Sweet Enemy (15 page)

Liliana stared so long at him that her eyes turned drier than sodium sulfate. Why was he being kind? And why, if he suspected her intentions, would he ask her to remain in his home? “I—” She couldn’t think of anything to say.

He took advantage of her flummox and smiled, which, oddly enough, flummoxed her all the more. “It’s settled, then? I’m so glad.” He turned to Aunt Eliza, who stared at him as if he’d sprouted another nose. “I do hope the three of you”—he glanced back and nodded at Liliana—“and Lord Aveline, of course, will join me at the head of the table. It’s only fitting your niece be given the place of honor for her brilliant performance this afternoon.”

“Of course,” Aunt said automatically. Aunt would never willingly offend Stratford.

“Good,” he said, turning back to Liliana. Something in his eyes made her go all hot inside. “Until this evening.” He nodded and left the room.

Aunt turned to Liliana, pinning her with a speculative gaze. “It seems we shall be staying.”

Penelope skirted out of the room with a bright smile, and Liliana could hear her directing maids to unpack and rehang their clothing.

Liliana nearly slumped with relief. Stratford had saved her, provided her another chance to find her answers. Her relief quickly turned to an uncomfortable bewilderment. Why had he done it?

And what did it say about her if she used his kindness against him?

Geoffrey sat at the head of the imposing sixteenth-century dining table, where generations of Wentworths had held lavish suppers much like this one. Several leaves had been removed, as only forty or so guests
joined him this evening, but the table could accommodate as many as eighty diners with room to spare.

Glassware tinkled and ornate silver cutlery dinged against china in melodic counterpoint to the lively conversation.

Geoffrey set down his heavy spoon, the lobster bisque barely touched. He knew several—at least seven—more courses were to follow. During his years in the army, there had been many days when he and his men had been grateful to have one sparse meal. Perhaps broth. Maybe bread or cheese. His stomach turned at the knowledge that many of his fellow soldiers were likely not eating any better than that even today. How he wished his table was filled with them right now, rather than this privileged class that he was both part of and apart from.

His eyes strayed to Liliana, seated next to him on his right. In appearance, at least, she’d fit in at his imaginary table. How lovely she was, even with her hair swept up in a plain chignon and her long neck unadorned by flashy jewels. In her simple satin dancing dress trimmed with shiny gold piping around the sheer sleeves, hemline and bust, she stood out in stark contrast to the wasteful opulence that surrounded her. He remembered how ill at ease she’d seemed this afternoon surrounded by some of the more frivolous members of society. Nothing in her mannerisms gave her away tonight, but he got the distinct feeling that she, like him, would be more comfortable with soldiers and commoners than with this lot.

She laughed at something Aveline said, and the husky timbre of her voice vibrated through Geoffrey, his body hardening in reaction. Just being in her presence affected him, had from the moment he’d broken her fall in the library. It was as if his very skin hummed with energy, every nerve on edge. The closest feeling he could compare it to was the invigorating moments just before battle, when he felt more alert and alive than at any other time in his life, ready to take on the world.

How inconvenient that Liliana seemed the sole woman to do that to him. If only he could find a bride just like her, who made him feel the way she did but who was better connected and moved more easily in society.

The countess, seated directly across from Liliana on Geoffrey’s left, snatched a wineglass from the table. His mother had nearly had an apoplexy when he’d announced the amended seating arrangements for tonight’s dinner. Thankfully, she’d stayed mutinously silent, except for the occasional snort as the tale of Liliana’s sugared gunpowder had been retold.

But he could tell by the way Mother gripped her stemware coupled with the calculating gaze she aimed at Liliana that the silence would not last much longer.

“Tell me, Miss Claremont,” Mother asked with deceptive idleness, “was it your father who encouraged your
unconventional
education?”

A distinct lull in the conversation around them became noticeable as eager ears tilted in their direction.

Liliana’s golden skin went white. Geoffrey clenched his hand into a tight fist.

Liliana’s aunt, Lady Belsham, raised a finger in defense. “Oh, I can assure you that Liliana received an entirely proper education for a young lady.” The woman smiled at Lord Aveline when making her statement, a fact Geoffrey noted with irritation.

Mother slanted a glance at the marchioness and gave a slight twist of the lips. The countess would not be overtly rude to a woman who outranked her. But Lady Belsham had been a baron’s daughter before marrying a marquess. Geoffrey knew Mother considered her own superior bloodline enough of a buffer to excuse a touch of spite.

“I’m certain you made sure of that, as best you could, Lady Belsham,” the countess conceded, but her tone conveyed her doubt that the lessons took. “It must have been a challenge, taking on a girl practically grown and untutored. But who could expect her to be properly trained when she was raised by a bachelor father?”

Damn his mother. Geoffrey had insisted Liliana stay at Somerton Park largely because he knew her reputation would suffer if it appeared she’d been asked to leave. Not her moral reputation, of course, but the gossips would have enjoyed spreading how she’d earned the disapproval of the house of Stratford. Now Mother was making sure the scandalmongers would still have their fodder.

He tossed his napkin aside, ready to put a stop to this.

“Widowed,” Liliana clarified, forestalling him. She eyed his mother with a steely gaze, her jaw firm.

Mother’s feral smile widened, threatening to rip the girl to shreds.

“Ah yes,” Mother said, steepling her fingers and tapping the indexes together. “Your mother passed when you were quite young. A gentleman’s daughter, was she not?”

The pitying glances being tossed Liliana’s way proved that his mother couldn’t have done more damage to the girl had she stood up and screamed, “Unfit to be at this table!”

“Yes, and a gifted healer, one who gave her life helping others,” Liliana countered, “which in my view is the
true
definition of being a lady.”

The countess laughed, a trill that grated Geoffrey’s nerves. Others within earshot joined in with their own nervous titters. “How very
progressive
of you, my dear.”

Liliana’s eyes narrowed, but Lady Belsham cringed, looking as if she wished to melt from her chair into a puddle and drip through the floorboards. This had gone far enough.

“I, for one, agree with Miss Claremont,” Geoffrey stated. Several pairs of shocked eyes turned in his direction as he countermanded his mother. He’d hoped to avoid a scene, but he would not allow any more damage to be done. He reached for a cut-crystal wineglass, then stood. “As am I quite impressed with her resourcefulness and quick thinking, two traits I hold in the highest
esteem.” He angled his body toward her and raised his glass, looking out over the assemblage with a raised brow until all, save the countess, had followed suit. “To Miss Claremont.”

“To Miss Claremont,” came the response, not heartily, but well enough. He’d done what he could, short of starting a very public war with the countess. Diners returned to their conversations, and he resumed his seat.

Liliana stared at him, her eyes seeming to take his measure. He glimpsed uncertainty in her gaze, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to view him. She gave him a slight nod before turning away to respond to something Aveline said.

Geoffrey took another sip of his wine, aware that others continued to watch him. His words might be seen as defense of a guest, but some would guess at his true feelings. How he detested the pervasive attitude that the more highborn one was, the better class of person. He’d been raised to believe that, as well, but his years in the military had turned his values on end. He’d seen highborn men cut and run while the lowliest common soldier stood bravely until the end, and knew damned well that birth had little to do with one’s character.

Still, something else the military had taught him was to choose one’s battles. Geoffrey regarded his mother from beneath his lids. She fairly seethed. Toying with Mother by squiring Liliana around today had been enjoyable, but since he couldn’t offer for a girl like her, the best thing he could do for Miss Claremont would be to steer clear for the remainder of the party and thus spare her from the countess’ wrath.

S

After all, it wasn’t his fault the two days since “the Major’s Wager,” as people had taken to calling the shooting match, had left her ready to weep in frustration.

She still hadn’t found a way into the study. Nor was she closer to discovering a link between her father and the late earl. Two days of searching hadn’t even produced so much as a handwriting sample to compare with the killer’s note.

Worse, she still didn’t know what to think about Stratford himself. He’d had his chance to be rid of her, to ensure she found nothing. A guilty man would have taken it. Maybe.

She nearly groaned aloud. It did her no good to speculate about Stratford’s motives, but there was one way she could be sure, once and for all, whether or not
he
was the author of the letters that lured her father to his death.

She scanned the room, catching Stratford out of the
corner of her eye as he escorted Lady Emily Morton from the floor. Hmm. That meant he’d danced with Lady Emily, Jane Northumb, and Ann Manchester so far this evening.

That gave her one-in-three odds.

This would have been much easier had Stratford asked
her
to dance just once in the past three nights. But he hadn’t hadn’t spoken a word to her since dinner the night of the tournament.

Aveline took her by the elbow. “Shall we stroll for a bit?” he asked, leading her from the parquet dance floor.

She turned to him. “I’d prefer a bit of a rest, actually,” she answered, touching a hand to her face. “Might you fetch me a lemonade?”

She couldn’t very well carry out her aim with him tagging along.

“As you wish.” He nodded and strode away.

Liliana blew out a breath, relieved to be rid of him.

Which was quite unfair. Aveline had proven to be a most ideal and fortuitous escort. Though he’d released her from their wager, he’d arrived every morning and breakfasted with her, a situation Aunt Eliza found very encouraging. He’d partnered her in a morning game of bowls. He made light, pleasant conversation and had even charmed Aunt Eliza on several occasions, which did much to relax the strain between aunt and niece.

Best of all, Aveline departed after lunch, claiming estate business, not to return until dinner—leaving Liliana to her own devices all afternoon without making anyone suspicious.

A perfect arrangement, given her circumstance. And she’d been most grateful to have missed Lady Stratford’s more ridiculous frivolities, which tended to happen after lunch—though she might have paid to see the line of women wrangling to have their hooks baited by Stratford in yesterday’s female fishing derby.

But her time at Somerton Park was dwindling.

She turned on her heel and made her way to the ladies’
retiring room. She slipped in quietly, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The hum of feminine murmurings disconcerted her, as always, bringing back unpleasant memories of the three seasons she’d been forced to endure before Aunt finally gave up on her.

Liliana scanned the parlor, spotting her quarry. Emily Morton’s sage skirts blended into the green satin striped chaise on which she half reclined, one arm thrown over the back of the lounge.

Liliana looked at the girl’s other hand, which rested splayed across her stomach. Only a shimmering emerald bracelet adorned her wrist.

Moving into the room past two primping ladies, Liliana casually skirted the headrest of the chaise. She slanted her eyes downward. A pretty green ribbon tied the dance card to Miss Morton. She had to get a look at Stratford’s signature.

She bent at the knees, squatting as she pretended to fiddle with her slipper. She turned her head toward the dangling card. Blast. It faced the wrong direction.

She reached out and gripped the paper, tilting it.

Holbrook…
strong masculine scratching.
Banbury…
rather loopy on the
B
.

A rustling sound came from above.

Thornton…
horrible penmanship. Ah, here was
Wentworth…
but that would be Josslyn Wentworth, Stratford’s uncle, as Stratford himself would use his title. Still, it was not even close, the writing much too effeminate to match. Next was
Str—