Lady Whitby might not be involved in anything nefarious, after all. But that still left them without a clue as to who might be up to no good. And she'd left Dysart muttering curses under his breath interspersed with something about going back over his notes. She had to tell him, but that also meant getting rid of Snowley.

Her cousin had followed her down the passage, no doubt to hear for himself the confirmation his grandmother would join them all at breakfast and demand a plate piled high with kippers. “You see?” he said in a low voice. “She's going to be fine.”