Oh My Laird!: A Risqué Regency Romance (4 page)

“Amelia’s late husband?”

Ian nodded. “Could have been. Or at least someone from that family. I’m not implying that Lord Ware was the guilty party. However, a Ware accepted the charge of assisting the D’Etremonts in their bid to escape France and Madame Guillotine.”

“Let me guess,” DeVere leaned forward. “The D’Etremonts gave Ware the ruby as payment.”

“Precisely.” Ian closed the notebook. “And that explains the arrival of that piece into the Ware family. I would hesitate to refer to it as a Ware heirloom, since it’s only been a generation or so with them, but logically speaking, every piece of jewelry is someone’s heirloom…” he waved away the discussion.

“There is one unfortunate postscript to this story.”

“The D’Etremonts?”

Ian glanced up approvingly. Whatever else he was, Rigsby DeVere didn’t lack for a brain. “Yes, the D’Etremonts.”

“You hardly need to tell me. They didn’t escape the Terror?”

“Well they escaped, as in boarded a boat heading for Dover from somewhere along the northern coast of France. But sadly Ware had selected the least expensive means of transport for them, to maximize his own profits. The small boat he had obtained, and the crew sailing it, was not only unreliable but well known to the locals. Drunk as badgers, ‘t’was said. He himself stayed ashore in England. To nobody’s surprise—except perhaps the D’Etremonts—the sailors failed to observe an approaching storm, went headlong into it and sank with all hands.”

“So the Ware involved ended up with the ruby and most of his funds intact?”

“So it would seem, yes. He’d accepted the gem in France, come to England, hired the cheapest crew possible, and paid them a minimal amount. I’m sure the balance would have been due upon their safe arrival.”

“How did you find all this out?” DeVere asked the question with a touch of envy and genuine interest.

Ian approved. The man knew the worth of the people he hired, and that said a lot in Ian’s book.

“Once I had seen the ruby on that Indian woman’s lovely neck, I had a time period and a name to go on. With that, it wasn’t hard to trace forward. The Ware history is well-documented, since that family was blessed with any number of aunts and cousins who wrote copious amounts of letters and seemed to believe that they were all worth keeping. Many have found their way into public documents, since the records of that time—the histories, the emigres and their rescues—are still of interest today.”

“I have to admit I’m enthralled with what you’ve learned. I do appreciate information—to me it’s the life blood of progress. And I would not have dreamed a simple necklace could have such an intriguing history.”

“All that aside,” said Ian, “it also gives us a chance to narrow down the possible suspects in the current crime. Obviously any member of the Ware family might have been furious enough to instigate the theft. Motives there? Either to recover what they consider a family heirloom, to sell for as much as possible—I don’t think they’re in financial trouble, but I have that on my list of things to look into—or the other reason. Which is to cover up the disgraceful behavior of a Ware ancestor.”

“Valid motives.” DeVere stroked his chin and looked absently out of the window. “What about the foreign aspect? The descendants of the Indian Princess?”

“Another road I’ll be exploring.” Ian stood. “It’s a slow process, I’m afraid, but I’ll not lose track of it.”

DeVere rose as well. “I believe you. Take your time and continue as you are going. I may not be well-disposed towards my sister, but make no mistake—she is my blood, for good or ill. I would not want this theft to escalate into anything more serious. For whatever reason.”

Ian met the man’s gaze. He was sending a clear message and Ian understood without a need for any more conversation.

Keep my sister out of danger if you can.

“If anything new arises, I will make sure to keep you informed.” Ian bowed.

“Good man.”

There was a drip, a horribly steady drip, plinking onto something hard outside her door.

Amelia could have screamed her frustration, but was afraid that if she did so the sound would bring down the walls of what was supposed to be her new home.

Natherbury Fell was less of a home and more of a rotting pig sty. Her first glimpse of it had been a stark shadow against the setting sun with just one light shining from an upstairs window.

The DeVere travelling carriage had unloaded Amelia and her trunks and then turned right around for the trip back to London. She struggled with the urge to grab onto the rear straps and go back with it.

But she had no choice. It was a source of constant frustration, but her brother had cornered her, legally and physically, leaving her no way of escaping what she now viewed as his sentence.

After one night inside Natherbury Fell, she knew without a doubt that it was indeed the equivalent of a prison sentence.

The two servants who resided there were dour and silent, speaking only in response to a question and even then in words of one syllable. They’d dragged in her trunks and boxes, left them in the front hall and showed her up the stairs to what was supposed to be the master’s bedchamber. Then the woman, Mrs. Treadway, appeared with a cup of tea, put it next to the ewer and bid her an abrupt “Goodnight.” Followed by a little bob of the head.

Too miserable and exhausted to do anything but drink the tea—it was awful—and lie down, Amelia had fallen asleep in her traveling gown, waking now as dim light filled the room. And the
plink-plink-plink
continued.

Her temper rose. She was mistress of this disaster, for God’s sake. It was time the Treadways understood that. Today would be the day she took control of her own domain.

There was water in the ewer, thank God, but no mirror, so Amelia had to tend to her own needs as best she could, brushing and smoothing her hair and pulling it back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her gown was a different matter, but again she managed, surprising herself by coping with the buttons quite quickly. She choked down a shriek at the ancient and cracked chamber pot, tucked out of sight behind a cupboard door. Perhaps it was temper that drove her, or perhaps the pervasive damp mustiness of the air in the room. But whatever it was, she was soon ready to start making a few changes.

Opening her door, she nearly tripped as the plink-plink of a leak in the roof dripped into fine porcelain.

“Damn. That’s where the real chamber pot went to.” She looked upward, noting the ever-enlarging rings of stains on the ceiling. Given that she believed this to be at least a three story residence, the fact that the drip had penetrated this far was not encouraging.

Side-stepping the impromptu rain-collector, she found her way along a dim corridor to the top of the staircase. Everything seemed dull and dark, whether because of the rain or the state of the windows, she wasn’t sure.

But there was light coming from beneath a door, so she followed that and found herself heading down to the kitchens.

Here, there was a fire. A small maid was just removing fresh bread from the oven and Amelia’s mouth watered as the fragrance spread throughout the room. She noted a very decent china set on the table, and some nice crystal glasses.

All the pieces fell together quite rapidly, and when the surprised Treadways entered the room together, laughing at something, she found something upon which to unleash her wrath.

“Good morning.” Ice dripped from her words.

Mrs. Treadway did that odd little bob again. “Ma’am.” Mr. Treadway dipped his head.

“As you probably know, this house is now mine. If you are in any doubt, I can refer you to the legal firm handling the disposition of this particular DeVere property. In my capacity as owner and mistress here, it is correct for you to address me as Lady DeVere.”

She walked calmly to the table and picked up a plate. “I would like my china back sometime today, and also the crystal. I hesitate to even enquire about some of this house’s other possessions. I can only hope you have not thought about selling them.”

“
My Lady
.” Mrs. Treadway clasped a hand to her bosom. “We ain’t
thieves…
”

“Really?” Amelia lifted her eyebrow just
so
, and the couple crumpled.

“Ma’am—my Lady—we
lives
here. Have done since we was married. Barely enough in wages to live on at the best of times, so when the last Master left us, we did what we had to do an’ kept the house going as best we could.”

Treadway nodded, agreeing with his wife’s words. “It wasn’t easy, my Lady. We couldn’t keep the fields going, but there’s still chickens and a good vegetable patch. But the house…well, we couldn’t fix what age and weather did to it.”

She paused. “How long have you been without a master?”

They glanced at each other. “I’d say going on fifteen years?” Treadway looked at his wife.

She nodded. “Fifteen years come Michaelmas. Which is comin’ right up too. Yes, fifteen years.”

Fifteen years
? If Rigsby had been there at that moment, Amelia would have cheerfully slit his throat.

“Very well. Let us see if we can work out this situation. I have a stipend for household maintenance. I shall speak with you about the house itself later this morning, and also the possibility of acquiring a maid. I can’t possibly manage by myself. In the meantime…” she looked at the table. “I would like breakfast. A decent cup of tea, some of that fresh bread, and whatever else you have that is edible.” She turned toward the stairs. “Treadway, if you would show me something resembling a morning parlor and get a fire started to shake off the chill, I’ll take my breakfast there.”

She walked away, trusting that Treadway would take the lead. Her instincts didn’t fail her…he was already several respectful steps ahead and ready to hold the door for her.

For the next few weeks, Amelia left her Society persona in her trunk and became Lady Amelia DeVere, owner of Natherbury Fell. She managed to hire a new maid—a youngster with more enthusiasm than skill—but the girl had potential.

With that done, she turned her focus to the house. The third floor was almost a total disaster. What rats and rodents hadn’t damaged, the weather and the leaky roof had finished off.

The second floor wasn’t much better. There were no leaks in her room, but two of the five guest rooms were untenable, and the Treadways had taken the only one with a functioning fireplace. Given the cold winds and incessant rain, she couldn’t blame them. The one in her room also worked, but tended to belch smoke if the wind blew from the southeast. Which it was prone to do. A lot.

There were two “comfortable” rooms on the ground floor and she took one for her office. The other she used in the evenings, but found herself unusually exhausted at the end of the day. London would have been astounded and disbelieving at the news that the Incomparable Amelia would actually be going to bed early every night.

Alone
.

Did she miss her town gaiety?

She asked herself that question one night after her new maid had left and she was about to slide beneath the laundered covers of her almost-comfortable bed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the stained mirror that Treadway had salvaged and brought to her room.

She looked…tired. Which she was, since she’d spent the day trying to clear out one of the perhaps-usable guest rooms. She needed help with the furniture, of course, but she was quite capable of sorting through old linens, several hundred years of utter junk and one or two usable pieces. Although the fur tippet she’d uncovered turned out to be inhabited and Mrs. Mouse did not take kindly to having her home upended.

There was a minor brawl but Amelia won, thanks to a long handled broom which she used to push the fur all the way to the back of the deepest closet she could find.

The time had passed at least. She wasn’t bored—yet. But it became increasingly obvious that she was working with no true goal. She had no friends, nor did she have plans for inviting anyone to Natherbury.

So why am I doing all this?

The reflection in the distorted glass had no answer.

But as she fell asleep, one came to Amelia.
Because you have nothing else left to do with your life. And you brought it on yourself.

*~~*~~*

Ian McPherson headed north from London at about the same time Amelia was struggling with the perils of owning a tumbledown estate.

He’d not given up on the DeVere ruby, but managed to push its owner to the back of his mind for several weeks, focusing on other matters. But every now and again, the damned woman would intrude. He’d spy someone with hair like hers, or hear a laugh that might have been hers.

In spite of the tiny jolt such occasions caused him, he managed to exist quite well without any contact. He was, he told himself, not in the least bit affected by the lady’s beauty or her wiles. Of which she had more than he could name.

His research and line of investigation into the theft had brought him into contact with many of Amelia’s friends. And a few of her lovers.

Yes, she had been indiscreet to the point of scandal, and was lucky to have survived the Ton’s censure as long as she had. Her parentage was an asset, but now that her brother was assuming the DeVere reins, Amelia’s life had changed.

Banished to the north, they said. Even as sympathetic faces and regretful smiles answered his questions, Ian could sense an underlying glee that the one-time Queen of London Society had been brought so low. Gossip was the life-blood of the upper classes and Amelia was once again the topic uppermost on their minds.

She had stolen too many eligible bachelors, attracted too many roving-eyed husbands, and probably destroyed more than a few lives while doing so.

There was no doubt in Ian’s mind that the lady had been—was even now—a siren of impeccably honed seductive skills, even though he was beginning to understand that the actual number of her affairs had been exaggerated. Perhaps even by the woman herself. After all, notoriety was to be desired amongst her set, and she certainly had the beauty to back up her implications.

The picture that had been painted was of a vain and selfish woman, eager to take any man she chose and then cast him aside for another. She had a temper, would not take advice from anyone, and telling Amelia DeVere “no” had been likened to lightning striking a dry, hay-filled barn.

So, Ian asked himself, what the devil was so appealing about a woman who was held by all to be a dyed-in-the-wool bitch with a thirst for men.

Yes, she was beautiful beyond words. That fact was obvious and he couldn’t argue it at all.

But he was trained to observe, and preferred to assess people in his own way, not relying on appearance or gossip. His observations didn’t quite match up with the prevalent bitch theory. There was more there, something behind the attitude, the raised chin and the looks of disdain she had perfected. Something lurking, far beneath her brilliant and stunning façade.

Was there a frightened woman hiding there? He had often observed that people’s best and most-worn masks hid an abiding fear. The cause of that fear differed from person to person, but the emotion was always the same.

Fear of loss, of desolation, of pain. Fear of abandonment, fear of loneliness, fear of aging. Fear of poverty, disease…it could be any or all of these things. Or none.

Amelia was indeed an enigma, and Ian had been puzzled enough to take an unobtrusive peek into the DeVere background, in case there was a clue of some sort lying around waiting for him to trip over it.

At least that’s what he told himself as he pored over the chapters on the DeVere family in his club’s copy of Debrett’s.  The Mitra Club was one of his favorite haunts in London; a quietly exclusive and elegant mansion with many different rooms set aside for its members.

One could chat, read, relax, join a group of like-minded fellows in jovial discussions, or sit silently with a book—whatever one chose. The fact that Ian was a member had raised an eyebrow or two until the membership committee had personally vouched for his credentials.

He was grateful they had done so without revealing them. He liked his job too much to put it at risk.

But this evening, as dusk fell and the fires were lit, he turned to the DeVere lineage and his private inquiries into the background of one Amelia DeVere.

The name went back to the time of the Normans, originating somewhere in Northern France. Lands had been deeded, and all the associated titles bestowed for whatever reasons…Ian could only begin to guess. There were Fitz-DeVere’s, accidental DeVere’s, and DeVere’s by arranged marriages.

In other words, they were a traditional English family, full of secrets, politics, criminals and the occasional whore, all dressed up and with enough financial power to buy their way into, or out of, anything.

He riffled through the Middle Ages with barely a glance and skipped the Restoration altogether. The DeVeres were gaining in power, though, as the line continued to thrive well into the early 1700s, when it truly exploded into prominence.