Mistress (16 page)

“Yes, m’lord. Please come in. Mrs. Bright is in the library.”

Marcus glanced at the closed door to the left of the hall. “On second thought, don’t bother to announce me. I’ll take care of it.”

“But yer lordship—”

Marcus ignored the fluttering housekeeper. He opened the library door himself and strode into the room. Iphiginia was seated at her desk, a vision in white muslin and a little white lace cap. Her cousin sat across from her. Both women glanced up in surprise.

“Masters.” Iphiginia’s eyes lit briefly with a warm welcome. A second later, her expression altered to one of sudden alarm. She hastily thrust several sheets of foolscap that were lying on her desk beneath a large pattern book. “I heard a carriage in the street, but I did not realize it was yours. I was not expecting you until one.”

“Good day, ladies.” Marcus shut the door and walked straight to the desk. Unfortunately, he was too late to get a look at the papers Iphiginia had hidden under the pattern book. “I thought it would be a good idea to get an early start so that we will have plenty of time at the museum.”

“Yes, of course.” Iphiginia looked at Amelia. “Would you mind entertaining his lordship while I go upstairs to fetch my pelisse and bonnet?”

“Not at all,” Amelia murmured.

Iphiginia rose and hastened out of the room.

Marcus and Amelia exchanged assessing looks. There was no point being subtle, Marcus decided. The woman already disliked him.

“Who was that gentleman who was leaving just as I arrived?”

“Mr. Manwaring.”

“I see. I don’t believe I know him.”

“I doubt that he moves in your circles, my lord.”
Amelia gave him a repressive look. “Would you care for tea while you wait?”

“No, thank you. He seemed in something of a hurry.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Manwaring.”

“Oh, did he?” Amelia picked up a sheaf of papers and straightened them. “Perhaps he had a business appointment.”

“He had the look of a secretary or a man of affairs.”

Amelia hesitated. “No doubt that is because he is a man of affairs. Are you certain you won’t have some tea, my lord?”

“No, thank you.” Marcus perused the titles of some of the volumes on the library shelves. Such respected and oft-reprinted works on classical architecture as Desgodetz’s
Les Edifices Antiques de Rome
and Langley’s
Ancient Architecture Restored & Improved
sat side by side with Hope’s
Household Furniture and Decoration
and Halfpenny’s
The Art of Sound Building
. “How long have you lived with your cousin, Miss Farley?”

“Nearly five years.” Amelia spoke cautiously, as if weighing every word.

“You lived with her while her husband was alive, then?” Marcus said easily.

“Ah, yes. Yes, I did.”

“I have a vague recollection of having known a Bright family at one time.” Marcus paused briefly as though reflecting on a very distant memory. “From the Lake District, I believe.”

Amelia scowled. “I doubt if there is any connection. Mrs. Bright’s husband had no relatives in the Lake District.”

“Then he must have been connected to the Yorkshire Brights,” Marcus said smoothly.

“No,” Amelia said swiftly. “They were a Devon family.”

“I see. I knew some Devon Brights. They lived near Plymouth.”

“There is no connection, then,” Amelia assured him. “Mr. Bright’s people were from the northern part.”

“Barnstaple, then.”

“No, Deepford,” Amelia said quickly. “A very tiny village.”

“I do not believe I know it.”

Amelia looked relieved to hear that. “The Deepford Brights were a very small family,” she said in a determinedly chatty manner. “Mr. Bright was the last of his line.”

“How unfortunate. Then there are no heirs?”

“No.”

“Are you enjoying London, Miss Farley?”

“I find it very interesting.” Amelia looked almost pathetically grateful for a change of topic. “Quite educational.”

“Very different from the country.”

“Indeed.”

“I take it that you and Mrs. Bright were not able to come to Town very often while Mr. Bright was alive?”

“Mr. Bright was infirm. He did not care to travel.”

“I see.” This was not getting him anywhere, Marcus decided. He would have to try a different tack. “Perhaps I’ll have some tea, after all.”

Amelia jumped to her feet. “I’ll ask Mrs. Shaw to bring a fresh pot.”

Silence descended on the library as Marcus and Amelia waited for the tea to be brought in.

When it arrived, Marcus accepted a cup, picked it up, and paced to the window beside Iphiginia’s desk. He studied the sunny street scene.

“A fine day for an outing.” Marcus surreptitiously tilted his cup and casually spilled tea on a copy of the
Morning Post
which was lying on the end of the desk.

“Oh, dear,” Amelia gasped.

“Damnation. How very clumsy of me.”

Amelia started to her feet. “It will mar the wood.”

“Fetch your housekeeper,” Marcus ordered in the
tone of voice he reserved for those occasions when he wanted instant obedience. It always seemed to work and he had grown to expect the results he invariably got. Except with Iphiginia, he reflected wryly. She was not very good at following orders.

“I’ll call Mrs. Shaw.” Amelia hurried toward the door.

Marcus yanked a large handkerchief out of his pocket and began blotting up the tea. “I do not believe there will be any great harm done if you hurry.”

“I hope not.” Amelia threw him a disapproving look over her shoulder. “Iphiginia is very fond of that desk. Her father designed it.” She opened the door. “Mrs. Shaw? Please come quickly. Some tea has been spilled.”

Marcus casually lifted the edge of the pattern book and glanced at the top sheet of foolscap. He realized that he was looking at what appeared to be an architectural elevation for a row of town houses. The words “Bright Place” were inscribed beneath the picture.

He lowered the pattern book back into place just as Amelia turned around.

“Mrs. Shaw is on her way,” Amelia said.

“I believe I have blotted up most of the tea. The newspaper has absorbed the rest.” Marcus folded his tea-stained handkerchief.

Mrs. Shaw bustled into the room. She carried a cloth in one hand. “Here, now, where’s the tea spill?”

“Over here.” Marcus stepped back from the desk. “My fault entirely, I fear. I think I got most of it, however.”

Iphiginia appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a white pelisse over her white muslin gown. She carried a white straw bonnet in one hand and a large apron in the other.

She frowned in concern at the commotion in the library. “What happened?”

Marcus stared at her for a few brief seconds. She
looked as pure and chaste as new-fallen snow. What a pity that there was nothing so deceiving as innocence.

He quickly recovered himself. “A small disaster. I spilled some tea. There is no damage to your desk.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.” Iphiginia put on her bonnet and tied the strings. She smiled cheerfully. “Well, then, shall we be off, my lord? I am eager to see the museum’s collection of Greek vases.”

“By all means,” Marcus said. He glanced at the apron she carried. “What is that for?”

Iphiginia grimaced. “White is a very effective color for some purposes, but it has its disadvantages.”

Half an hour later Marcus stood with Iphiginia in the gloom of a vast tomblike museum hall.

The high-ceilinged chamber was crammed with broken statuary, chunks of stone, and assorted bits and pieces taken from old ruins. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the upper windows. The hush of antiquity blanketed the scene.

Iphiginia, clad in her apron, moved through the sepulchral atmosphere with cheerful disregard for her oppressive surroundings. Her enthusiasm was contagious, Marcus realized.

Although he had once made a superficial study of the more intriguing construction details of the classical style, antiquities had never been a subject of particular interest for him. He was a man of the modern age. Generally speaking, he preferred to devote his attention to such things as astronomy and steam engines.

Today, however, he found himself consumed by a rare fascination with archaeological matters.

He watched as Iphiginia studied the designs on a row of ancient vases. She was beautiful when she was absorbed in intellectual contemplation, he realized. Almost as beautiful as she had been the other night when she had found her release in his arms in Lartmore’s statuary hall.

If he had not known better, he would have thought
it
was the first time she had ever been brought to such a sensual peak by a man.

Without any warning, desire, hot, sweet, and urgent, whipped through him. It left him shaken and half-aroused. And ruefully annoyed.

These abrupt, fiery rushes of passion were coming upon him with increasing frequency of late. Each time they crashed through him, they seemed stronger. This morning he had awakened at dawn to discover himself as hard as any marble statue.

This afternoon he was growing heavy with arousal just watching Iphiginia in a museum. It would have been ludicrous if it were not so bloody uncomfortable.

The anticipation growing within him was almost unbearable in its intensity. Soon, he thought. Very soon he would have to make love to her.

It had to be soon or he would become a candidate for Bedlam.

He forced himself to contemplate the large vase that had caught her attention. “Etruscan, do you think?”

“No. Definitely Grecian.” Iphiginia glanced up at another row of dust-laden vases. “Quite spectacular, are they not? The forms are so perfect, so exquisitely right. There is such an impressive combination of intellect and art in the designs.”

“Most impressive,” Marcus agreed, his gaze riveted to the gentle curves of her breasts.

She turned her head and saw him studying her bosom. Her face grew very pink. “Have you learned anything useful yet, my lord?”

“About Greek vases?”

“Of course. That is what we are discussing, is it not?”

Marcus lounged against a rubble of old stones, folded his arms across his chest, and contemplated a vase. “I have learned a great deal, my dear Mrs. Bright, but not nearly enough.”

She smiled with glowing approval, as though he were
a precocious student. “It is your nature to constantly thirst for more, my lord. The passions of the intellect are difficult to satisfy, are they not?”

“Indeed. Fortunately not all passions are impossible to assuage, Iphiginia. Some merely require the proper time and place.”

Barclay, Marcus’s stout, bespectacled man of affairs, hurried into his employer’s library shortly before four o’clock that afternoon. He was out of breath. Sweat beaded his balding head.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“I did.” Marcus looked up from the notes he had been making. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Not at all, m’lord.” Barclay sat down gratefully, pulled out a handkerchief, and mopped his brow. “You know that I am always pleased to assist you. What do you wish me to do for you?”

“Two things. First, I want you to make inquiries about a property called Bright Place. I do not know much about it, but I believe that it may be a new speculation venture.”

“This is a property here in London?”

“I’m not certain. I suppose it could be in Bath.” Marcus recalled the elevations he had seen on Iphiginia’s desk. “One of the two places, most likely, although I suppose the property could be located in some other large town. The drawings I saw were of buildings that were clearly designed for a city, if you know what I mean.”

“I see.” Barclay stifled a small sigh, adjusted his spectacles, and made a note.

“Second, I want you to discover whatever information you can about a certain Mr. Bright.”

Barclay raised suddenly wary eyes. He cleared his throat cautiously. “Ah, would that be the
late
Mr. Bright?”

“It would.”

“The deceased husband of a certain Mrs. Iphiginia Bright of Morning Rose Square?”

Marcus smiled coolly. “One of the things that makes you so invaluable to me, Barclay, is that you are always possessed of the latest gossip and rumor.”

Barclay ignored that. He scowled. “You wish me to discover whatever I can about a dead man, m’lord?”

“Precisely.” Marcus leaned back in his chair. He picked up his newly modified hydraulic reservoir pen and examined the steel nib with care. There was ho sign of a leak. “You will be discreet, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Barclay mopped his forehead with his handkerchief once again. “Where would you suggest that I start looking for information on the late Mr. Bright?”

“I believe that you will want to begin your quest in Devon.”

“Devon is a rather large place, m’lord. Have you any notion of precisely where in Devon I should look?”

“You might try a little town called Deepford.”

I
PHIGINIA SWEPT INTO
Z
OE’S DRAWING ROOM AT TEN MINUTES
after three the following afternoon. Amelia was right behind her.

“We came as quickly as we could.” Iphiginia glanced first at her aunt, who was ensconced on her new red velvet Roman sofa. Then she looked across the room at Lord Otis, who was helping himself to a glass of brandy.

“Thank God you’re here,” Zoe said in a voice that held elements of a Greek tragedy.

Otis, a short, stocky, kindly faced man with thinning gray hair and bushy brows, gave Iphiginia and Amelia a look of grim despair. “Disaster has struck again.”

“What on earth is wrong?” Iphiginia untied the strings of her ruffled, high-crowned white bonnet. “Your note said something dreadful had occurred, Aunt Zoe.”

“I have received another blackmail demand,” Zoe said. She picked up a folded sheet of foolscap and handed it to Iphiginia. “See for yourself.”

Iphiginia took the note. She glanced at the broken black wax seal with its all-too-familiar phoenix emblem and then read the contents aloud.