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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

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Interested, Emily looked at him and asked, “Do you think you’ll like living in England?”
His gaze seemed to reach out and caress her and he said softly, “Since I have met you two charming ladies, I find that I am liking it more and more by the minute.”
“Oh, that was prettily done,” cried Anne, clapping her hands together in delight. “I can hardly wait for you to meet Great-Aunt Cornelia! She is going to flirt outrageously with you.”
“Great-Aunt Cornelia . . . ?” Barnaby asked with a lifted brow.
Despite the flutter in her chest that his look had caused, Emily couldn’t help smiling as she pictured Cornelia’s reaction to Lord Joslyn. “She’ll have you dancing to the tune of her piping in no time,” Emily said, a teasing gleam in her eyes.
“That’s if she doesn’t eat you for dinner,” Anne added, grinning. “At eighty-nine, she is a remarkable woman. She’ll like you—especially if you stand up to her.”
Having helped himself from the sideboard, he took a seat across from the ladies and motioning them to their food, joined them at the table. Conversation was scant and general as everyone concentrated on the food, but Barnaby learned a great deal about the neighborhood during the course of the meal. Vicar Smythe grew the most exceptional roses, Anne informed him. Sir Michael, his house steward’s father, was a dear, dear old man; Mrs. Featherstone, widow of a wealthy landowner, was a darling but a great gossip with a quiver full of daughters to marry off and by all means, Emily warned, never buy a horse from Lord Broadfoot.
“I shall look forward to meeting all of them,” Barnaby said untruthfully as they finished up their meal and settled back to enjoy a final cup of coffee. He looked rueful. “I suspect it will be months before I meet all my neighbors and even longer before I can put faces with names. I am not even familiar with the staff at Windmere—let alone my neighbors.”
Anne smiled kindly at him. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Lord and Lady Broadfoot don’t come to call soon.” Her eyes twinkling, she murmured, “Cornelia says that Lady Broadfoot is already planning a soiree to introduce you to the neighborhood—her good friend, Mrs. Featherstone, has promised to help.”
“Not the Mrs. Featherstone with the quiver full of hopeful daughters?” Barnaby asked, looking alarmed.
“The very same,” Emily said, smiling. “And there are three Broadfoot daughters. While you have been hiding away here at Windmere, the ladies of the neighborhood have been all atwitter knowing that the American Lord Joslyn was finally in residence. According to Cornelia they have been badgering their husbands unmercifully to call upon you. Only a fast, fading sense of decency has kept them from your door but I expect within the next day or two you will have callers. . . .” She giggled. “And most of them with marriageable daughters.”
Barnaby groaned and both women laughed.
There was a tap on the door and Peckham popped his head inside the room. “My lord,” he began, “you have—”
“Get out of my way, Peckham,” Mathew Joslyn said irritably from behind the butler. “It will be a cold day in hell before my brothers and I have to be announced to our cousin.”
Chapter 6
M
athew Joslyn, reputed by many to be one of the handsomest men in the country, stalked into the room. Thomas, favored by some to be even more handsome than his older brother, followed him. Trailing in the rear was Simon, the youngest and in the opinion of the largest contingent, truly
the
handsomest man in England.
All three men possessed the Joslyn charm and attractiveness and had inherited the stunning azure eyes, black hair and the tall athletic bodies for which the family was known. There were, of course, differences; Mathew was the tallest, Thomas the shortest, though not more than two inches separated the three brothers. All had the same similarly chiseled features, but Thomas’s face was a trifle narrower than his brothers, giving him, Emily always thought, the look of a most handsome fox. Mathew’s chin was classical perfection, but Simon had the squarest jaw—and in Emily’s opinion, the best smile. That smile and a quick wink were flashed her way as he entered the room behind his brothers.
Mathew was surprised to find that Barnaby had company. His annoyed expression immediately changed. Smiling politely at Anne and Emily, he said, “I beg your pardon, ladies. I did not realize my cousin had visitors.”
“We are not visitors exactly,” Anne said after acknowledging the newcomers. “Lord Joslyn rescued us when our buggy was stuck in a ditch and our mare went lame. After helping us free the vehicle, he graciously offered us shelter.” She smiled at Barnaby. “He was most gallant.”
Mathew, looking as if he had swallowed a hedgehog, murmured, “Really? How, er, heroic of him.”
Barnaby lounging at one side of the table, his long legs stretched out in front him, grinned. “Even we crude Americans know how to do the right thing, cousin.”
“I don’t believe that my brother,” said Tom Joslyn austerely, “ever called you crude.”
“No,” said Simon, walking over to help himself to a cup of coffee, “Matt never called him crude, but I seem to remember”—he smiled wickedly and looked at his eldest brother—“that you once referred to him as that ‘uncouth barbarian.’ ”
“Uncouth?” Barnaby asked, a gleam in his black eyes. “Surely not.”
Mathew flushed and said testily, “You know we have had our differences, cousin, and in a moment of anger I may have allowed my tongue to run away with me.” Under Barnaby’s calm gaze, he almost fidgeted. Stiffly, he added, “I apologize.”
Emily’s eyes went from one man to the other searching for the family resemblance. She could find little beyond the
impression
that Lord Joslyn and Mathew had a shared ancestry. Lord Joslyn was big and tough looking, his features lacking the Greek perfection of Mathew’s and, as she had thought earlier, even seated, Lord Joslyn commanded the attention of everyone in the room. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Compared to Lord Joslyn, Mathew, a noted Corinthian, more resembled a pretty Pink of the
ton.
While Lord Joslyn . . . She swallowed. Lord Joslyn looked like a lazy tiger seizing up prey . . . very large, very powerful and dangerous. . . .
“Oh, for God’s sake, climb down off your high horse and help yourself to something to eat and sit down,” Barnaby said without heat. “I’m sure if positions were reversed, I would have called you a great many worse names.”
“Handsomely done,” murmured Simon.
“Yes, it was,” Barnaby agreed. Smiling at Simon, he added, “And you need to quit throwing the cat amongst the pigeons.”
Simon looked crushed. “But how else shall I find amusement?” he asked mournfully, the blue eyes dancing.
“Oh, stop trying to act like a court jester and behave yourself,” Tom said, approaching the sideboard. After pouring himself some coffee, he took a sip and made a face. “Good God! This is colder than yesterday’s porridge. Ring for Peckham and order us some hot coffee.”
Barnaby’s brow lifted, his eyes, their expression unreadable, on Thomas, but he said nothing. As the seconds passed, Thomas’s cheeks deepened to a hard red. Barnaby let him dangle for a moment longer, then breaking the growing tension said softly, “You know where the bell rope is . . . With my permission you may ring for him.”
“I d-d-didn’t mean t-t-to be rude,” Tom stuttered. “It is just that . . .”
“I know,” Barnaby said wearily, “until a few months ago, your brother was considered the heir to all of this and all of you were used to running tame through the place and treating it as your own.”
Her sympathy aroused, Anne said, “This must be very hard for all of you.”
“Not for me,” Simon said cheerfully, making himself comfortable beside Emily at the table. He grinned at Emily. “I was never in the running for the title.”
Emily grinned back at him. “I know that, you fool, and so does everyone else.”
“Fool?” Simon clutched his chest. “Fair maiden, how can you be so cruel? Your words have cut me to the quick. I shall never recover.”
Barnaby’s eyes narrowed at the easy intimacy between Emily and Simon. He hadn’t missed the smile or the wink Simon had sent her when he walked into the room either. He liked Simon. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to show the impudent cub his punishing right.
Not at all amused by Simon’s antics, Mathew’s lips tightened. “Must you always jest? It is entirely inappropriate.”
“Matt is right,” said Thomas, having recovered his aplomb. “You should mind that wayward tongue of yours.”
Simon’s teasing manner vanished. “Now why am I not surprised that you agree with our godlike sibling? Tell me, brother dear, have you ever had an original thought of your own?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mathew said, “cease this childish baiting.”
Innocently, Simon said, “Well, I have wondered. All he does is parrot you.”
Thomas’s fists clenched and he stepped toward Simon. Simon, an expression of gleeful anticipation on his handsome face, stood up.
Barnaby had observed the dissension between the brothers previously and he was tempted to let the scene play out, his money on Simon sending Thomas crashing to the floor, but deciding that a dust-up in the morning room wasn’t proper entertainment for the ladies, he intervened. “Er, all of this is most amusing, but is there a reason for this unexpected visit?” he asked. “Other than your enjoyment of my company?”
Simon grinned at him and sat back down. Thomas swung away and gave a violent yank on the black velvet bell rope hanging at one end of the sideboard.
Mathew glared at Simon a moment, before turning to Barnaby. “Actually there is,” he began. His eyes fell upon Emily and Anne’s rapt faces and he muttered, “But it can wait until your guests have departed.”
Peckham’s entrance into the room provided a timely interruption. The butler smiled warmly at the newest arrivals. Barnaby ordered fresh coffee and more food. Before Peckham hurried away, he said, “And please see that rooms are prepared for my guests and any servants they have brought with them.”
Mathew smiled at Barnaby, the smile transforming his haughty features and giving a glimpse of the great charm for which he was famous. “I wasn’t certain you’d allow us to stay.”
Barnaby shrugged. “It’s an unusual situation for all of us—there is no reason to make it worse.” A slow smile curved his mouth. “Whether we like it or not, we are, after all, family.”
 
“Well!” exclaimed Anne, a short while later as she and Emily were driven away from Windmere in the comfortable coach Lord Joslyn had provided. “That was most interesting, wasn’t it? I was certain that Tom and Simon would come to blows.”
“Which isn’t the least unusual for them,” Emily answered. “Even as children the three of them were always at each other’s throats—especially Tom and Simon. I cannot count the number of times one or both of them gave the other one a bloody nose or a black eye.” She frowned. “But I wonder what brought them to Windmere.”
“Perhaps Mathew is trying to be kind.”
“To the man who has just snatched a title and an estate like Windmere out of his grasp?” inquired Emily with a lifted brow. “I’d be more inclined to think he came to murder him.”
“
Emily!
Never say such a thing!” Anne cried, shocked.
“You forget the circumstances under which I first met Lord Joslyn. He was more dead than alive and you’ll never convince me that someone hadn’t gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange for him to die that night. If Jeb hadn’t spied him, he
would
be dead.”
“I’d forgotten that,” Anne admitted. Unhappily, she added, “And of course, it would be to Mathew’s benefit if Lord Joslyn were to die.”
 
Barnaby was very aware that of everyone, Mathew had the most to gain by his death, but he couldn’t quite put the face of a murderer on him. Having bid the ladies good-bye, the four gentlemen wandered into the study and, covertly studying Mathew’s features as he poured him brandy, Barnaby still didn’t see his oldest cousin in the role of murderer.
Once the gentlemen had been served brandy, or port in the case of Thomas, and were scattered around the elegantly masculine room, Barnaby asked, “So to what do I owe this honor?”
“Lord Padgett,” Simon said.
Mathew standing near one end of a massive black gold-veined marble fireplace threw Simon an annoyed glance. At the opposite end of the fireplace from his two brothers, Simon was sprawled comfortably in a black leather chair trimmed in small brass buttons and he grinned back at his brother.
Barnaby frowned. “Lord Padgett? I’m afraid I do not recognize that name.”
“I don’t believe you’ve met—he is a friend of mine,” said Tom, standing to the side of Mathew. “I happened to pass Padgett on the street in London and he mentioned that he’d just returned from Eastbourne, where he keeps his own yacht, and had noticed that the Joslyn yacht was missing from her berth. Said she’d been gone for several days. Naturally, I thought Mathew should be informed.”
“Naturally,” said Barnaby, deciding that he much preferred Simon’s irreverence to Thomas’s self-righteous tale bearing.
“As you are aware,” Mathew said carefully, “this is not precisely the yachting season. . . . Thomas was concerned you may have taken the boat out and . . .”
“Drowned?” Barnaby asked dryly from his position at the other end of the fireplace, not far from where Simon sat.
Simon snickered and Mathew looked pained.
Thomas glared at Simon. “Must you always act the fool?” When Simon would have risen to the challenge, Barnaby turned his head and stopped him with a look. Slightly abashed, Simon sank down deeper into his chair. “Better a fool than a prissy old maid,” he muttered into his brandy so lowly only Barnaby heard him.
Barnaby agreed with Simon and he hadn’t missed the fact that they’d divided themselves into two camps. At one end of the fireplace stood Mathew and Thomas almost shoulder-to-shoulder and he and Simon had taken up positions at the other end. To anyone viewing the scene it would appear that Simon was aligned with him. . . . But dare he trust Simon?
“I cannot pretend,” Mathew said from between gritted teeth, “that your death wouldn’t be to my advantage or that I would shed tears over your grave, but dash it all! Give me some credit.” Mathew took a deep breath, throttling back his temper. “Knowing the yacht was missing, it seemed appropriate to find out if all was well with you . . . and the yacht. Since Simon was already staying with me at Monks Abby when Tom brought me the news of the yacht being missing, it seemed reasonable that the three of us come to call. None of us,” he half snarled, “came here in the guise of vultures.” The pale blue eyes flashing, he said tightly, “And I resent the implication that we did!”
Barnaby believed him. His cousin was clearly offended by the notion that Barnaby thought him capable of taking pleasure in another man’s death—even if he didn’t like him. Mathew would meet him head-on in a fair fight—of that much Barnaby was convinced. “I acquit you of that,” Barnaby said quietly. “And I apologize for implying your actions were anything less than those of an honorable man.”
“Thank you,” Mathew said stiffly.
“Did you know about the yacht?” Simon asked, looking at Barnaby closely.
Barnaby considered telling them the truth about the night he was dragged from the Channel, but decided against it for several reasons. Except for a handful of people no one else knew the truth and he’d just as soon keep it that way—just thinking of explaining why he and the others had lied about the cause of his indisposition made him wince. Worse yet, if Emily and Anne were to be believed, just his mere presence at Windmere had caused enough gossip in the area as it was. A near brush with death would be a nine days’ wonder in the neighborhood and he’d just as soon avoid enduring that, thank you very much!
Blending what he thought to be true with fiction, Barnaby said, “The yacht was in Eastbourne two weeks ago last Tuesday. I saw it when I passed through on my way here. If it has gone missing, it had to be after that.”
Thoughtfully, Simon said, “I’ll wager it’s that bloody Nolles gang.” He shook his head. “And if they stole her, most likely she’s at the bottom of the Channel . . . or so disguised she’ll never be recognized.”

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