To Lure a Proper Lady (2 page)

She planted her feet. “What's wrong with him?”

“His stomach pains him, as he most certainly has claimed.”

“Yes, but—”

Caruthers fixed her with a glare he likely used to cow the junior footmen and scullery maids. “With all due respect, my lady, out.” His glower extended to Pippa and Caro. “All of you.”

Lips trembling, Lizzie crossed into the sitting room. The door closed with an emphatic click of the latch. Caro pressed her ear to the oak panel, and they all waited while the air in the outer chamber thickened.

The silence became heavier until all Lizzie could hear was her own heartbeat. A hand slipped into hers, and her fingers tightened about it reflexively. The weight of Pippa's head settled on Lizzie's shoulder.

“He's actually ill.” Pippa's whisper echoed through the stillness and pressed on Lizzie's heart.

She closed her eyes against a sudden burning at their back. No dramatics this time. Papa had told them the truth. He was ill, perhaps dying, which meant they must take his wishes seriously.

Even when those wishes meant she had to consider Snowley's suit.

Hard white stone cool at his back, Dysart leaned his shoulders against the front of number four Bow Street and raised his cheroot to his lips. The scent of smoke nearly masked the stink of London in summer. Nearly. Not even the richness of tobacco could cover the earthy smell of crushed horse droppings, the heaviness of coal smoke, or the sweetish rot coming off the Thames.

But he'd stay out here as long as he could. It was a court day, and the stench of poverty would be worse inside. Not that he faulted the victims of social injustice for their circumstances. No, he far preferred to lay the blame exactly where it belonged. On those who held the power to change lives for the better but stood by and did nothing.

This morning, Bow Street rattled with the usual noise of commerce—the clop of hooves, the calls of the draymen to their teams, the rumble of a well-sprung carriage.

“Cor.” His eyes narrowed on the crest that decorated the polished wooden door of the coach. “A bloody duke.”

And what was the likes of such doing in Town when Parliament had adjourned for the summer and the members of the
ton
had dispersed to their estates? Up to no good, without doubt. Likely come in to testify against some urchin or other who'd tried to pick his well-lined pockets. As if he couldn't afford a small donation to the less fortunate when he rode about in the latest style.

The conveyance shuddered to a halt directly in front of him. He took another drag on his cheroot, blowing out a cloud of bluish smoke. Not much of a disguise, but then he reckoned the odds of anyone recognizing him at a good seventy to one.

A footman alit from his perch at the back of the carriage and rushed to let down the steps. One couldn't keep important people like dukes waiting, after all. It just wouldn't do. No indeed. Dysart watched the coach's occupant bestir himself.

Or herself, rather. Not even the most eccentric duke would be caught dead in a bonnet sporting a handsome set of billowing ostrich plumes, of all things. Those feathers inclined as she spoke to another passenger—a maid, no doubt. Then a footman pulled open the door, and a young lady emerged, of sufficient age that she might be a newly minted duchess or a duke's daughter. Either way, beyond the rarified air of Mayfair—even with the maid shadowing her—she was clearly out of her element.

“Oooh, and ain't we fine-lookin' this day?”

At his call, the young lady straightened. The deep brim of her bonnet shaded flawless white skin from the ravages of the sun. Dark hair, even features, a pert tilt to her nose. Eyes of perhaps blue or gray but definitely not brown. Medium height. Dysart cataloged each detail, committing it to memory without thought.

“I beg your pardon?”

He suppressed an urge to parrot her question back to her in that same tea-and-crumpets accent.

“Ye lost yer way, yer grace?” He settled for infusing his reply with the gin-soaked tones of St. Giles. “Bond Street is a good mile and a half that way.” With his chin, he pointed westward.

The footman, a burly chap—but then size was usually a desired trait there—stepped in front of the young lady. “I'd be off if I were you.”

“Can't do that.” Dysart shook his head. “Ye see, ye can never tell when a wall might decide it wants to crumble. This one, it's my job to prop it up.”

“Then stand aside and allow my lady to pass.”

Dysart looked pointedly at the pavement beside him. He wasn't blocking the entrance to the magistrates' court in the least. “Cor blimey. And what business does such as ye have on Bow Street?”

“I don't see how it's any of your affair.” Lifting her chin, she brushed past him, her skirts sweeping the hems of his trousers. The maid trailed close on her heels, a rather doughy personal guard.

Well. At least the lady could speak for herself. In the meantime, Dysart returned to his original premise. No doubt she'd been called from more comfortable surroundings to testify in one matter or another. Which meant only one thing. It was high time for him to get inside, as well. He tossed aside the stub of his cheroot and slipped through the door behind her.

At the entrance to the spacious courtroom, already filled and with a hearing in progress, she whirled. “Are you following me?”

Dysart grinned, or perhaps it was closer to a leer. May as well have some fun with her, since her ostrich plumes were apparently easy to ruffle. “Not precisely.”

She cast a distressed glance about her and snagged the arm of a passing clerk. “Your pardon. This man is following me.”

Naturally, someone like her would latch onto Potter. He considered himself something of a dandy and attempted to dress the part, although his salary could barely support the burden. “It's just Dysart. He won't do ye no harm.”

“Can't you see him arrested?”

Suppressing a grin, Dysart crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. Things were about to get interesting.

“I'm afraid not.”

“Why?”

Under the weight of her aristocratic glare, Potter pulled at his sagging cravat. “Because I haven't the authority. You need a Runner for that.”

“Well, it so happens I've come in search of one.” She let out a little huff. “I thought to get some answers and take care of an annoyance at the same time.”

The corners of Potter's mouth jerked, as if he couldn't decide whether to smile or grimace. “Dysart's your man, then, madam.”

Dysart raised a hand and wiggled his fingers.

She turned the full force of her glare on him, not that the likes of her could cow him. He'd faced far worse in his day than the disdain of one of the
ton
's daughters. “I don't want this Runner. Find me another.”

Dysart pushed himself away from the wall. “Seems yer luck's deserted ye. The others all be out on cases. There's just me today.”

Not a complete lie, at least until the others drifted in from their various assignments. If she needed a Runner for a private case, he could use the blunt. Ridiculous what it cost to keep an eleven-year-old boy in school and out of trouble. The cut of her gown and the particular rustle of her skirts proclaimed quality, without taking into consideration the crested carriage or the liveried footman who shadowed her.

“Wot 'choo need a Runner for?”

If nothing else, she aroused his curiosity. A young lady of her station could afford to tend to any tricky personal matters without resorting to a place as public as Bow Street. For that matter, why wasn't she relying on a brother or a father or a husband to take care of things for her? Did she have no one she could turn to?

“I thought…well, I thought…” All her haughtiness dissolved as she twisted her fingers together. She suddenly seemed much too young to confront whatever trouble she was in. “I have some questions, and I reckoned someone like a Bow Street Runner would know the answers. But…”

Dysart stepped to one side, indicating the corridor with a flourish. “Say no more. Me office, such as it is, awaits.”

With the footman glowering in their wake and the maid clinging close, Dysart led the duchess—until he learned her name and status for certain, he'd think of her as nothing else—through the winding corridors into the bowels of the building.

The tiny space that served as his office was cramped and dingy, but he liked it that way. There was no window to let in the light, but any window here was more likely to open onto a dreary alleyway, a reflection of the view he saw every day from his flat near Covent Garden.

With a grin by way of apology for the lack of furnishing, Dysart took his usual seat atop his battered desk. “Now, what did ye have in mind?”

The duchess hovered just over the threshold, as if she wasn't quite certain of the protocol involved. Or the propriety, even if that bloody footman of hers continued to glare from the corridor. “Shouldn't we introduce ourselves properly? I am Lady Elizabeth Wilde.”

Dysart studied her from her ridiculous bonnet to her porcelain complexion and down an impeccably tailored bodice that showed a fine set of breasts off to advantage despite its high cut at the neck. If ever he'd pictured a wild woman—and he had, on numerous occasions—Lady Elizabeth was the furthest thing from his imaginings. “Are ye now?”

“Am I what?”

“Wild.”

The maid let out a gasp.

Lady Elizabeth simply lowered her brows. “Of course not. Thomas Wilde, the Duke of Sherrington, is my father.”

“Not
your grace,
then.” For some reason that thought provoked a smile.

Her lips disappeared for a moment. Lush, pink lips. “Just
my lady.
And you are?”

“You heard my name. Dysart. Just Dysart.”

He'd be damned if he'd give her more than that. His true name was his own, and about the only thing left to him. If she insisted on his given name, he'd invent something. Michael. That was a good, solid name. Today, at least, he'd be Michael and not that god-awful moniker his mother had saddled him with.

“All right, Mr.—”

He held up a hand, because God only knew he'd seen
that
coming. These nobs were nothing, if not predictable. “None of that. Just Dysart. Now tell me wot 'choo want t' know.”

She tugged at her pristine kidskin gloves for a moment while her lower lip retreated behind her teeth. “There's no easy way to say this. If I thought someone were being poisoned, what would I look for?”

“Poison?” The word prodded him upright and dragged his wandering attention away from her lush mouth. “Who's being poisoned?”

He reached behind him, groping for the drawer where he stowed his writing implements. His fingers found the handle, and he yanked, once, twice. Damned thing, always sticking, and this awkward angle wasn't helping him any. Finally, the drawer burst open, and he scrabbled for a pen and a scrap of paper.

“Well?” he prompted. “Get on with it. I wouldn't've thought one such as you needed a Runner, but looks like I was wrong there.”

Get on with it.
Never in Lizzie's entire life had someone spoken to her like that. Part of her wanted to point out that one simply didn't address the daughter of a duke in such a fashion. Rudeness was a far more subtle weapon on the tongues of her social class—a stiletto, perhaps, where Dysart used his like a bludgeon.

But then, she'd never seen anyone change demeanor so quickly, either. From irritating and teasing to something else. Serious, professional. Above all, an intensity sharper than any blade. The sheer keenness driving that gaze beneath his unruly mop of reddish-brown hair pierced into her to land somewhere deep inside, where it formed into an unsettling yet intriguing warmth. She clenched her fist to stop herself from pressing her hand to the spot.

“Well?” He sat, poised incongruously on that battered excuse for a desk, quill dipped in ink, ready to write. He wanted answers. He would demand them. “Who's being poisoned? Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

His accent had changed, as well, from the sloppy tones of eastern London to something more precise and clipped. Tones far more familiar to her ear.

“You misunderstand. I wish to know how one can tell before leaping to conclusions.”

“No.” There was another word she didn't hear very often. Certainly not spoken so abruptly.

“Now, see here. I—”

“No. People don't come to Bow Street because they have questions. They come because they suspect a crime has taken place.”

Crime
. The word raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “I think I know my own motivation for coming.”

He twirled his quill in his fingers. “To ask me something you could have asked any doctor or apothecary?”

“I did ask the doctor.” For all the good his answer had done her.

“What did he tell you?”

“Nothing useful.”

“Aha!” That sharp-honed concentration in his eye took on a spark. “What's this doctor's name?”

“Dr. Fowler, but—”

Dysart's quill was already scratching at his paper.

“What are you doing?”

“Noting the name of our first suspect.”

“Really.” For all his intensity, he seemed awfully fond of dramatics. “Dr. Fowler's been looking after Papa's various ailments for years. I hardly think—”

“Your father's the victim?” He dipped his quill in the ink, hunched over, and scribbled another sentence. “The duke?”

She craned her neck to see what he was writing, but his scrawl was indecipherable from this angle. “He's not a victim of anyone…except, perhaps, himself. I'd just like to rule out—”

“Why would this Fowler want to snabble the duke?” Dysart held his quill, ready to take down her reply.

“He doesn't.” There. At least she'd managed to complete a thought before Dysart cut her off. “That's just it. When I asked about Papa's medicines, Dr. Fowler told me they were mostly sugar, water, coloring, and alcohol.”

“So not medicines at all.”

“No, they're closer to cordials, I suppose.”

“And your puh-
pa
”—he imitated her pronunciation, putting a heavy emphasis on the final syllable like a Frenchman—“has been letting this quack treat him for how long?”

“Over a decade, but he's not a quack. You have to understand my papa. He's been claiming he's dying for as long as I can remember.”

“So what's changed?” That intense scrutiny was back. His gaze swept her from head to toe.

She fought off an urge to shuffle her feet. “I beg your pardon?”

“What's changed to make you ask questions?”

“You haven't answered my questions,” she pointed out.

“Because detecting poison depends on so many things. What are they using? Do they want it to end quickly or drag on so others believe the victim is simply ill? You can't tell without a proper investigation.” He watched her. Carefully. “Now tell me what's changed.”