Alyssa Everett (3 page)

I frowned and clapped the book shut. What was the point in thinking of her? She
did
have that tart tongue. Besides, she was too wellborn for dalliance, and I wasn’t interested in anything permanent. Look how marriage had turned out for my parents. My mother and father had been blithely betraying each other with lovers for years. In my father’s case, he’d renounced my mother’s entire sex. Who was to say I wouldn’t end up the same way?

Granted, I was attracted to women—I’d bedded so many actresses, I could stage an all-female production of
Titus Andronicus
—but my father had evidently found my mother desirable enough to marry her and sire me, so what did that prove? And I didn’t want to be like my parents, because...well, because I didn’t. I could never stand idly by while my wife took a lover. And what if someday I had a son, and he had to sit in a room full of schoolboys and hear them sneer,
Your father’s a Miss Molly
?

The pathetic part was, until I’d gone away to Eton, I’d taken pride in being my father’s son. In fact, I’d admired practically everything about him—his intelligence, his humor, his
savoir faire
, his courtesy and sense of responsibility. He was a kind and doting parent, and, their mutual infidelities aside, he and my mother seemed genuinely fond of each other. My father and I looked so alike that visitors to Greybridge often mistook the portrait of him painted in his boyhood for a likeness of me.

So if my father did shameful things with men, then what did that make me? Every time a sharply lascivious thought struck from out of the blue, I wondered if it was the first sign of encroaching depravity. Every time I recalled the other boys at school calling me
princess
or
sweetheart
, I worried they’d recognized something in me I didn’t. What turned a man into a sodomite? More to the point, how could I be sure I was not one?

There was a scratch on the door. “Come in,” I called, shoving the
Peerage
under a stack of papers as if it were the racy French drawings I’d kept hidden under my pillow at school.

The butler entered bearing a note on a tray. “A message for you, my lord.”

Recognizing Teddy’s sloping penmanship, I took up the note and unfolded it.

Ben,

For God’s sake, come to Leonard House at once. The Woodfords’ footman is dead, and I’ve told everyone I killed him.

Teddy

Chapter Two

Ben

“Of course I didn’t do it.” Teddy spoke in an undertone as we conferred at the bottom of the Leonards’ stairs. “I’m not a murderer. But how could I let Helen take the blame?”

“Good lord, Teddy. Are you
mad?
”

One had only to glance at the small crowd gathered in the Leonards’ entry hall to know this was serious business. In addition to Lord Leonard’s shaken family, Lord Woodford and the Woodfords’ butler, the group included the coroner, the magistrate’s assistant, and a Bow Street Runner. And, of course, there was the body—a strapping footman in crimson livery, stretched out face-up on the white marble tile with the top of his skull caved in and a sizable bronze statuette lying on the floor beside him.

“What else could I do?” Teddy whispered back. “It wasn’t her fault. She loves me but this footman fellow wouldn’t leave her alone. Can you believe he broke in here tonight to try to force her to run away with him?”

“Are you sure this wasn’t her fault? Did you actually see what happened?”

“No, he was already on the floor when I came upon them. But she told me all about it. He made a grab for her, so she dodged away and gave him a defensive shove. He fell backwards and hit his head on the stairs.”

“So why on earth did you say you did it? Tell everyone you had nothing—”

“I can’t. Only think of the scandal. She was seen in the company of a neighbor’s servant, and now he’s lying dead under her family’s roof. If I take the blame, at least I may be able to keep her name out of it.”

“But there’s bound to be an inquest into the man’s death. What are you going to do, lie under oath?”

“If I have to.”

I dragged a hand over my face, struggling for patience. “Teddy, you could
hang
for this.”

He paled, but to his credit he whispered back, “Then that means Helen could hang as well. I’m not about to let that happen. I’ll stick to my story and say it was an accident. She never meant to kill the fellow. I’m certain of it.”

“But if he fell, what is that statuette...?” I stopped as I caught sight of Lady Barbara. She looked even more head-turning than before, her low-cut evening gown of slate blue clinging to her curves and making her white skin and auburn hair appear even more vivid. She was deep in conversation with the Bow Street Runner, who was jotting down notes as she spoke, a keen look on his face. Then Lady Barbara gestured in our direction, and I realized with a jolt of alarm that she must be every bit as determined to protect her sister as I was to clear my cousin.

“I’ll be back,” I ground out, and I charged off to stop her before she put the last nail in Teddy’s coffin.

Barbara

I’d never seen a dead man before, and certainly not up close. When I’d last crossed paths with the Woodfords’ footman, he’d been a grinning rascal with a familiar wink. Now he lay lifeless on our tiled marble floor, Mama’s jackal-headed Egyptian statuette beside him and his brains a bloody mess.

In the hour since I’d first heard Helen scream, the house had filled with grim-faced strangers and horrified acquaintances of the victim. Even that arrogant Lord Beningbrough was here, having apparently learned of Cliburne’s difficulties and rallied to his side. The cousins were sitting together on the next-to-last stair, speaking to each other in low voices, their long legs stretched out before them. At any other time I would have relished the opportunity to observe two such well-favored gentlemen unnoticed, but Cliburne’s face was so pale and Beningbrough looked so...so
vehement
, seeing them only reminded me of the dead body on the floor.

“Excuse me, Lady Barbara, but I’m Dawson of Bow Street,” said an unfamiliar voice, and I wheeled around to find a man with a notebook in his hand. “Might I ask you a few questions?” He was middle-aged, short and stocky, with thinning ginger hair and a cheerful expression that seemed strangely at odds with the grim nature of his work.

“Yes, but it’s really my sister you should be talking to.”

Mr. Dawson glanced to where Helen stood near the front door, weeping brokenly on Papa’s shoulder. “I’ve tried, my lady, but she’s too distraught.”

Of course she was. When had Helen ever failed to get out of a difficult spot by crying? Dryly, I said, “My sister has extremely delicate sensibilities.”

He shook his head in sympathy. “Poor thing. She’s a very pretty girl.”

I nodded without enthusiasm. If one more man referred to Helen as
pretty
, I was going to give him the coldest, most contemptuous stare I could manage. In our family, everyone had some distinction. My brother Jack was the competitive one, Will was the fun-loving one, I was the headstrong one, and Edmund was the quiet one. Helen, needless to say, was the pretty one.

All my life, I’d wanted to be the pretty one. The pretty one drew all the attention and was loved just for showing up. No one ever pitied the pretty one because a suitor had trifled with her affections, or worried the pretty one was going to turn out an old maid. Unfortunately, I had inherited my grandmama Merton’s looks, and everything about me was just a little
too
—my height a shade too tall, my hair a shade too red, my bosom too generous for real refinement. Worse yet, I didn’t have Helen’s talent for that fetching air of helplessness that brought men crashing to their knees. I was never going to be the pretty one.

I could shrug off most of the resulting sorrows and slights, but Cliburne’s recent defection had hurt. It wasn’t so much that he’d broken my heart past reclaiming. It was more the idea of what Cliburne had represented—a good-looking, sought-after young man who thought I was every bit as special as Helen. Someone I could count on. Someone capable of loving me for myself.

I’d met him first, a good month before Helen had, when he’d called to collect my brother Will for an expedition to Bond Street. He’d been so friendly, and over the next six weeks we’d met again and again as we’d found ourselves at the same social functions. I’d tried to keep a level head despite his sweet smile and warm brown eyes. After all, I was used to gentlemen rushing past me to get to my sister. But Helen had been visiting our aunt Archer in Brighton, and little by little I’d allowed myself to hope Cliburne might be developing feelings for me. Even after Helen returned and gave him her celebrated angelic smile, he’d gone on teasing me about my red hair, and had even sat out a dance with me at Almack’s.

It had all come to a head three weeks ago, when Helen stayed home from the Stewarts’ picnic with an indisposition. Cliburne had remained at my side for nearly the whole of the outing. When I’d wandered away from the main party to sit in the tree swing beside the ornamental lake, he’d followed. Standing in the shade of the willow and squinting out over the water, he’d said hesitantly, “Lady Barbara, I know this must seem very sudden, but I’ve never felt this way about any girl before, and I was wondering—” here he’d turned his great spaniel-eyes on me, smiling, “—how would you feel if I were to put our relationship on a different footing? Something closer and more permanent, I mean. Would that be unwelcome to you?”

My heart had begun to pound. Though we’d spent a good deal of time together, he’d never so much as held my hand before. And he was so handsome, and so sweet-tempered, and he was the Earl of Daventry’s heir. I’d wanted to jump off the swing and do an ecstatic jig.

Since Cliburne occasionally seemed taken aback by my frank manners, however, I’d simply looked down at my lap demurely and murmured, “I believe I would like that very much, Lord Cliburne.”

His smile had widened to carve dimples in his cheeks. “That’s just what I was hoping you’d say...Barbara.” As I’d blushed at his unadorned use of my Christian name, he’d given my swing a playful push. “In that case, I intend to speak to your father tomorrow afternoon.”

And then he had spoken to Papa—but about proposing to Helen, not to me. Cliburne had stayed for dinner that night, and when Papa stood and proposed a toast to
the happy couple
,
Lord Cliburne and our little Helen
, it had been like a kick in the stomach. So the new footing Cliburne hinted at—the closer, more permanent relationship—had meant as sister and brother-in-law? Having spent the day on tenterhooks, I’d had to summon every ounce of pride I possessed to smile and offer him my congratulations. Inside, I’d wanted to die of humiliation. Why had I ever supposed he’d be interested in me? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

But worse than having been a fool was the burning shame of having everyone
know
I’d been one. Apparently our tête-à-tête at the picnic had been observed, for the
Times
ran a caricature later that week showing a tall, buxom “Lady B____” flinging her cap at “Lord C___” as he left a church with a new bride on his arm. Lady B was throwing a dunce cap.

I still wanted to sink every time that drawing came to mind. When I ventured out in public, I was sure I heard whispers and titters all around me. And the drawing had cost me Cliburne’s friendship too, since I could no longer bring myself to speak to him for fear of saying something gauche and over-familiar that might embarrass us both.

Well, I was never going to make that mistake again. From now on I was done with getting my hopes up, done with showing any man the least encouragement. In fact, I was done with men, full stop. At least there was nothing laughable about embittered spinsterhood.

“So, were you acquainted with the deceased?” Mr. Dawson asked.

I stole a look over his shoulder at the body and shuddered. “I knew him by sight as our neighbors’ footman, but I’d never actually spoken with him.” He’d liked to flirt, I could tell, but I’d never been the kind of prey to interest him.

Mr. Dawson nodded. “And where were you when the body was discovered?”

“I was in the dining room, eating dinner with my mother and father.”

“But not your sister and her affianced?”

“They were with us at first. But a few minutes into the meal my sister said she had a headache and excused herself to take a powder for it. When she didn’t return after nearly a quarter of an hour, Lord Cliburne went looking for her.”

“And was she wearing gloves when she left the room?”

What an odd question. Yet when I glanced at Helen, she was, indeed, wearing evening gloves. “No. We don’t ordinarily wear gloves when dining
en famille.
”

Mr. Dawson tapped his notebook absently with his pencil. “Any notion what your sister and Lord Cliburne quarreled about?”

Mr. Dawson had spoken earlier to Papa and Cliburne, and something told me he already knew the answer to his question. “She’d been seen in private conversation with another man.” My eyes slid to Sam’s body. “With the victim, actually.”

It all made little sense to me. Why would Helen consort with the neighbors’ footman when she had a boy as handsome, good-natured and doting as Cliburne eager to marry her? And why on earth should Helen have put on her gloves unless she was going out?

“Exactly how did you come to learn there had been a murder?” Mr. Dawson asked.

“A murder?” I arched an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t that for the coroner’s jury to decide?”

Mr. Dawson broke into a grudging smile. “Just so, my lady. In that case, how did you come to learn there had been a death?”

“Barely a minute after Cliburne left the dining room, my sister screamed, and my mother and father and I came running.”

“So it was your sister who found the body?”

“Well, she was the one who screamed. If anyone else saw the body before that, they didn’t advertise it.”

Mr. Dawson glanced at me with a look of faint respect. At least, I hoped it was respect, since it might just as easily have been suspicion. “So you think someone else could have been in the house. A stranger, perhaps?”

“I have no way of knowing, but you must’ve observed that this house is rather larger than most, with several exits and entrances. It’s not unknown for members of the household to come and go without anyone taking notice.”

Mr. Dawson nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, my lady. Back to the discovery of the body—Lord Cliburne was here in this room when you rushed in?”

“Yes, he was with my sister.”

“And what happened next?”

I didn’t want to remember that part. I could still see Papa looking up from the dead man’s body, still hear him saying to Helen, “My God. What have you done?” For once, he’d sounded more frightened than angry.

That was when Cliburne had stepped in front of Helen and said in a firm voice, his chin up, “I did it.”

Now I realized Mr. Dawson was waiting for my answer. “Lord Cliburne told us there’d been an accident. He said the Woodfords’ footman had broken into the house, and he’d confronted him.” I swallowed, struck by a disturbing vision of poor Cliburne’s body swinging at the end of a hangman’s rope. “They scuffled, and the footman stumbled and hit his head on the stairs.”

Of course, any fool could see the story was pure gammon. Everything—from Cliburne’s halting account of the events to the statuette that had clearly come from the morning room some distance away—proclaimed the death more than mere mischance.

Mr. Dawson’s brow furrowed. “And what did you—”

“Lady Barbara, how pale you look! You must sit down before you faint,” a clipped voice announced, and before I knew what was happening, the odious Lord Beningbrough had taken my elbow in a grip of steel and was propelling me ruthlessly away. “Do excuse us for a moment,” he threw over his shoulder to Mr. Dawson. “She’s about to swoon.”

“I’ve never swooned in my life,” I hissed at him once we were out of Mr. Dawson’s earshot. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I might ask you the same thing.” Beningbrough marched me to the opposite end of the room and practically shoved me down on a crocodile-footed bench, all the while maintaining a convincingly controlled posture from the rear. “I saw the way you were talking to that Bow Street Runner. I suppose you
want
my cousin to end up with his head in a noose?”

I bristled. Thanks to that stupid caricature in the
Times
, everyone saw me as a woman scorned. Well, I was hardly petty enough to betray a man in a fit of jealous spite, and I’d never had the least intention of incriminating Cliburne. “You’re unhinged. I want nothing of the kind.”