Elizabeth Boyle (7 page)

Hell, he’d be hard-pressed to describe his future wife any other way himself after this morning’s encounter.

But still, he didn’t like the notion of his future wife being the subject of wagers. She was, after all, going to be the next Marchioness of Trahern.

Monty snorted. “Listen, if you had found her yourself I would expect nothing less than a bride of the first water. But need I remind you, all of London knows your father picked this little minx. And he selected her because she was sensible and solid.” The duke shuddered. “Can’t imagine what my father would have chosen. Good thing he went to his reward when I was only sixteen and third in line for his titles. You should have seen the harridan he picked out for my elder brother. No surprise he died without an heir. And then with Harry’s accident and the title mine, I’ve ended up free to choose my own perfect duchess.”

“And when will that be?” Giles prodded as they made their way slowly up the front steps of the Dearsley town house. Since Monty had inherited his dukedom through his brothers’ misfortunes, it seemed they shared one thing in common: keeping the family lineage secure.

Monty came to a halt. “As a matter of fact I could very well have found my perfect duchess.” He patted his jacket pocket. “And once we capture her I’ll propose.”

Giles nearly choked. “You intend to marry the Brazen Angel?”

Sticking his pug nose in the air, Monty paraded past a stunned Giles. “I do indeed. I tallied up her qualifications this afternoon and found she is nearly a perfect match. Besides, one of us had to have a wife worth looking at.”

Before Giles could find the words to respond, the front door was flung open.

“There you are, you devil,” Lady Dearsley burst out, her fat, beringed finger pointing at him. She bounded down the stairs with the tenacious speed of a runaway bull. “What did you say to her?”

“Say to whom?” Giles resisted the urge to back up. He’d faced many dangers in his career—knife-wielding assassins, duels—but never had he come so close to being unnerved.

“To whom, he says. As if he didn’t know,” the lady scoffed at a plump young maid hovering just inside the doorway. “Do you hear that, Hannah? He drives my niece to a desperate end, then acts the innocent.” Lady Dearsley’s finger was prodding him in the chest. “You are a cruel and wicked man.”

A desperate end?
Giles looked up at the lit windows and servants hovering in curious knots near the curtains. “Lady Sophia? Is she all right?”

“All right?” Lady Dearsley waved and fluttered her yellow painted fan. As if on cue the maid she’d called Hannah rushed down the stairs and took her mistress’s arm. After a few moments of the steadying support of her servant, the older lady recovered enough of her composure to continue her tirade. “My poor niece is probably sick and dying in some drafty carriage, or worse, the victim of some heinous crime. And it is all your fault. Whatever you said to her this afternoon frightened her poor delicate nature to the point of desperation.” This time the fan smacked down sharply on his shoulder.

“There, there, my lady.” Monty stepped to the forefront. “Are you telling us that Trahern’s dear bride is not here?”

“Not here? Listen to these fools, Hannah. Haven’t they heard a word I’ve been saying? Do you think I’d be in this state if my poor dear were upstairs awaiting her wifely trials?” She swung her full attention back to Giles. “After all my admonitions, after all my warnings. No, you vile man, you went ahead and terrified her. Lady Sophia not here?” The woman took a deep breath, the plumes in her hair undulating with the exertion. “Not here. That’s exactly what I’ve been saying for the last five minutes. Sophia packed her bags and fled! There will be no wedding tonight.”

For the next half hour they tried with little success to elicit details from the agitated Lady Dearsley about her niece’s disappearance. When Lord Dryden arrived, having been invited to toast the happy couple, the lady calmed enough to attempt a clearer version of the facts.

“I’ve told you and told you, Sophia, that horrid Mrs. Langston of hers, and their driver are gone.” Lady Dearsley took another large sip of her sherry.

“Mrs. Langston?” he asked.

“Sophia’s paid companion. My sisters insisted we hire her. Arrogant one, that woman. I never trusted her references, not once.”

Giles ignored the slight about the paid companion. “Could she have gone to a friend’s house here in town?”

Setting her drink set aside, Lady Dearsley retrieved her handkerchief, letting the linen square flutter about nervously. “Sophia has no friends. She is far too delicate for such frivolous activities.”

Lord Dryden leaned forward in his seat. “Then where, my dear lady, do you think your niece went?”

“I can only guess she’s gone to Celia’s.”

Giles looked to Dryden for an explanation.

“The Countess of Larkhall,” the man whispered.

“My elder sister, Lord Trahern,” Lady Dearsley sniffed.

Giles couldn’t believe the kindly Countess could be in any way related to Lady Dearsley. His country house, Byrnewood, adjoined the Larkhall estates in Bath. Though he hadn’t seen the Countess in years, she held a dear place in his heart for having been kind to him when he was but a lad of six and his mother had died unexpectedly of a fever.

“If you’d taken any time to investigate our family you would have realized the connection. I have three sisters: Sophia’s dear mother, Joceline, Celia, and Mellisande.” She turned from Giles to Monty, who sat wedged in next to her on the small couch. “My sister Celia prefers Bath to London. Whatever for I’ve never been able to fathom. It is terribly dull out there, but Sophia is always pestering me to let her go visit Celia in Bath. I think it is why she is always so ill. She hasn’t learned how to live in London. And when she isn’t at Celia’s . . . she goes elsewhere.”

Lord Dryden coughed politely. “Do you think it’s possible she’s gone north?”

“It doesn’t surprise me you would think of
her
, Lord Dryden.” Lady Dearsley reached for her glass. “You’ve always had a fancy for my younger sister.” She shook her head. “Good thing Mellisande threw you off and married the old duke. Look at where it landed that poor man. Dead in a year. But Caryll’s misfortune gave that mousy Georgeanne Radcliffe enough time to marry you, well before Mellie got a chance to get her claws hooked back into you.”

“Your sister is the Duchess of Caryll?” Monty asked.

Lady Dearsley nodded curtly, a frown puckering her wrinkled mouth. It was obvious even the mention of her younger sister was distasteful. “Yes, she is. And to answer your question, Lord Dryden, yes, it is possible Sophia went north. She has quite an affection for my sister, as misplaced as it is. It’s no wonder she pulled this ruinous stunt. I can see Mellinsande’s influence all over it.”

Even Giles, without his experience in the rumors and habits of the London
ton
, knew of the Duchess of Caryll. He wondered why he hadn’t made the connection before. Mellisande Ramsey, with her odd French-tinged name and famed beauty, still left every man over fifty speaking in awed, hushed tones at the very mention of her.

To this day she was considered the reigning beauty of London, though she hadn’t left her York estates in nearly fifteen years.

Lady Dearsley rose to her feet, a little unsteadily after her four glasses of sherry. She toddled over to where Giles now stood. “I don’t see what all this talk is accomplishing. You must find Sophia.”

Giles considered his chances of catching and holding the large lady if she teetered off her high heels.

In spite of his overwhelming relief at the delay in his marriage, he felt slightly ill at ease. Not used to having his composure ruffled, especially by some slip of a girl, Giles didn’t quite know what to do for the first time in his life.

That in itself left him feeling tight-chested.

Duty dictated he go after his betrothed and drag her back to face the parson—especially since she had no male relatives to carry out the errand.

Yet bringing Webb’s betrayer to justice was worth more to Giles than the misbehavior of a spoiled, misguided chit.

“Well, Lord Trahern,” Lady Dearsley puffed. “Are you or are you not going after my niece?”

“That is impossible, milady. I cannot delay my plans because your niece chose to run off.”

Lady Dearsley paled, her feathers quivering as she trembled with anger. Before her hovering maid could pacify her, she erupted. “Lord Dryden, I hold you personally responsible for this fiasco. You and Celia talked me into this marriage, and now look what it has done—my poor Sophia is lost . . . perhaps forever …”

From the strained look on Dryden’s face Giles knew his superior was making a painful decision—send him on to Paris to investigate Webb’s death, or defer to a deathbed promise.

Giles suspected he was about to spend the night searching the roads out of London.

But Dryden’s choice stunned him.

“My dear Lady Dearsley,” Dryden began, “your niece’s actions are most regrettable. And while I am honor-bound to see this marriage secured, it appears we have not given the young lady and Lord Trahern enough time to get acquainted.”

“Acquainted? What kind of nonsense is that?” She turned her anger toward the older man. “They can get acquainted just fine once they are married. Sophia suffers from an overactive imagination. I wouldn’t put it past that Mrs. Langston, with her stories of her heroic Captain Langston, to have filled the girl’s head with a load of romantic blather.”

Dryden cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, the girl is well on her way either north or west, and until she arrives safely at the Caryll estates or into the warm embrace of her aunt, Lady Larkhall, there is no way we can locate her. She could have taken a number of routes or be safely hidden with an acquaintance here in town. Since your niece knows Lord Trahern is leaving on the morning tide, she will likely reappear by midday, assuming her bridegroom gone.”

“Bah!” Lady Dearsley huffed. “I’ll not listen to any more of your speculations. What is this world coming to when gentlemen are unwilling to retrieve a young woman from the dangers of the road? Get out of my sight, all of you.”

With this final exclamation Lady Dearsley threw all three of them out of her town house, Monty blustering with apologies.

Dryden pulled Giles aside. “Don’t think this lets you off the hook. The only reason I haven’t got you on the road to York this very moment is because the longer this situation in Paris is unattended, the more likely we are to lose the trail. If you can’t find out what happened to Webb, then you will need to find this Brazen Angel woman.”

Giles glanced up at Monty, who was still offering his full repertoire of inappropriate gallantries and apologies to Lady Dearsley. “I think the Brazen Angel is still here. Here in London. At least for the moment.”

“Yes, that fits Webb’s theory.” Dryden’s brow furrowed with concentration. “You’ve got until the morning. If you haven’t found her by then, be on that ship. If my suspicions are correct, she’s probably looking to replenish her coffers quickly before returning to Paris. If you don’t find her tonight, I want you in Paris waiting for her when she resurfaces.”

The sound of Lady Dearsley’s thick front door slamming shut brought Giles’s attention back to the matters at hand.

“What about my bride?” Giles asked, Lady Dearsley’s accusations still tolling their guilt-ridden peal in his ears.

“She’s traveled between her aunts’ homes with only the company of this Mrs. Langston for years. Despite Lady Dearsley’s dire predictions, the girl knows what she’s doing and won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“Still . . .” Giles thought about the frail young woman he’d met hours earlier. Her racking coughs and translucent skin belied the hardy image Lord Dryden drew.

“Still, nothing.” Dryden took him by the arm and guided him to his carriage. “I’ll send Lady Dryden and the girls after her. With Webb—” The man’s voice broke. He glanced away, obviously struggling to recover his composure. “It will do them all some good to have something else to worry about,” he managed to finish. Without another word he walked to his own carriage, his back straight and his head held high.

Giles found Monty settled into the leather seat of his carriage. “To the duke’s house, Michaels,” he instructed his driver, pulling himself into the carriage.

Neither man said much as the well-lit square outside the Dearsley town house gave way to the dark streets of London. It was well past nine now, the night plunging the alleys and byways into murky depths.

“Giles, I suppose I won’t be proposing to my lady now. Wouldn’t seem right for me to be married and you still a free man.” Monty wiped his forehead.

Giles knew he should thank the troublesome girl. He hadn’t wanted this marriage, at least not just yet, though inevitably honor would hold him fast in keeping his father’s dying wish.

“Come now,” Monty chided. “We’ve got hours before your ship leaves on this
business
trip, so why not make a night of it?” The man stuck his short legs out in front of him.

Giles knew he could never get rid of Monty now, not without a lot of questions. Just maybe his friend might come in handy. “What would you say to looking up the Brazen Angel tonight?”

Monty perked right up. “Now, that’s a capital idea. Where do you propose we start?”

Giles looked out the window gauging where they were. “Delaney lives near here, doesn’t he?”

Monty looked out the carriage window. “I daresay he does. Though we won’t find him home tonight. His mother is visiting in the country, and with her out of town he’s been seen at every wicked club from Covent Garden to Saint James Street.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Giles opened the trapdoor and gave new instructions to Michaels. A few minutes later the Trahern carriage rolled to a stop a block from the Delaney house. The street was empty. From their vantage point they had a clear view of the house. Settling back in his seat, Giles explained his plan to Monty.

Two hours later the duke remained unconvinced. “You say since the Angel didn’t get Delaney’s money last night, she’d risk her neck for it tonight?”