A Lady Never Surrenders (3 page)

“I have no idea,” Jackson said. “But it seems quite the coincidence that Benny would travel to where Elsie had been, only to end up dead shortly after he left that city.”

“
Had
been?” Gabe asked. “Elsie left Manchester?”

“She did. I find that suspicious. According to her family, she sent them a quick note saying she was leaving her post and heading to London to look for a new one. Apparently, she’d always refused to tell them the identity of her employer. They suspected she was involved with the man romantically. Whatever the case, I’m having trouble finding her. No one in Manchester seems to know anything. But she told her family she would send them word as soon as she settled in London.”

“Is it possible we’re barking up the wrong tree with Elsie and Benny?” Stoneville asked. “The authorities were never sure he was murdered. He might have been the victim of a hunting accident. Elsie might have moved on because she didn’t like her employer. Their both being in Manchester at the same time could be coincidence.”

“True.” But in Jackson’s business, genuine coincidences were rare. “I did learn she was younger than your mother.”

“Quite pretty, too, as I recall,” Stoneville said.

“How strange that Mrs. Rawdon would have a fetching young lady’s maid,” Mrs. Plumtree said. “That’s asking for trouble, men being what they are.”

“Not all men, Gran,” Mrs. Masters said stoutly.

Mrs. Plumtree cast a glance about the table, then smiled. “No, not all men.”

Jackson fought to shield his thoughts. Masters did seem an excellent husband, but he’d already reformed by the time he’d begun courting his wife. And the Sharpe men seemed devoted to their wives, but would it last?

His mother had been seduced by a nobleman, a brash young lord in Liverpool with a penchant for sweet maidens. Instead of marrying her, the arse had married a wealthy woman and set up Jackson’s mother as his mistress, abandoning her when Jackson was two. So Jackson had no illusions about what marriage meant to the aristocracy.

Don’t blame your father,
Mother had said as she lay dying in his aunt and uncle’s home.
If not for him, I wouldn’t have you. And that made it all worth it.

He couldn’t see how. The memory of her emaciated body lying on that bed …

With an effort, he tamped down his anger and forced himself to pay attention to the matter at hand. “I’m waiting to hear from Elsie’s family about her location in London. I heard from Major Rawdon’s regiment in India that he’d taken a three-year post in Gibraltar, so I’ve sent a letter there asking him questions concerning the house party. Until I get responses, I should stay close to town rather than returning to Manchester on a probable wild-goose chase.” He glanced to the marquess. “With your lordship’s approval.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Stoneville murmured. “Just keep us apprised.”

“Of course.”

Taking that for a dismissal, Jackson headed out the door. He had another appointment this afternoon, and he had to stop at home to pick up the report his aunt was transcribing. Only she could transform his scribbles into legible, intelligible prose. If he left now, he might have time to eat before—

“Mr. Pinter!”

He turned to find Lady Celia approaching. “Yes, my lady?”

To his surprise, she glanced nervously at the open door to the library and lowered her voice. “I must speak to you privately. Do you have a moment?”

He ruthlessly suppressed the leap in his pulse. Lady Celia had never asked to talk to him alone. The singularity of that made him nod curtly and gesture to a nearby parlor.

She preceded him, then stood looking about her with uncharacteristic anxiousness as he entered and left the door open, wanting no one to accuse him of impropriety.

“What is it?” he asked, trying not to sound impatient. Or intrigued. He’d never seen Lady Celia looking unsure of herself. It tugged annoyingly at his sympathies.

“I had a dream last night. That is, I’m not sure if it actually was a dream. I mean, of course it was a dream, but…”

“What’s your point, madam?”

Her chin came up, and a familiar martial light entered her gaze. “There’s no need to be rude, Mr. Pinter.”

He couldn’t help it; being this close to her was doing uncomfortable things to him. He could smell her perfume, a tempting mix of … whatever flowery things noblewomen wore to enhance their charms.

Her charms needed no enhancement.

“Forgive me,” he bit out. “I’m in a hurry to return to town.”

She nodded, taking his excuse at face value. “Last night I had a dream that I often had as a child. I don’t know if it was because we’d been working in the nursery, or Annabel and Maria were discussing…” When he raised his eyebrow, she steadied her shoulders. “Anyway, when I used to have it, it seemed unreal, so I assumed it was only a dream, but now…” She swallowed. “I think it might also be a memory of the day my parents died.”

That caught his attention. “But you were only four.”

“A few weeks shy of five, actually.”

Right. She was twenty-four now, and the murders had happened nineteen years ago last April. “What makes you think it’s a memory?”

“Because I heard Papa making an assignation with a woman to meet her at the hunting lodge.”

A chill coursed down his spine.

“In the dream, I assume it’s Mama, but even there she doesn’t behave right.”

“In what way?”

“Papa used to call Mama ‘
mia dolce bellezza
,’ and she would blush and tell him he was blind. Well, in the dream the man called the woman ‘
mia dolce bellezza
,’ and she got angry. She told him she hated it when he did that. Don’t you see? She probably resented being called the same thing he called his wife.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell who she was from the voice.”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, they were both whispering. I only know it was Papa because of the ‘
mia dolce bellezza.
’
”

“I see.”

“If it really happened, it means Mama somehow found out about Papa’s assignation. That’s why she asked Benny not to tell Papa where she was going. Because she wanted to catch him and his mistress in the act. And whoever Papa was going there to meet arrived first and shot Mama.”

“Then when your father showed up, she shot him, too?” he said skeptically. “Now that she’d ensured that her lover was free to marry her?”

Lady Celia’s expression turned uncertain. “Perhaps Papa was angry that she’d killed Mama. Perhaps they struggled for the gun and it went off.”

“So she reloaded the gun after shooting your mother. She lay in wait for your father—her lover—with a loaded gun.”

“I-I don’t know. All I know is what I heard.”

“Which might have been a dream.”

She sighed. “It might. That’s why I came to you with it rather than mentioning it during our family meeting. I didn’t want to get everyone excited about it until we were sure.”

“We?”

“Yes. I want you to investigate and find out if it might have been real.”

The plea in her lovely hazel eyes tugged at him, but she was asking the impossible. “I don’t see how I can—”

“Other things happened in the dream,” she said hastily. “Gabe’s tutor, Mr. Virgil, came in later, and my nursemaid sang to me. I overheard things.” She drew a folded sheaf of paper from her pocket and held it out to him.

Reluctantly, he took it.

“I wrote down everything I could recall,” she went on. “I figured you could talk to Mr. Virgil and Nurse and find out if I’m remembering that part correctly. If not, then the rest doesn’t matter. But if I am…”

“I understand.” She might have stored something important in her memory. But which parts? How could he sort the wheat from the chaff?

He skimmed the neatly penned words, and something leapt out at him. “Your nurse gave you medicine?”

Lady Celia nodded. “She calls it paregoric elixir. I suspect that Annabel and Maria’s discussion about it yesterday was what prompted my dream.”

“You do know that paregoric contains opium.”

“Does it?” A troubled frown crossed her brow. “My sisters-in-law did say they would never use it on their own children.”

“I’m told that doctors disagree on its usefulness.” He weighed his words. “You may not realize this, but opium can sometimes provoke—”

“I know,” she said tersely. “Dreams and phantasms and things that aren’t real.” She met his gaze. “But I feel in my bones that it
was
real. I can’t explain it, and I know I might be wrong, but I think it at least deserves attention, don’t you? If we discover it really is a memory, we might piece together who was missing early that morning and figure out Papa’s mistress by a process of elimination.” Her chin came up. “Besides, Nurse gave me the paregoric
after
I overheard the conversation.”

“Unless she gave you some to sleep the night before,” he said gently.

Her face fell, and he felt her disappointment like a punch to the gut.

He cleared his throat. “I agree it’s worth pursuing. Your nurse is on my list of people to track down anyway, and Mr. Virgil is certainly of interest. I’ll speak to them both and we’ll continue from there.” He shoved the paper in his coat pocket. “You were right to come to me with this.”

She smiled at him then, the first smile she’d ever given him. It brought life to her face and a softness to her features that blazed a path through to his very soul.

“Thank you,” she said.

God save him, he must keep his wits about him. “You’re welcome.” He turned for the door. He had to get out of here. If she ever guessed what she did to him, she’d mock him mercilessly for daring to raise his gaze so high. “If that’s all—”

“Actually,” she said, “I need something else from you, too.”

Confound it all, he’d nearly escaped. Slowly he faced her once more. “Yes?”

She took in a breath, then lifted her chin. “I need you to investigate my suitors.”

C
elia realized she’d shocked Mr. Pinter when his thick black brows drew together in a frown. His lean form seemed even more rigid than usual, and his angular features—the arrow of a nose and bladed jaw—even more stark. In his severe morning attire of black serge and white linen, he radiated male disapproval.

But why? He knew she was the only “hellion” left unmarried. Did he think she would let her brothers and sisters lose their inheritance out of some rebellious desire to thwart Gran’s ultimatum?

Of course he did. He’d been so kind and considerate during her recitation of the dream that she’d almost forgotten he hated her. Why else were his eyes, gray as slate after a storm, now so cold and remote? The blasted fellow was always so condescending and sure of himself, so … so …

Male.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said in his oddly raspy voice, “but I was unaware you had any suitors.”

Curse him for being right. “Well, I don’t … exactly. There are men who might be interested but haven’t gone so far as to offer marriage.” Or even to show a partiality to her.

“And you’re hoping I’ll twist their arms so they will?” he drawled.

She colored under his piercing gaze. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

This
was the Mr. Pinter she knew, the one who’d called her “a reckless society miss” and a “troublemaker.”

Not that she cared what he thought. He was like her brothers’ friends, who saw her as a tomboy because she could demonstrate a rifle’s fine qualities. And like Cousin Ned.
Scrawny bitch with no tits—you don’t have an ounce of anything female in you.

Curse Ned to hell. Surely she’d filled out a bit in the ten years since their … private encounter. Surely her sharp features had softened into more womanly ones.

But she still had Papa’s unfashionable olive skin and ungainly height, and Mama’s boyish frame. She still had deplorably straight brown hair, not to mention the most boring hazel eyes.

Celia would give anything to look like her sister. To fill out gowns in all the right places. To have wavy tresses with streaks of gold in them, eyes of brilliant jade, and features as classically perfect as a porcelain doll’s. Celia was sometimes described as pretty, but next to Minerva …

She swallowed her envy. She might not have her sister’s looks, but she did have other appealing qualities. For one thing, men were comfortable around her because of her interest in guns and shooting.

“You may find this hard to believe, Mr. Pinter,” she went on defensively, “but some men
enjoy
my company. They consider me easy to talk to.”

A ghost of a smile touched his handsome face. “You’re right. I do find that hard to believe.”

Arrogant wretch. “All the same, there are three men who might consider marrying me, and I could use your help in securing them.”

She hated having to ask him for that, but he was necessary to her plan. She just needed one good offer of marriage, one
impressive
offer that would show Gran she was capable of gaining a decent husband.

Gran didn’t believe she could, or she wouldn’t be holding to that blasted ultimatum. If Celia could prove her wrong, Gran might allow her to choose a husband in her own good time.

And if that plan didn’t work, Celia would at least have a man she could marry to fulfill Gran’s terms.

“So you’ve finally decided to meet Mrs. Plumtree’s demands,” he said, his expression unreadable.

She wasn’t about to let him in on her secret plan. Oliver might have employed him, but she was sure Mr. Pinter also spied for Gran. He would run right off and tell her. “It’s not as if I have a choice.” Bitterness crept into her tone. “In less than two months, if I remain unmarried, my siblings will be cut off. I can’t do that to them, no matter how much I resent Gran’s meddling.”

Something that looked oddly like sympathy flickered in his gaze. “Don’t you want to marry?”

“Of course I want to marry. Doesn’t every woman?”

“You’ve shown little interest in it before,” he said skeptically.

That’s because men had shown little interest in
her.
Oh, Gabe’s friends loved to stand about with her at balls and discuss the latest developments in cartridges, but they rarely asked her to dance, and if they did, it was only to consult her on rifles. She’d tried flirting, but she was terrible at it. It seemed so … false. So did men’s compliments, the few that there were. It was easier to laugh them off than to figure out which ones were genuine, easier to pretend to be one of the lads.