The Truth About Lord Stoneville (12 page)

Maria glared at Oliver, which only made him laugh. Meanwhile, Freddy unsheathed the saber with a flourish.

“Curse it, Freddy, put it back,” Maria ordered.

“What a fine piece of steel.” Freddy swished it through the air. “Even the one Uncle Adam gave me isn’t near so impressive.”

Maria appealed to Oliver. “
Do
something, for pity’s sake. Make him stop.”

“And get myself skewered for the effort? No, thank you. Let the pup have his fun.”

Freddy cast him a belligerent glance. “You wouldn’t call me a pup if I came at you with
this
.”

“No, I’d call you insane,” Oliver drawled. “But you’re welcome to try and see what happens.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Maria told Oliver.

The door opened suddenly, and Freddy whirled with the sword in hand, knocking a lamp off the desk. As the glass chimney shattered, spilling oil in a wide arc, the wick lit the lot, and fire sprang to life.

Maria jumped back with a cry of alarm while Oliver leaped out of his chair to stamp it out, first with his boots and then with his coat. A string of curses filled the air, most of them Oliver’s, though Freddy got in a few choice ones as the fire licked at his favorite trousers.

When at last Oliver put the flames out and nothing was left but a charred circle on the wood floor, dotted with shards of glass, the three of them turned to the door to find a dark-haired man observing the scene with an expression that gave nothing away.

“If you hoped to catch my attention,” he remarked, “you’ve succeeded.”

“Mr. Pinter, I presume?” Oliver said, tossing his now ruined coat and singed gloves into a nearby rubbish pail. “I hope you’ll forgive us for the dramatic intrusion. I’m Stonevi—”

“I know who you are, my lord,” he interrupted. “It’s what you’re doing here setting fire to my office that I’m not certain of.”

“Mr. Pinter,” Maria put in, too mortified to hold her tongue any longer, “I am so sorry for what my cousin did. I assure you I’ll pay for having the floor and the lamp replaced, and whatever other damages there are.”

“Nonsense.” Mr. Pinter’s gaze shifted to her. Though his eyes seemed to soften, the thick rasp of his voice sent a chill down her spine. “That lamp smoked like the very devil. I was about to buy a new one anyway. And that charred spot can be covered with a rug quite easily.” He shot Oliver a veiled glance. “I’m sure his lordship won’t mind offering one. He’s bound to have an extra, now that he’s sold his infamous bachelor quarters in Acton.”

Oliver went rigid. “I see that my friends have been gossiping about me.”

“I spend my days upholding the law,” Mr. Pinter said with a shrug. “It behooves me to keep abreast of what men of rank are doing.”

Oliver’s eyebrow arched high. “Because we break the law?”

“Because most of you have little regard for it. Except when it suits you.”

Something dark glittered in Oliver’s eyes. “I see. Does my friend Lord Kirkwood know you’re so cynical about men of rank? He’s the one who recommended you.”

That gave Mr. Pinter pause. “His lordship sent you to me?”

“He told me that if I should ever need investigative services, I could trust you to be discreet. Can I?”

“That rather depends on what it is that requires discretion.”

“It’s a matter that concerns me, not Lord Stoneville,” Maria put in. For some reason, Mr. Pinter seemed less than keen to deal with Oliver. Perhaps he would be more inclined to help a woman with no rank at all.

“Forgive me for not introducing you at once, Mr. Pinter,” Oliver said. “This is my fiancée, Miss Maria Butterfield.”

That seemed to startle Mr. Pinter. “You have a fiancée?”

“She’s not
really
his fiancée,” Freddy put in. “You see, Lord Stoneville’s grandmother—”

“Come, lad,” Oliver said sharply, taking Freddy’s arm in a firm grip and leading him forcefully toward the door. “Let’s leave your cousin and Mr. Pinter to discuss their business, shall we?”

On their way to the door, Oliver extricated the sword neatly from Freddy’s hand. Then he paused in the doorway to glance at Mr. Pinter. “Give her whatever she wants. I’ll pay you well for your services.”

“Rumor has it, my lord, that you’re up to your neck in debt. Are you sure you can afford me?”

Maria sucked in a breath. Any other man would have been insulted, might even have called the man out. But though Oliver narrowed his gaze, he showed no other sign of outrage. “I sold my bachelor quarters in Acton, remember? I’m sure I can find a few pounds lying around.”

“It will cost you more than a few pounds.
If
I take the case.”

A sudden twinkle appeared in Oliver’s eyes. “You will. Maria can be very persuasive.” He hung the sword he’d taken from Freddy on the hat stand, then gave her a wink. “Though I’d keep your weapons well away from her, if I were you.”

As Maria blushed furiously, he and Freddy left. Mr. Pinter strode to the door and called for his clerk to come sweep up the glass on the floor, which gave her time to survey the runner.

He looked to be about thirty, younger than she’d expected. Tall and lanky, he wore a form-fitting coat and straight trousers of black serge, a plain gray waistcoat, a white linen shirt, and a linen stock simply tied. His angular jaw and thick black brows lent him a hawkish appearance. Some women might even call him handsome . . . if they could get past the chill of his expressionless features.

Once the clerk had finished his task and scurried out, Mr. Pinter gestured her to a chair before his desk. When they were both seated, he leaned back and steepled his fingers. “So you’re his lordship’s fiancée, are you?”

Mr. Pinter’s eyes, sharp and gray as slate, assessed her with a quick, thorough glance indicative of his profession. Thank heaven she wore her redingote. Who knew what he’d make of her gown?

“Actually, it’s more complicated than that.” During the drive into town that morning, she and Oliver had decided on what they would tell Mr. Pinter. They had to continue with their masquerade even while asking for Mr. Pinter’s help with finding Nathan. Clearly, Freddy had
not
been paying attention to the plan. But then, he rarely did.

It took her a few minutes to detail the complex terms of her father’s will. When she was done, Mr. Pinter’s face showed nothing of what he might think. That was rather unnerving.

“So you see,” she said, “until Mr. Hyatt is found, my future is up in the air.”

“And where does the marquess fit in?”

Now came the difficult part. “We met while I was looking for Nathan. One thing led to another, and we became engaged.” That was true, sort of. “I’m sure you can understand why it’s essential that I find Mr. Hyatt as soon as possible to resolve this matter.”

“In other words, you have
two
fiancées at the moment. And you’re hoping that I’ll rid you of one of them.”

Heat rose in her cheeks. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Now I comprehend why Lord Stoneville is willing to pay for my services. He can’t get his hands on your father’s money until I find your fiancé.”

“That isn’t how it is!” She hadn’t realized he might put that face on it.

Mr. Pinter’s eyes narrowed. “How long have you known his lordship?”

Unsure whether to repeat what Oliver had told his grandmother or to tell the truth, she opted for an evasion. “Not long.”

“So you’re unaware of his reputation with women.”

She thrust out her chin. “Actually, I know a great deal about that. I just don’t care.”

“Ah.” He leaned forward with a contemptuous stare. “You’ve found a way to gain a titled gentleman and inherit your fortune without having to marry the man your father chose for you. This Mr. Hyatt must be quite old and ugly indeed.”

Outrage swelled her chest. “Certainly not! Nathan is a fine, upstanding young man whom any woman would be proud to marry!”

The minute the words left her mouth, she realized her error. Especially when Mr. Pinter sat back with a look of sly satisfaction. “You’re not really engaged to Lord Stoneville, are you?”

Great heavens, she was terrible at this masquerading business. “I . . . well . . . you see, it’s very . . . it’s . . .”

“Complicated,” he said dryly. “So I gather.”

With a glance toward the open door behind her, she bent toward the desk and lowered her voice. “Please, you mustn’t tell anyone the truth. It’s important that you keep our secret until you find my fiancé.”

“Important for you? Or for his lordship?”

“Both. I beg of you, sir—”

“Tell me about your fiancé,” he said with a sigh as he took out a notepad. “The real one. I need to know where he’s been, how you know he’s missing, anything you’ve learned.” His gaze sharpened on her. “And I want the truth this time. I don’t take cases where the parties involved lie to me.”

She dropped her gaze in embarrassment. “The truth. Yes, sir.”

For the next half hour, she laid out all the avenues she and Freddy had pursued, answering each of his questions as thoroughly as she could. When he’d filled several pages with notes, he set down the pad.

“Now, I want you to explain what Lord Stoneville has to do with this.”

Her hands grew clammy. “He’s helping me.”

“Why?”

Because my cousin is accused of stealing from his friends.
“It has no bearing on your search for my fiancé,” she said stoutly.

He gazed steadily at her. “It does if the price for his help is higher than a respectable young woman should have to pay.”

She took his meaning at once, coloring deeply. “It isn’t, I assure you.”

“Tell me something, Miss Butterfield. Do you know anything about the character of the man you are relying on for help?”

“I know enough.”

“Did you know that his mother murdered his father? And then shot herself?”

Pure shock kept Maria speechless.

What if I swear on my mother’s grave to uphold my promise? That’s a vow I’d take very seriously.

“Oh, poor Oliver,” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to sympathize if I were you,” Mr. Pinter snapped. “Ever since that day, he’s lived a life of debauchery. The man you’re trusting to help you is known for his many affairs with opera dancers and loose women. He plays in the fleshpots of London while letting Halstead Hall go to rack and ruin.”

A sudden tightness in her chest made it hard for her to breathe. “Where did it happen?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The murder of his father and his mother’s suicide. Where did it happen?”

“In the hunting lodge on his estate. Why?”

Some places are better left to rot.

His bitter words took on new meaning. “And how old was he?”

“Sixteen, I believe.”

Her heart twisted in her chest. “He was only a boy, for pity’s sake! Have you no compassion? He lost his parents in the most horrible way imaginable, then suddenly found himself, at a tender age, the head of a family of four young brothers and sisters. Don’t you think if such a thing happened to you, you might strike out at the world? Or lose yourself in some den of iniquity?”

Mr. Pinter scowled. “No. I would learn from the tragedy by embracing a more sober way of life. Instead, he and his siblings spend their time scandalizing society with their reckless behavior.”

She thought of the Sharpe family—how adorable they were together, and how kind the two sisters had been so far. Then she remembered what the servant had said about their treatment by society, and her temper ignited.

Rising to her feet, she fixed the runner with a blistering glance. “You judge them by your own standards without knowing them personally. How dare you?”

Clearly taken aback, Mr. Pinter rose as well. “I haven’t told you the worst of it. After his parents died, he inherited everything. Some say he knew more about what happened than he admitted. That he might even have been there, if you take my meaning.”

A chill coursed down her spine. “I do
not
take your meaning, sir. Surely you’re not implying—”

“He’s not
implying
anything,” said a caustic voice from behind her.

Her stomach sank as she turned to see Oliver standing in the doorway. He wore his many-caped cloak of black wool to cover his lack of a coat. With his face a mask of nonchalance and his dark eyes hooded, he reminded her of the huge black gyrfalcon she’d seen once, swooping down to seize prey in its beak.

Oliver’s cloak flapped as he strode into the room. “Mr. Pinter is stating his opinion of me quite decidedly. I’m a scoundrel and a debaucher. I’m untrustworthy. And most importantly, I probably murdered my own parents.”

Chapter Eleven

When Pinter didn’t deny the accusation, Oliver wanted to throttle him. Wasn’t he allowed to have one person see him for what he was, without having it colored by a thousand versions of his past? Every time he thought the gossip was dead, it reared its ugly head again.

And to think that Pinter had suggested that his family should have “learned” from the “tragedy”! Damned arse had no idea what he was talking about.

He probably should have marched in to stop Pinter when he first heard him from the outer office. But if he hadn’t stood there listening, he wouldn’t have heard Maria defending him and his siblings so sweetly.

Have you no compassion?

The very words pried at the lid of the strongbox he kept so tightly closed. No one had ever defended him for anything, and certainly not with such deep conviction.

Then Pinter had gone and destroyed any sympathy she might have had by telling her “the worst of it.” Maria now wore a look of such horror, it made Oliver want to howl.

“Surely you can’t really believe that his lordship had a part in his parents’ tragic deaths,” she charged Mr. Pinter.

Her sharp tone arrested him. Could she actually be questioning the rumors?

“For if you do, then you’re clearly basing your opinions on gossip,” she went on hotly. “If that’s the case, I’m not sure I want to hire you.”

A lump caught in Oliver’s throat. She was standing with him, not with the gossipmongers. But why? Only his handful of friends had ever done so, and that was only because they’d known him long before that horrible night at Halstead Hall.

“I deal in facts, Miss Butterfield,” Pinter said firmly. “I told you nothing but the truth.”

Much as Oliver hated to admit it, that was accurate. Oliver had indeed lived a life of debauchery and let Halstead Hall fall to rack and ruin. There really had been speculation about his presence at the scene. It wasn’t the facts that bothered him. It was Pinter’s need to tell them to
her
that rankled.

“Yes,” she countered, “but when you make conclusions based on so few facts, how can I even trust you to do your job properly?”

“Enough, Maria,” Oliver put in.

He might not like Pinter or his urge to poison Maria against him, but he understood the man. And Pinter was considered a first-rate investigator. For Maria’s sake, Oliver had to be practical and put his dislike of the runner aside.

Besides, every other investigator would know the rumors, too. They just wouldn’t be so forthright about them. Pinter could have attempted to twist the meaning of what Oliver had overheard, but he hadn’t. And Oliver preferred a man of conviction to a sycophant any day.

“Like most gentlemen,” Oliver went on, “Mr. Pinter wishes to save the damsel in distress from a known rakehell and rumored murderer. That’s no reason to refrain from hiring him. Indeed, it means he’ll probably do a more thorough job of finding Mr. Hyatt than the average fellow.” He shifted his gaze to the Bow Street runner. “Am I right in assuming that you’ll take the case?”

“You’re right indeed, my lord.” His gaze locked with Oliver’s. “But I won’t take your money for it. If I find Mr. Hyatt,
he
can pay me. If not, then I’ll take no fee. I would prefer that Miss Butterfield not be obligated to you for it.”

“You don’t understand—” Maria began.

“Nonsense. Let the man be a hero,” Oliver bit out to prevent her from explaining the nature of their bargain. He had to get her out of here before she revealed too much. If Pinter was ready to save her now, only think what he’d be like once he heard how Oliver was using her to thwart Gran.

Oliver held out his arm. “Come, sweetheart, we have shopping to do. And Mr. Pinter will want to get started on the search right away.”

Pinter bristled at the thinly veiled command, but at least he nodded his assent. “Good day, my lord.” The man’s gaze softened as he glanced to Maria. “I’ll give you my report as soon as I learn something, Miss Butterfield. And if you should need anything—”

“Thank you,” she said with an upturned nose and ill grace. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. You can reach me at Halstead Hall. I’m staying with his lordship’s family.”

God only knew what Pinter would make of that.

She took Oliver’s arm and they walked to the door, but when they reached it Oliver paused, unable to resist one last word.

“You do realize, Mr. Pinter, that waiving your fee means that Miss Butterfield will now be obligated to
you.
Which begs the question—what price will she end up paying for
your
help?”

Without waiting for a response, he led her through the door.

“Deuced prig,” Oliver muttered under his breath as they headed to the stairs.

“We didn’t have to hire him.”

“Of course we did. By all accounts, he’s the best at what he does.”

She clung to his arm as they descended the stairs. “But he said such . . . cruel things about you. I don’t know how much you heard—”

“I heard enough,” he clipped out, keeping his gaze averted, afraid he might see speculation in her eyes. Just because she’d defended him to Pinter didn’t mean she wouldn’t rethink her opinion later. Though he was used to shrugging off looks of morbid curiosity or outright disapproval, he couldn’t bear to see hers. Not after all her sweet words.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” she murmured.

The soft sympathy in her voice nearly shattered his control. “Why?” He kept his voice calm and unmoved, though it took every ounce of his will. “You had nothing to do with it.”

“Neither did you, of course. I hope you don’t think I believed his insinuation.”

“Believe what you wish. It doesn’t matter,” he lied.

They’d reached the entrance to the building. As he held the door open for her, she paused to stare at him, forcing him to meet her gaze. “It matters. He shouldn’t have said it.”

For a moment, he couldn’t look away. There was so much compassion in her eyes that he wanted to drown in it.

Then he wanted to run.

It wouldn’t last. How could it?

Snapping his gaze from hers, he led her down the front steps. “Trust me, Maria, that’s only a fraction of what he could have insinuated. He could have related the entirety of the rumor—that I shot Father so I could inherit, and then Mother when she tried to wrest the gun away from me.”

Though her hand tightened painfully on his arm, he didn’t relent. She might as well know the full extent of what was said about him and his family, if she meant to do such a foolish thing as go around defending them. “Then there’s the rumors that Father was meeting a woman and that’s why Mother shot him. Or that Gran paid to have Father killed because Mother had asked it of her, but something went wrong when it was done. Every one of those theories has been whispered about my family during the past nineteen years.”

“That isn’t right!” she protested.

“It’s human nature,” he said wearily. “If the truth is too boring, people create more interesting versions. No one knows what really happened that night, even me. As best Gran could tell, Mother mistook Father for an intruder and shot him, then shot herself in a moment of grief when she realized what she’d done.”

“So their deaths were just a tragic accident.”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t a lie. That
was
what Gran thought. But he knew perfectly well that it wasn’t the truth, either. He just couldn’t stand having Maria know the truth—that although he hadn’t pulled the trigger, the result was the same. Because of him, his parents were dead. And nothing he could do would change that. Certainly, no amount of sympathy from an American chit with a soft heart would.

The carriage pulled up before him and the footman put down the step. But even as he handed her up into it, she asked, “Where’s Freddy?”

God, he’d forgotten all about her cousin. “I took him round the corner to my club,” he said as he climbed in after her. “I didn’t want him giving away our subterfuge to Pinter, and he said he didn’t want to shop with us anyway.” It was true . . . except that he’d rid himself of her cousin because he had wanted to have her to himself for a while.

The minute he’d left Freddy, he’d known it was madness. She already got under his skin too damned much; time alone with her would only make it worse. He’d scarcely been able to sleep last night for his erotic dreams of having her beneath him in his bed, driving away the dark night with her tender mouth and soft sighs and brilliant smiles.

Ah, what a pleasure it would be to lose himself in the warm embrace of her body, to lay her down in the overgrown gardens surrounding Halstead Hall and make love to her as if she were a forest nymph and he a Greek god. Perhaps that would banish the curse on the place at last.

He ground his teeth together. Even if she would allow it, taking her to bed would only give her license to poke at his secrets, like a child digging out the currants in a plum pudding. And when she’d lined them up and seen how black they were, she would recoil from him. She would leave him naked and alone. Always alone.

Why the devil did he care if she left him alone? Damn her for tempting him so innocently. And damn him for being tempted.

He unbuttoned his cloak. It was suddenly very hot in the carriage, even without his coat and gloves. “We’ll pick up Freddy after we finish with the secondhand shops. He can’t do much harm at the club—”

“Are you serious? Freddy has the loosest tongue of any man in creation. By now, he’s probably revealed the whole tale of our pretend engagement to every member of your club.”

“Ah, but I took care of that. I told him he could order whatever he wished from the club’s chef as long as he kept silent about our activities. Surely he can’t say much with his mouth stuffed full of beefsteak.”

“You’d be surprised. Freddy is adept at all the wrong things.” She slanted a pretty glance at him. “You do realize that bribing him with food might end up costing you a fortune.”

“What do I care? I’m saving money on Pinter’s fee.”

When her face fell, he cursed his quick tongue. The last thing he wanted was to remind her of Pinter.

“It’s not Freddy you have to worry about, anyway,” she said in a low voice. “Thanks to something I said, Mr. Pinter guessed that our engagement is a sham. I’m sorry.”

He’d already surmised as much from Pinter’s demeanor. “No need to apologize. It would have been better if he hadn’t figured it out, but Pinter is clever—he knows perfectly well what my reputation is. He was bound to be suspicious. I’m sure you didn’t mean to give it away.”

“I truly didn’t. But he started insinuating things about you and me, and then me and Nathan and—”

“He manipulated you into revealing the truth. It’s all right. That’s what he does. It makes him a good investigator.” He softened his voice. “And you aren’t as practiced at playing a role as I am. It’s not in your nature.”

“No, but I promised you I’d keep the secret.”

He shrugged. “He’ll be discreet, now that he’s determined to ‘protect’ you. As long as Gran doesn’t get wind of it, we’ll be fine.”

The carriage slowed, momentarily snarled in some welter of carts and coaches, and he found himself grateful for any extra time it gave him alone with her.

“What did he say about his chances of finding Hyatt?” Oliver asked.

“Not much. But at least I’m closer to that than I was before, thanks to you.”

He didn’t want her thanks. As far as he was concerned, Nathan Hyatt could rot in hell. Oliver had probed Freddy for information on the way to the club. The more he heard, the more he despised the man. Hyatt clearly wanted her for practical reasons that had nothing to do with her generous heart and her fierce loyalty. It was like watching her repeat Mother’s mistake. It could come to no good.

He had to make her see that. “Has it occurred to you that Hyatt might not want to be found?”

With a hard swallow, she stared out the window at the clamoring crowds. “Yes.”

“And if that’s the case? What will you do then?”

“I don’t know.” Her gaze shifted to his. “Why? Are you offering to marry me in his place?” When Oliver stiffened, she added hastily, “I’m joking, you fool. Can’t you tell when a woman is teasing?”

No. Women rarely joked with him about matrimony. Worse yet, the idea wasn’t as repulsive to him as it should be. Just the thought of having her in his bed to talk to on nights when he couldn’t block out the memories . . .

“It’s a shame you’re so deplorably virginal,” he quipped, trying to match her light tone so she wouldn’t see how she’d unsettled him. “Otherwise, I’d make you a proposal of a less savory kind.”

A teasing smile touched her lips. “Oh? Would you offer to ravish me?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, the air between them crackled. And suddenly he couldn’t joke about it anymore. “Actually, no.” He waited until her gaze met his. “I’d offer to make you my mistress.”