If Wishes Were Earls (17 page)

She leafed back to one of the first pages, the account of a card game in a shady inn in Calais—but the names of the players were faded and the account vague.

Harriet shook her head and knew she should just close up the portfolio and forget what she had seen. She was delving into an investigation that was well beyond an ailing uncle in Bath.

Then her eyes fell on the one line that stopped her cold.

The deaths of Lord Roxley and his wife were no accident, but murder.

“Miss Hathaway! Miss Hathaway!” The door to the closet rattled sharply. “Are you in there? I need your assistance. Immediately.”

Miss Murray.
Harriet wrenched her gaze up from the pages. “Um, yes, I’ll be right out.”

There was a moment of silence from the gel, then she began to rattle the door latch again. “Whatever are you doing in there?”

Harriet hastily stuffed the papers back into the hidden pocket. “I was trying to unpack some things, but the lad brought up the wrong bag.”

Once everything was stowed, she flipped open the door and there was Miss Murray, eyeing her suspiciously. “Whatever are you doing? You look flushed?”

“I thought this bag was mine,” she said, holding up Mr. Hotchkin’s bag. “I fear I wasn’t paying attention as I unpacked it and saw the gentleman’s unmentionables.” She shivered a bit and then held the bag out a bit from her.

“I would think a lady with five brothers would be immune to such sights,” Miss Murray commented.

Harriet hoped she didn’t have to answer that, because Miss Murray was correct. But luckily no response was necessary, for her employer had far greater problems at hand.

Miss Murray marched over to her open trunk, hands waving over it. “I cannot find my spare handkerchiefs.” Miss Murray’s accusing gaze pointed at Harriet. “Wherever did you pack them this morning?”

“I . . . I . . .” Harriet’s thoughts were still riveted on what she’d just read.

Murder.

“Miss Hathaway!” the heiress demanded with a flounce that nearly got her stuffed inside the oversized trunk. “Do you hear me? I need my handkerchiefs!”

Personally, Harriet had come to believe that Miss Murray’s previous companion had toppled off that curb on purpose.

The heiress went to the door. “I’m going downstairs to take tea with Roxley and I want my handkerchief brought down immediately.” She sneezed for good effect, and then left muttering something about the horrid state of country air.

Harriet had her own sort of muttering as she began to sift through the contents of Miss Murray’s trunk. “Spoiled . . . simpering . . . wretched . . . aha!” She found the ridiculously delicate bit of embroidered lacy linen that Miss Murray desired and was about to shut the lid of the other girl’s trunk with a decided thud, when she spied something.

A flap in the seam of the trunk lid.

“What the devil—” Harriet whispered as she slipped her hand inside and pried the false top away.

And what she found there stopped her as cold as the line from Hotchkin’s report.

A pistol, along with lead, powder and everything Miss Murray might need to hold off an assault by an entire regiment of highwaymen.

Or to simply commit a murder.

Harriet slanted a glance at the door, a cold thought chilling her blood. “Who are you?”

L
ady Eleanor Marshom’s residence sat on Brock Street between the Royal Crescent and the Circus.

Roxley had done his best to avoid Harriet for the three days it had taken them to reach Bath.

But avoiding Harriet wasn’t just a simple matter of riding outside the carriage, and taking great pains to lavish his attention on Miss Murray at all the stops.

Harriet was everywhere—there at the table, two steps behind Miss Murray at every turn.

And if he was being honest—it graveled him to see her reduced so—not that he could fault Miss Murray’s treatment of her new companion, but for God’s sakes, Harriet Hathaway was a gentleman’s daughter.

A Hathaway. That might not mean much to Miss Murray and her ilk, but to him, to those in the
ton
who had held their noble titles for generations, it was a name that carried respect.

And how little of that—respect, that is—he’d shown her. Every time she looked in his direction he had to wonder if she still cared for him, or if she was simply biding her time before exacting her full revenge.

With a Hathaway, it was such a narrow path between the two. Love and revenge.

Roxley climbed down from his horse and went over to the carriage to assist Miss Murray, glancing furtively over his shoulder at Harriet.

“An excellent address, my lord,” Miss Murray said, taking his arm possessively.

Roxley had the sense of being measured and fitted. Worse, he could feel Harriet’s gaze boring into his back. He moved out of Miss Murray’s leash and said, “My great-grandfather won the house in a card game. It had just been built and Lord Tarvis was about to move in—when he played one too many hands of loo.”

The merchant’s daughter shook her head in dismay. “To gamble a house away—what foolishness.”

“It isn’t truly the house, Miss Murray,” he hurried to explain. He didn’t like the calculating look in her eyes. “Merely the lease.”

“The lease?” she asked, glancing once again at the handsome stone residence.

“Yes, as long as there is a Marshom in residence, we hold the lease. I believe Lord Tarvis thought my family in danger of dying out and at worst the wager would be an inconvenience for a few years.” He grinned as he bounded up the steps. “That was forty-six years ago.”

He had barely rung the bell, when the door was hastily answered.

“Yes?” the fellow intoned, but hardly with the authority of a London butler. He was too young and quite possibly newly hired.

Most likely, indeed. Aunt Eleanor’s butlers were always newly hired.

Which meant Roxley didn’t recognize the man, but that wasn’t unusual. His aunt might be well entrenched in the house, but keeping butlers was another matter.

“I am Roxley, please tell my aunt—”

He got no further before the man’s eyes widened with fright and he began to slam the door shut.

Not so unexpected either.

And as such, Roxley had his boot wedged into the door jamb before the fellow could get it shut.

“Some welcome,” he could hear Mingo muttering behind him.

“Is there a problem?” Miss Murray called out, where she stood on the sidewalk looking decidedly put out at being made to wait.

“Open the door before you ruin my boots,” Roxley told the man.

“Her Ladyship’s orders are—”

“To hell with her orders, open the demmed—”

From somewhere inside came his aunt’s voice. “Thortle, is that my dearest darling come to call?”

“Tell her yes,” he told the butler.

But the fellow had a better understanding of his position than Roxley had wagered.

“It’s the young lord, my lady. The one you told me to never let in.”

“Roxley? He’s here? Whatever is he—”

Using the distraction his aunt offered, Roxley put his shoulder into the door and gave it a great shove, getting the door open far enough for Mingo to follow him in—his valet bringing with him one of the bags and a valise. Thus armed, they both took up their places as if staking a claim.

Which in a sense they were.

Roxley shot the butler an apologetic glance as his aunt arrived with an expression that bordered on murderous.

Ah, poor fellow
, Roxley mused. She’d turn him out for this. But no matter, he had more important matters to attend to.

Besides, given this was Bath, there was always employment for a handsome young man in one of the many households up and down the street.

“Aunt Eleanor, so delightful to see you!” Roxley said, rushing up to his aunt, meaning to give her an affectionate peck on the cheek. His aunt was having none of his warm greeting and glared back at him, standing stonily, with her arms crossed over her narrow chest.

Roxley stepped back and said, “How well you look, Auntie E.”

And she did—for while she and Lady Essex were identical twins, there was nothing identical about the way they dressed and comported themselves. In comparison, Aunt Eleanor looked more like a young widow in her trim black gown and her hair done up just so.

Aunt Eleanor always cut a dash.

But right now the only thing that appeared about to be cut was his head—from his neck.

“Get out,” she replied, pointing toward the door.

She also had the good fortune to make this statement just as Miss Murray was making her grand entrance, the one where she was introduced and then universally adored.

“Pardon me,” the heiress said loftily, nose in the air and hardly the reticent miss that she’d appeared in London.

However, Aunt Eleanor hadn’t noticed this grand display of temper for she was busy trying to push the traveling trunk that Mingo was now dragging in back out the door.

“Oh, no, you don’t, you vagrant! No trunks. No bags.” She wheeled on Roxley. “I told you not to return to Bath, to my house, unless you were ready to muster. And now this? This parade?” She glanced at Miss Murray and then at Harriet, who had managed to breach the portal as well and now stood sentry beside one of the bags.

The lady’s small foyer was now overflowing with company.

Unwanted company. Not that Roxley was put off.

“But I have, Aunt Eleanor. I have brought my intended for mustering.” He bowed slightly and waved a hand toward Miss Murray.

The lady barely spared a glance at Miss Murray and turned instead to Harriet. “You look like you have too many wits about you to marry into this family, so I’ll assume you are not the woman in question.”

“You are correct, my lady,” she told her. “I am Miss Harriet Hathaway, Miss Murray’s companion.” She nodded toward Miss Murray and the girl once again struck a very Bath pose.

But Aunt Eleanor hadn’t noticed this elegant display for she was still examining Harriet. “Hathaway, you said? You wouldn’t be Sir George’s daughter, would you? Sir George Hathaway?”

Harriet grinned. “Yes, ma’am. He’s my father.”

Roxley’s aunt shifted, a sort of catlike stretch. “Oh, he was a handsome fellow. A rakish devil if ever there was one. You take after him. The hair and the eyes, that is. No wonder you look so familiar.”

“We all do,” Harriet replied.

“All?”

“I have five brothers, my lady.”

This brought a new sparkle to Aunt Eleanor’s eyes. “Five, you say? All as handsome and daring as your father?”

“Worse, according to my mother,” Harriet confided.

“Excellent! I will love to meet them at the wedding,” she said, turning for a moment and smiling at Roxley, but before he could correct her yet again and explain that Harriet wasn’t his bride—something he discovered he was in no hurry to do—his aunt’s demeanor changed altogether.

“Oh, bother. That also means you are from Kempton. Born there?”

“Yes, my lady,” Harriet replied.

“Dreadful village, dreary really. How Essex can stand being abandoned out there, I will never understand.” She glanced over at Harriet again, her nose wrinkling. “As such, you will not do.” Now she turned to Roxley. “Good heavens, my dear boy, a Kempton bride? Are you mad? Return her to London immediately, bring back a chit who won’t bury a fire iron in your chest on your wedding night,” she told him, clearly familiar with Kempton’s most notorious, though aptly named bride, Agnes Stakes.

It wasn’t Roxley who corrected her, but Harriet herself, who rushed to say, “No, ma’am, I am not the earl’s intended. I’m Miss Murray’s companion for the trip.”

Aunt Eleanor looked over Harriet, there in her new traveling gown, and shook her head. “Truly? The companion? How odd.”

Roxley rose to her defense. “Auntie, when Miss Murray’s regular companion was injured, Miss Hathaway kindly volunteered her services to assist. It was most generous.”

He knew he hardly sounded grateful, a point that Aunt Eleanor did not miss, but wisely chose not to comment upon.

At least not yet.

“Who is this Miss Murray you keep going on about?” she demanded, looking around the foyer.

But before the girl could answer, Aunt Eleanor was once again diverted.

“And who is this?” The lady nodded at the door where Hotchkin stood hovering about as if he didn’t know whether to breach the gates.

“That is Hotchkin.” Roxley stepped in front of the man like a shield.

“Hotchkin?” Aunt Eleanor moved Roxley aside with the strength of a stevedore. “Excuse my nephew’s lapse of manners, Mr. Hotchkin. However are you today?” She held out her hand for him.

“Ah, eh, uh,” the poor boy stammered as he looked down at her elegant fingers.

“Oh, he’ll do, Roxley,” his aunt said over her shoulder, as if he’d brought her a box of comfits.

Roxley reached out and caught his aunt by the elbow and steered her back to the middle of the foyer. Aunt Eleanor would eat such an innocent fellow as Hotchkin alive—as if he were indeed a box of sweets. “He’s come along to keep everything in order. Regular fellow—no one you will find interesting.”

Not easily swayed, especially when it came to handsome young men, his aunt shrugged, a motion that said she’d get her chance eventually.

This left the lady nothing else to do but turn her attention to Miss Murray. “Miss Murray, I believe?” Her lips pressed together in a solid, definitive line as if testing a theory.

Apparently she was. Ah, leave it to Auntie E to make a younger woman feel welcome.

As Miss Murray curtsied deeply, his aunt continued. “Are you part of the Bagton Murrays?”

“No, ma’am—” the girl began.

“Hmm. The Exeter Murrays?”

“No, my father—”

“Was he from the North then? Don’t tell me you are Scottish!” She turned to Roxley. “Scottish? Really?”

“Miss Murray is from London. Her father is well-known there.” Roxley raised a brow and nodded for his aunt to understand.

Well-known for the fortune he possesses.

His aunt’s lips brightened only slightly. It would take a tremendously large fortune for her to truly smile.

While Miss Murray did her best to introduce herself, her education here in Bath—at Mrs. Plumley’s, a name that brought a slight nod of approval from Aunt Eleanor—Roxley began to direct Mingo as to where the bags needed to go, but his aunt was immediately in his path. “Miss Murray and Miss Hathaway can stay, but not you, Roxley. Out.” She pointed toward the door.