A Bride by Moonlight (7 page)

And yet, she wasn’t, was she?

On a soft curse, Napier tossed aside his hat, his attention veering back to his awkward conversation with Sir George. Had he made it known he was the grandson of Viscount Duncaster—and suddenly heir apparent to the title—would Lady Anisha have looked more favorably upon his suit?

Certainly her elder brother Lord Ruthveyn would have.

Yet he had
not
told her. And Napier was not so lacking in self-knowledge as to misconstrue his own motivations. Yes, he had wanted her to desire him for who he was, not what he was. But a part of him had simply not wished to take the time away from his work for the niceties of a proper courtship.

Though on this one occasion, he had been very tempted. Tempted to surrender his unruffled calm for something that had felt, yes, a little like chaos.

But he had dragged his feet, and the lady, it seemed, had cast in her lot with Lazonby.

Ah, well. At the great age of four-and-thirty, Napier was on his way to confirmed bachelorhood and his aunt Hepplewood be damned, unless some plump, pretty widow turned up to warm his bed and then persuaded him to make a fool of himself. Still, it would be no woman of Lady Hepplewood’s choosing—of that he was bloody well certain. The Wiltshire branch of his family had not dictated to the London Napiers in going on four decades. He’d be damned if they’d start now.

Yanking Sir Wilfred Leeton’s file from his valise, he went into the passageway that opened on each side to his front reception rooms. In an uncharacteristically reflective mood, he paused to look around with new eyes at the gleaming wooden floors, the velvety Wilton carpets swept to within an inch of brand new, and the gleaming porcelain, marble, and hints of gilt that adorned the whole of it.

Did
he want more than this?

It was not opulence that surrounded him, no. But it was upper middle-class elegance, at the very least, and since boyhood he had lived here with all the security and certainty that came from a life lived without want.

Yes, whatever Nicholas Napier’s failings, his son had lacked for little. And, as Sir George had pointed out, all that security and a fine Belgravia town house had been topped off by an education to rival any gentleman’s. All this despite the fact that Nicholas Napier had been, initially, nothing more than a low-level bureaucrat married to a government clerk’s daughter.

And suddenly, Napier wondered how he’d afforded it. Not just the house, but their entire way of life. So far as he could remember, his late mother had dressed as finely as any lady. They had dined well—sometimes even lavishly—and even entertained on occasion.

How? How had it been accomplished? In the back of his mind, he had often wondered.

Perhaps he need wonder no longer.

On a flash of irritation, he hurled the file aside and went into the drawing room to pour himself a generous splash of brandy, damning Lazonby to hell.

It was not possible. He would not think of it.

Napier set the decanter back down on the side table with a
thunk!
After tossing the brandy back with rather too much relish, he lifted away his afternoon copy of the
Gazette
, and began to sort meticulously through the post which always lay neatly stacked beneath it.

There was nothing save a couple of routine bills—statements from his haberdasher and his vintner—already slit open and unfolded for his review, along with an invitation to a musicale at the home of a superintendent in the General Register Office, a fellow whose means were far outstripped by his social aspirations.

Such invitations had come more regularly since vague rumors of Napier’s family connections had begun to worm their way through Whitehall. His friendship with Lady Anisha had merely added fuel to the fires of speculation, for her brother was a marquess, and a personal favorite of the Queen.

Still, the fact that he might suddenly be in demand made Napier snort with laughter. He pushed the invitation away to see what lay beneath it, and went a little cold.

“
Jolley!
” he shouted.

At once, footsteps came softly up the stairs, and within moments the servant appeared, looking rather like a wraith with his cloud of white hair, wooly white muttonchops, and long white work apron over his stark black suit. It was a deceptive appearance, to be sure. Jolley was utterly of this world.

“Yes, sir?”

“This letter.” Napier set a fingertip upon the offending paper. “When did it arrive?”

“Why, with the morning post.” Jolley looked mystified.

“And did no one question to whom it was addressed?”

Jolley looked more closely. “Gor blimey!”

Napier looked down at it again. The words taunted him:

Lord Saint-Bryce

22 Eaton Square

London

“You did not open it,” Napier remarked.

“No, sir,” he said. “It seemed of a personal nature.”

Napier took up a nearby penknife, slit the seal, and snapped the letter open. His gaze swept over the crabbed handwriting that listed badly starboard, and used only the topmost third of the page:

My Lord,

I wonder if You oughtn’t come home to Burlingame? If we might prevale upon You to do so, it might be for the best. Doubtless London is Great Fun, but things here continue passing strange cince the mysterious Deaths and Some of us remain Most Troubled that some Wickedness is afoot.

Yr. humble servent,

A Concerned Citizen

“A
concerned
citizen
?” Napier tossed the letter back down. “
Wickedness
—?”

“May I, sir?”

At Napier’s curt nod, Jolley reached past him, and picked it up. “Well,” he said after reading it, “at least it’s not total rambling nonsense like poor old Hepplewood’s piece.”

“No, but it’s just as full of innuendo,” Napier growled.

“And that’s a business I still don’t like, sir,” said Jolley. “Gentlemen like Hepplewood do make enemies.”

“But Saint-Bryce had none,” Napier pointed out. “He was just like every other country gentleman moldering away in Wiltshire: paunchy, balding, and obsessed with tromping around in wet grass shooting at things. Where’s the wickedness in that?”

Jolley’s brow furrowed. “No connection between the titles, is there?” he asked. “I mean, otherwise, sir—well, put it like this—you’d be the only one ter gain by Saint-Bryce’s death.”

“Only you, Jolley, would have the gall to suggest me as a murderer,” said Napier evenly. “But no, Hepplewood was merely my grandfather’s friend and brother-in-law. His death brought me nothing. And Saint-Bryce’s will bring me nothing but grief.”

Jolley laid the letter down. “Still, who could have written such a thing?”

Napier took it up again. “Some desperate near-illiterate, one assumes,” he grumbled. “It’s probably naught but some sort of mischievous forgery. I ought to burn it.”

“Not a forgery, sir,” Jolley countered. “Without specific intent to defraud, sir, the law holds there is no such thing. They haven’t pretended to be someone they aren’t, nor asked you for any money.”

“No, not
yet
.” Napier scowled down at him. “And spare me your well-honed legal hair-splitting, Jolley. It was that, you know, which put you here.”

“Aye, so you say, sir. So you say.”

Jolley shuffled off, and began to inspect the wicks for the evening.

Napier returned his attention to the letter, oddly troubled. “No, not an illiterate, perhaps,” he murmured. “The sentence structure is fine, and the form is not bad—save for the fact that they cannot spell, and seem confused as to how I prefer to be addressed.”

Having accompanied him to Wiltshire during Lord Hepplewood’s illness, Jolley understood Napier’s family connections. “Still, sir, it does make one think,” the servant called over his shoulder, “of Hepplewood’s bizarre ramble wot was sent to the home secretary. Shall I compare them?”

It was a good idea.

“Thank you, yes.” Napier extracted a small key from his waistcoat. “It is in the second slot of the parlor bureau.”

Jolley found the document in short order, and carried it across to the windows. Napier followed, awaiting the expert opinion with more unease than he cared to admit. Why send such a letter? And why to him, of all people?

Because he was the heir?

Or because he was with the police?

“Hmm,” said Jolley.

“Key,” Napier barked, holding out his hand.

Jolley rolled his eyes, and surrendered it.

Napier tucked it back into his pocket. For all his angelic appearance, in his day Jolley had been the underworld’s most infamous screever, a professional forger of documents.

He’d also been its most talented. Indeed, Jolley had loved his craft like an art form, forging things even when there was no real need and little profit to be made, just to see if he could get away with it. Wills, bills of exchange, certificates of shares; any manner of legal instrument fell to child’s play under Jolley’s deft hand.

He also had a barrister’s grasp of pertinent case law, often oozing around the technicalities like butter into the cracks of a hot crumpet. A few years past, however, Jolley came up against a charge he was not likely to defeat, for he’d been set up by a newer, rougher class of competitors in the East End. And he was no longer young.

Napier had offered Jolley an amicable alternative to a slow death in Newgate—something like the old adage to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It worked well. Jolley could eliminate his East End accent at will, and affect all the manners of a gentleman when necessary. He made a perfectly serviceable valet and general servant—provided one kept a close eye on him.

Jolley had extracted an old jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and stuck it in his eye. “
Hmm
,” he said again. “Paper’s been torn from a larger sheet—like a letterhead cut off—then turned upside down and wrote upon.”

“And—?” Napier pressed as the servant turned the older document toward the light.

“But no similarity in ink, pen, nor paper,” said Jolley, “and certainly not in wording. Still, both look to have been posted from Wiltshire. Marks are true as any I’ve seen.”

Pensive, Napier scrubbed a hand down his jaw. Something was nagging in the back of his mind—something to do with Lord Hepplewood.

In his day, Hepplewood had been a powerful man, a politician to his very core and a mover and shaker of the highest order. He’d held ambassadorships and even served on King William’s Privy Council. Such men knew things—oftentimes dangerous things.

But Saint-Bryce had been just a genial country gentleman who’d done nothing more controversial than judge the fruit preserves at the county fair. The phrase
passing strange
did not seem to remotely apply. Hepplewood had been old. Saint-Bryce had been a tad corpulent. Such men died, and that was that.

But Jolley had laid both sheets to the window glass with an expression of confusion on his face. “Now, this new one, sir,” he said, squinting through the loupe at it, “is curiously watermarked.”

“Watermarked?”

“Aye, it’s been made, sir, with a dandy-roll on a continuous papermaking machine.”

“I know what a damned watermark is, Jolley,” said Napier irritably.

“Well, then, have a look at it, sir.” Jolley popped out the loupe and offered it. “It’s the Maid of Dort mark.”

“Dort? What’s Dort?”

“It means Dordrecht, sir. It means the paper weren’t made here, but in Holland.”

“Not British paper?” Napier slapped the paper to the glass to better see the faint embossing. “I don’t need the loupe, thank you. What the devil is she holding? A hat on a stick? And a . . . a creature of some sort?”

“Just so, sir,” said Jolley in the tone of one tutoring a child. “That’s the Maid of Dort, and she’s speared her enemy’s helmet. And her lion—see him, just here?—he’s got some arrows and a sword. It’s like a warning, sir, to Holland’s adversaries. And if you find a paper with this mark, then you might know who wrote the letter.”

“Interesting,” muttered Napier. “It must be a relatively rare paper, mustn’t it?”

“Not common, no.” Jolley handed Hepplewood’s old letter back. “What d’you mean ter do, sir?”

Napier tossed them onto the table and stared at them for a long moment, still thinking about death—and, if he were honest—about Lazonby’s vile accusations against his father. Actually, they had been Miss Ashton’s accusations, though he still believed Lazonby was behind it.

It was like circles running around circles. Letters upon letters suggesting this and demanding that.

Damn it all, he did not have time for any of it. With a muttered curse, Napier refilled his brandy, three fingers’ worth this time, watching as the liquid gold shimmered in a shaft of fading sunlight.

He set the decanter down, forgetting it was open. The nagging in the back of his mind and that dark, awful doubt would not relent. And frustratingly, the truth to all of it likely lay at Burlingame Court.

“Jolley,” he finally said, “would Mrs. Bourne fancy a fortnight’s visit to her sister down in Hull, do you reckon?”

“Oh, I should imagine.” Jolley reached around to stopper the decanter.

“Well then, old fellow.” Napier paused to slowly exhale. “Perhaps you and I ought to take a little trip of our own.”

“Ooh, sir, not ter Wiltshire again.” Jolley flashed a sidelong wince. “Never much cared for the country, meself.”

Napier shrugged. “I fear that’s of no consequence,” he said picking the offensive letters up again. “You’ve chosen house arrest—and the choice of which house must be
mine
.”

CHAPTER 3

An Accident in Mayfair

V
alise in hand, Napier set off the following morning in the general direction of Hackney, intent upon executing Sir George’s orders. Although he found himself inexplicably hesitant to call upon Elizabeth Ashton, he wanted it over with.

After that first fateful meeting in his office—nearly two years ago now—Napier had naïvely imagined he need never see Sir Arthur Colburne’s daughter again. What a fool he had been. Trouble had practically wafted from her skin like that unusual scent she favored. Even now he could see those long, slender fingers deftly slipping loose the buttons of her bodice, those bewitching eyes locked to his—taunting him—as she suggested just how she might negotiate her position.

She had called herself Elizabeth Colburne then. And she had called herself desperate.

He wondered how desperate she was now. And then he wondered why such a thought had crossed his mind. Good Lord. He had only to call upon her and step through her statement one last time—while trying hard not to drown in those incredible eyes—before beginning his fool’s game of waiting for the American authorities to apprehend her ephemeral brother.

No, it was not likely the lady would be slipping loose any buttons for him now.

As if to clear the vision from his mind, Napier drew a deep breath of the cold spring air, noting as he did so that the acrid smell of coal smoke had diminished during the night. Then carefully timing the traffic, he dashed between a cartload of bricks and a westbound mail coach to make his way across Hyde Park Corner.

Napier had always believed his curricle too flashy for a public servant, and there being as yet no trains to Hackney Station—or even a roof over it—he’d thought it best to simply walk up to Oxford Street and catch the green omnibus. But despite these well-laid plans, he found himself taking an oddly indirect route, and halfway up Park Lane, turned onto Upper Grosvenor Street, telling himself he was taking a shortcut through the alleyways of Mayfair.

At Lady Anisha’s house, the semicircular drive was empty, the iron gates still shut up. It was, of course, too early to call. Which was a ridiculous notion, when he had not even
meant
to call.

Feeling a trifle foolish, Napier turned up the alleyway alongside the house, intent upon reaching Oxford Street as quickly as possible. But halfway along the lane separating the house from the mews, there came a great splash of water over the fence, right between two shrubs.

He leapt back on a curse, very nearly stumbling into a pile of fresh horse manure.

“Oh!” A colorful scarf poked between the shrubs. “Oh, dear! I’m so frightfully . . . good heavens.
Mr. Napier—
?”

“Indeed, ma’am,” he said, glancing down at his shirtfront. “Good morning.”

“Oh, I am
so
sorry!” Lady Anisha Stafford peeped out of the greenery at him, her head and shoulders swathed in a bright gossamer scarf, her chocolate eyes wide as saucers. “How awkward I am!”

Napier regained himself, and sketched her a little bow. “Not in the least,” he managed. “You are, as always, grace and beauty personified.”

“Then either Grace or Beauty has ruined your coat.” She rushed down the fence and unlatched a little gate. “Which does not sound especially welcoming to someone I am so glad to see. Oh, come in,
do
. I was just trying to wash out Milo’s cage, and—”

“Haven’t you servants for that?” he interjected, before thinking better of it.

She flashed an embarrassed smile. “Yes, but Milo likes his things cleaned just so, and then certain herbs cut for him, and his water—oh, but never mind that. Now do come in. I shall have some tea sent out to the conservatory, and make a proper inspection of your coat.”

“Thank you,” he said, “but I can assure you, in my line of work, I get far worse than water hurled at me.”

She set her head stubbornly to one side, and motioned him in. Only then did he see the wire cage sitting in the grass beside the empty bucket. Satchel in hand, he followed her down a flagstone path past the rear entrance. She was dressed this morning for the privacy of her home, her slender form attired in a pair of silk trousers over which she wore a calf-length gown of shimmering blue, the scarf flowing behind.

“Round the corner,” she called over her shoulder, “and we’ll just pop in the back.”

A pair of doors gave onto a lofty space glassed in on three sides where a green bird glided about in the rafters. The persnickety Milo, he assumed.

Napier settled into the rattan chair she offered, and after ringing for tea, Anisha took one opposite. The bird sailed onto the curved back with a great
whoosh!
and proceeded to peck at the gold embroidery of her headscarf. “Milo!” she chided, tossing back the scarf with a laugh.

Only then did he see the wicked yellow bruise that ran from her temple deep into her hairline. “My God!” he exclaimed, coming half out of his chair. “Anisha!”

The lady threw up her hand. “Mr. Napier, I am quite all right. And as you see, my traditional scarf can be a quite useful wardrobe accessory.”

Until that moment, he realized, he had not been entirely sure of Lazonby’s wild story. “By God, I could kill Sir Wilfred Leeton myself,” he gritted.

“Thankfully, that job has been done for you,” she said wryly. “In truth, I expected you before now. I did not think for one moment you would heed Lazonby’s threats to stay away from me. You are here for my statement, I daresay?”

He deliberately cocked one eyebrow. “But I was given to understand you remembered nothing.”

She eyed him carefully across the tea table. “I took a frightful blow to the head, yes, and was unconscious for a time,” she said slowly, as if carefully choosing her words. “But I can remember whatever is necessary to see justice done.”

He wasn’t sure what she was offering. Or threatening. “And your notion of justice would be?”

“Has anyone been charged with anything?”

“No, the mysterious Jack Coldwater has vanished,” he said dryly, “never to be seen again, I’m reasonably confident.”

Anisha exhaled on a long sigh. “Good!” she said. “Then we must leave well enough alone. We
will
leave well enough alone, Assistant Commissioner, will we not? None of us, I think, want this scandal reopened?”

He settled back into his chair on a sigh. “I’m man enough to know when I’m beaten,” he said. “Yes, I suppose we’re done. And I don’t wish your statement. Like Lazonby, I wish you fifty miles away from this frightful scandal.”

“And that poor girl?” Anisha was still watching him. “Miss . . . Ashton, was it not? What did you think of her, by the way? Unconventional, isn’t she? And quite striking, too.”

“I was just on my way to see her,” he said, ignoring the rest of her question. “I need to review her statement one last time, as I’m leaving town for a while.”

At that point, the tea arrived. After pouring, Anisha settled back into her chair, cradling her cup in her palm as she studied him. “And where do you go, Mr. Napier?” she asked. “On holiday, I hope?”

“No, family business.”

“Oh, at Burlingame Court?” she enquired lightly.

When he looked at her in surprise, she smiled. “I recall you went some months past,” she added. “When Lord Hepplewood died.”

“You were aware of that?”

“That you had a death in the family, yes,” she said. “Really, Mr. Napier, you must know Lazonby had your every move watched, as you watched his. Though precisely
how
the gentleman was related to you, I never heard.”

“Lord Hepplewood married my great-aunt.”

“And she was—?” Anisha’s smile was coy. “You see, having come so recently from India, Mr. Napier, I have not yet memorized
Burke’s Peerage
. If I look closely, might I find your name in it?”

It was the moment of decision, he realized, or something like it.

“I think not,” he finally answered, “though I’ve never looked. In his youth, my father quarreled irrevocably with his family over his choice of bride, and took his wife’s name, Napier. I believe it was put about by his family that he’d died.”

She drew back an inch, her smile softening. “Mr. Napier, Lazonby once said you had eyes like a pair of kitchen knives,” she said. “I do believe you are stabbing me with them now.”

He felt his mouth twitch. “What, had he nothing to say of my nose? I have always been rather proud of it.”

“That it looked like a hatchet,” she added, setting down her tea. “There, I have pried enough, Mr. Napier. And I think you know I’m quite fond of your eyes and your nose. They suit you.”

He felt silent for a time then put his teacup on the table. “My last uncle recently died,” he said quietly. “There were three sons, you see, my father being youngest. So despite my grandfather’s ire, no one believed my father’s
marrying
down
would do much harm to the family’s blue blood.”

“Ah,” she said quietly. “But now the elder brothers are gone? And gone without sons, dare I surmise?”

“Something like that,” he said ruefully. “My grandfather is a miserable old tyrant, and now he demands my return.”

“Ha!” she said. “He mustn’t know you very well if he imagines
demanding
will do the trick.”

“He scarcely knows me at all,” said Napier. “So he has written to Sir George Grey instead. Sir George’s sire and my grandfather were old friends, I collect.”

“Oh, dear.” Anisha looked solemn. “Why do I begin to suspect there is an old and noble title involved here? The Grey family is
haute ton
; even I know that much.”

“Yes.” For an instant, he hesitated. “And my grandfather is Viscount Duncaster, and my uncle was Baron Saint-Bryce by courtesy.”

“I fear I know nothing of either gentleman,” she said apologetically. “Are they great and noble titles indeed, then? Yes, I can see by the look on your face that they are.”

When he said nothing, her face fell. “And you are to have no say in the matter, are you?” she went on. “Sir George will not permit you to go on at work as if nothing has happened. The laws of entail will not permit Duncaster to disinherit you. Oh, Mr. Napier, I know what it is like to be jerked out of one life and thrust into another. Will that be your fate? Are you now Baron Saint-Bryce against your wishes?”

He gave an inward sigh of relief. Only Lady Anisha, he was certain, could have understood such a thing. And the sympathy on her face was real, he thought.

“Yes,” he quietly admitted. “I daresay I am.”

“Oh, well!” she said, that same face suddenly brightening. “There’s nothing else for it; you’ll be stuck with power and riches unimaginable. However, I will say, in my own defense, you should have told me you were coming into money. I might have considered your suit more carefully.”

He wanted, suddenly, to roar with laughter. “You don’t think like that, Anisha. Neither of us even believes you capable of it.”

The bird had begun to tug at the dangle on one of her earbobs. “Thank you,” she said.

He gave an audible sigh. “Lady Anisha, is it true, what I suspect? Have you agreed to marry Lazonby?”

She dropped her gaze. “I fear he has not officially asked me.”

“And if—no,
when
he does—will you say yes?”

She lifted her wide eyes back to his. “Yes,” she said quietly. “When he does, I will happily say
yes
. But you are my dear friend, and I’m sorry you don’t like him.”

“I don’t like him,” Napier agreed. “But you are no fool. And he will make you happy, I think. He will be too afraid of your brother Ruthveyn not to.”

Her mouth twisted. “Oh, Lazonby doesn’t have the sense to be afraid, even when he ought,” she said. “A character flaw he shares with you. Indeed, it might be the two of you are too like ever to get on. Did you ever consider that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Mr. Napier,” she said slyly, “why, exactly, have you come here today?”

He gave a crooked smile. “I didn’t think I
was
coming here,” he said. “Although, if I’m to be as honest as you, I think in the back of my mind, I had the faintest notion of asking a favor.”

“A favor? Of what sort?”

“A great favor,” he confessed. “But your expectations of Lord Lazonby have forestalled it. I am . . . glad. I think I could not have asked it anyway.”

“But what might the favor be? And how do you know I would refuse it?”

He hesitated a heartbeat. “As I said, I have to go away,” he replied. “And I wanted you . . . well, I wanted you to come with me. And worse, under false pretenses.”

“Ah. This has something to do with your family at Burlingame, does it not?”

“It does.” He shot her a withering look, and sighed. “I needed a woman on my arm—a beautiful—and very eligible—one. An ornament, if you will, to forestall a matchmaking great-aunt—Lady Hepplewood, in fact. Duncaster’s sister.”

Anisha laughed again. “How you do flatter a lady. But surely the great Royden Napier would not be cowed by
that
?”

“Well, one would hope not,” he muttered. “But Sir George warns she’ll bedevil me to distraction. It’s not precisely a social visit, you see, and I’d as soon Lady Hepplewood not know it, for there’ve been—”

He couldn’t think how to explain it, the gut feeling he’d had all those months ago upon reading the letter Hepplewood had sent Sir George. And again last evening, that curious missive in the post . . .

Still, it made no sense.

“Well, you’ve had two relations die under vague circumstances,” said Anisha tactfully. “So your expression is more daunting than usual, and understandably.”

“It’s probably nothing,” he said. “But I desperately need someone to guard my wicket and keep the old girl from dogging me whilst I poke around a bit.”

“Well, to be honest, I’m sorry I can’t, for it sounds like quite a lark.” She laughed again. “The misbegotten heir and his half-caste bride! Can you imagine the old dear’s expression? Still, if Lady Hepplewood is anything like Aunt Pernicia, I fear for you.”

“You aren’t giving me much comfort here,” he muttered.