Heir of Danger (5 page)

“Yes, but at that same dinner I was in conversation with Elisabeth’s guardian, Lord Taverner. He’s offered to have a word about an ambassadorial posting with Stuart in France.
From there, who knows how far I might rise. I knew this Fitzgerald alliance would be the making of me,” Shaw announced proudly.

“I’m not sure which you’re more excited about—the wife or the political connection.”

“Do you know? Neither am I.”

Cynical brotherly laughter followed.

Poor bloody Lissa. She had horrible luck in picking husbands.

Elisabeth brushed her hair long after every tangle had been ferociously removed. Usually the steady even strokes soothed her. Tonight the jumbled tumult of her thoughts overpowered every attempt at relaxation. Why had Brendan come back from the dead? Who was he hiding from? Was he in trouble? Why did she care?

Placing the brush back upon her dressing table, she noted with a frown the slight tremble of her fingers, the riot of nerves jumping in her stomach. Wedding jitters. That was all. Excitement. Anxiety. A little fear. All of it normal. Expected.

Her anxiety had nothing to do with the return of a man she’d thought dead and buried.

She should have known better. He was far too clever to end unmourned in a pauper’s grave.

Her fear was in no way connected to the surprising presence of a man rumored to have conspired in the death of his own father.

She’d never believed those stories. Brendan might be a lot of things, but not a murderer.

And her excitement was definitely not a surge of girlhood crush.

She cared for Gordon. Gordon cared for her. In an adult, mature, respectable way.

Carelessly, she reached up to finger the stone at her throat, resting dark and cool against her skin. Brendan cared for no one but Brendan. Never had. Never would.

Yet, when she slipped beneath the sheets and blew out her candle, it remained his gift about her neck. And his face imprinted upon her mind.

She didn’t know who she hated more at that moment. Brendan for coming. Or herself for being excited by it.

Elisabeth’s dressing-room door opened on silent hinges. Thick rugs muffled his every footfall. Thank heavens for the luxury of wealth. It made breaking and entering so much easier.

Her bedchamber door was closed, allowing him the freedom to light the stub of a candle. He sat at the dainty rosewood dressing table, her jewelry case conveniently at hand. Rummaging through the contents, he pulled free a heart-shaped locket containing miniatures of her parents, a small amber cross, two lavish strands of pearls, a topaz choker, and a dazzling necklace containing a rajah’s ransom of sapphires. Earrings and bracelets. Gold and silver combs. Rings and brooches.

But no pendant.

Rifled drawers revealed jars of cosmetics and lotions, bottles of scent, packets of pins and ribbons. Handkerchiefs and boot laces and a broken embroidery hoop.

But no pendant.

He huffed an exasperated sigh. Where the hell had she put it?

He began again. Searching more carefully. Reaching
back into the corners of each drawer. Pulling piece by piece out of her jewelry case, then returning it in what he hoped was the correct place.

The room held a million places a woman could hide a necklace. Cabinets, tables, a desk. He searched each piece thoroughly. He even shoved his hand beneath the chair cushions and pushed against fireplace tiles, seeking a hidden panel.

If you didn’t count two chewed-on pencil nubs, four missing buttons, a crumpled laundry list, and a handful of hairpins, he found absolutely nothing.

A faint thump from the bedchamber brought him up short. Blowing out the candle, he went still. Barely breathed. And surrendered the field.

For now.

The buffet table groaned with platters of eggs, sausages, thick slices of ham, cold tongue, and baskets of rolls and toast. Tea and coffee filled silver urns upon a sideboard. Brendan counted heads. Five other occupants still seated. He should have taken breakfast early when most were still foggy from last night’s wine.

At one end of the table sat Miss Sara Fitzgerald, nose buried in the day’s post. Across from her, Mrs. Pheeney eyed the sausage with heartfelt longing and heavy sighs. Between them, Elisabeth’s great-aunt Charity, a woman Brendan had met once long ago and not on the best of terms. If he remembered correctly, he’d been holding a frog. She’d been screeching.

At the far end of the table, Shaw’s and Elisabeth’s chairs were pulled close together in apparent amity. Brendan’s jaw tightened on a grimace of distaste that he transformed into a smile when Elisabeth spotted him. She
wasn’t as adept an actress. Her face flamed red, her fingers gripping her butter knife as if she might stab him with it.

And there was the stone, taunting him from amid the folds of her lace fichu. Brendan restrained the impulse to cross the room, rip it from her throat, and run like hell. Unfortunately, he’d not get twenty paces before someone brought him down. More than likely Shaw, who possessed the brawn to snap him in two.

“Mr. Martin, how nice of you to join us this”—Elisabeth made a great show of checking the mantel clock, which read half eleven—“why, it is still morning.”

He pulled his watch from its pocket, snapping it open to confirm the time against the clock. “The same to the very minute.” Shoved it back into his pocket with a smile and a nod toward Miss Sara Fitzgerald, who eyed him speculatively from the far end of the table.

“I’m afraid everyone else came and went ages ago.” Elisabeth’s smile stretched from ear to ear. More manic than cheerful.

“Good. I detest being jostled while I drink my tea.” He drifted to the plates, heaping his high before dropping into a seat across from them, reaching for a clean cup and saucer, asking her to pass the salt. “Fabulous eggs. But then, your cook always had a knack. Do you remember when I visited in aught-three? Coddled to perfection, they were. Never had better.”

Shaw regarded him with curiosity. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr.—”

“Martin,” Brendan answered around a mouthful. “John Martin. Second cousin. Or is it third? Can’t keep us all straight. There’s more of us than a dog has fleas. Isn’t that right, Lissa?”

Shaw offered him a placid nod while Elisabeth’s stiff smile faltered around the edges.

“A little bird tells me you’re moving to London soon. Be careful, Mr. Shaw. Elisabeth may bankrupt you once she’s released on the big-city mantua makers and ribbon merchants.”

“I never—” Elisabeth spluttered.

“I trust we won’t need to worry overmuch about expenses,” Shaw replied.

Brendan speared his sausage. “No, silly me. Elisabeth’s rolling in the ready, isn’t she?”

Shaw answered with a jovial laugh as if Brendan had made the funniest of jokes.

“London, Gordon?”

His attention flicked to Elisabeth. “I can’t very well get ahead from the wilds of Ireland, can I?”

“I suppose. I—”

“London is a different place for a married woman than for a young maid making her come-out. Far more to do and see than you can imagine.” He warmed to his subject, his voice rising in volume. “The invitations. Parties, dinners, balls. The
ton
will be clamoring to meet the newest jewel in their crown.”

She straightened, shooting Brendan a dangerous stare. “Of course. I’d forgotten we’d discussed the move, and you’re quite right.”

Taken over by an imp of mischief, Brendan couldn’t help himself. How much would it take to puncture that pompous self-importance? “I suppose your aunts are excited to move. Didn’t Mrs. Pheeney spend a number of years near Richmond?”

“What?” Shaw and Elisabeth both began talking at once. “Aunt Pheeney and Aunt Fitz? They won’t be—”

Shaw recovered first. “They’re needed to oversee things here until a suitable agent is hired.”

“But Mr. Adams?” Elisabeth’s voice came uncertain.

“Is a frightful pushover. The tenants walk all over him, and he’s so coarse. Not at all the way I imagine the land agent for such a fine estate should carry himself. Besides, I see a whole slew of improvements to the house and grounds, beginning perhaps as soon as the autumn. We’ll need someone we can trust to see them through to completion.”

Elisabeth’s brows contracted in a frown. “Dun Eyre doesn’t need improving.”

Uh-oh. Brendan knew that look. He’d seen it most recently last night just before he’d taken a fist to the face. Apparently Shaw had yet to experience Elisabeth’s temper. He barreled on, oblivious to her tight jaw and set shoulders.

“We’ll start with the gardens,” he said. “I’ve just the plan—”

“Not the gardens!” Brendan and Elisabeth spoke in unison.

Shaw cast them a sympathetic smile. “No one likes change, but when we’re finished, Elisabeth, this old place will rival any of the great houses in England. Chatsworth or even Blenheim.”

“Blenheim?” Great-aunt Charity roused herself from her dry toast. “Went there once as a girl. Got pinched by the late duke and slept in a horrid bedchamber smelling of camphor. Never went back.”

“Probably weren’t invited back,” was Shaw’s cool comment as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

“That was Sir Wallace, Charity. And you married him,” Miss Sara Fitzgerald corrected.

“Well, had to after that, didn’t I?” Great-aunt Charity argued. “He was a rake and a cad, but oh, what hands.” Her eyes went dreamy and vague.

Miss Sara buried her nose farther into her paper while Mrs. Pheeney flushed crimson. The rest of them shifted uncomfortably, trying to rid themselves of the picture created.

Brendan broke the awkwardness by waving his fork in Elisabeth’s direction. “It’s a lovely trinket you’re wearing, Lissa. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a stone such as that one. Family heirloom?”

Shaw’s gaze slid to Elisabeth’s collar while her lips pursed thin and white. “This? A mere trifle.”

Great-aunt Charity chose that moment to rouse herself from lascivious memories of her dear departed husband and remark in a voice loud enough to be heard in the next county, “Ain’t that the necklace young Douglas gave you just before he murdered his father and ran off?”

Miss Sara stood abruptly, shooting Brendan a long, studying look. “We’ve all lolled about here long enough.”

“But I’ve still half the paper to read,” Mrs. Pheeney complained. “You know what they say: Knowledge is power.”

“And no news is good news,” her sister snapped, half-hauling Great-aunt Charity, who remained oblivious to the crosscurrents, out of her seat.

“A rogue, that Douglas boy was. Though he could charm when he chose. You were lucky to escape that marriage, Lizzie. This new lad’s a much better catch. And handsome as the devil. I bet he’s got a pair of hands on him like my Wally.”

Shaw nearly choked on his piece of toast while the
family froze in various poses of mortification and horror. Poor Elisabeth’s few remaining freckles were lost amid the furious red of her face.

“You’re right, Aunt Charity,” she stated. “I was extremely fortunate to have avoided marriage to Brendan Douglas.” Her gaze held the scorching power of a lightning bolt. “Much as I’d love to stay and reminisce, I’m late meeting Fanny and the others for our outing. Are you joining us, Gordon?”

He focused a doting smile in Elisabeth’s direction. “What? No. I’m afraid I’m going to have to stay here and catch up on my correspondence, and I have a horrible dull report to complete for Lord Prosefoot.”

“Yes, I suppose you ought to stay behind, then.”

He brightened. “When you return, come find me and tell me all about it.”

“Perhaps I could assist with your report. I’ve spent hours with Mr. Adams in the office. He says I’ve a head on my shoulders the envy of any bailiff.”

“I doubt you know anything of increased customs duties on Irish malt, dear,” Shaw replied with an indulgent smile. “You go on and enjoy your little outing.”

Brendan would have been overjoyed at being released from such servitude. Preparing reports on customs duties? Why not spend the afternoon jamming a fork into your hand? But Elisabeth didn’t seem to see it in the same light. Her expression was crestfallen as if Shaw had denied her a trip to the jewelers’ shop. It roused Brendan to speak when he probably shouldn’t have. “An excursion sounds amusing.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” she answered, the spark returning to her eyes when she turned to him.

He arched a brow. What was she up to?

“We’re to visit Belfoyle. You remember Lord Kilronan, don’t you? We were all children together.”

Touché. “Kilronan? I believe I remember him dimly. Tall chap. Disgustingly accomplished at everything. It was a long time ago. I’m sure he wouldn’t remember me.”

“You’d be surprised. Come. He’d love to renew your acquaintance.”

“No. No. Now that I think on the matter, I believe I’ll kick my heels here and try not to get into trouble.”

Her smile this time was genuine and glittered with victory. “There’s a first time for everything.”

Elisabeth grabbed Brendan’s arm as they left the dining room. Hissed under her breath, “Ten minutes. The long gallery. Meet me.” Just in case he didn’t think she was serious, she added. “Or else.”