The Suspect's Daughter: Regency Romance (Rogue Hearts Book 4) (5 page)

“I’ve heard of him.” Lady Everett unfurled her fan and stirred the air.

“Have you? Beyond his family connection, I know little. We toured his ancestral family home, Tarrington Castle, a year or so ago, but the housekeeper who acted as our guide only mentioned him in passing—that he is a returning war hero, and was gravely wounded. What do you know about him?”

“Very little.” Lady Everett watched him as if both fascinated and afraid. “A bit of a shut-in, from what I hear. Never attends society gatherings. I can’t imagine why he attended tonight, although all his brothers are here aren’t they? Is he a friend of your father’s?”

“He did our family a great service tonight; he found Jonathan in rather, er, unfavorable circumstances and brought him safely home moments ago. I invited him to stay, and he accepted.”

She glanced at him again. Surely the breadth of his shoulders were his own, and not the result of extra padding in his frockcoat. With his unfashionably long haircut and subdued colors of his evening wear, he didn’t seem vain enough to alter his shape.

Lady Everett’s expression shifted and she watched Mr. Amesbury speak with Jocelyn’s father with renewed curiosity. “He’s very handsome, but I feel that somehow I should be afraid of him. Yet, if he came to Jonathan’s aid, then I must have misjudged Mr. Amesbury’s character. Perhaps it’s that scar that gives him such a fearsome appearance.”

“Perhaps.” Hearing the lady mention Mr. Amesbury’s scar instilled an unexpected desire to defend the gallant gentleman. “I wonder if his scar is a reason why he doesn’t make many social appearances. He might have been the object of stares or unkind comments.”

“Oh dear.” Lady Everett put her hand over her mouth. “And I just said…”

Jocelyn touched her arm and smiled gently. “You didn’t say it to him.”

“No, but I…” She straightened. “When I am introduced to him, I will greet him warmly, and make a point of looking only at his face and not at his scar. I will pretend I don’t see it at all.”

Jocelyn strengthened her determination to help her father see Lady Everett for the kind and lovely lady she was. “That’s a good idea. We’ll prove to the reclusive hero he’s welcome, and he doesn’t need to be alone.”

The last notes of the current set died down. As the dinner dance began, her father appeared and bowed to Lady Everett. “May I have the honor?”

Lady Everett smiled as if he’d handed her a long-desired gift. Jocelyn almost clapped for joy. It was working. Soon her father would begin to see the lovely lady as a potential wife, rather than a long-time family friend. It would ease his loneliness and could only help his political career.

“I’d be pleased.” With adoration clear in her eyes, Lady Everett placed her hand in Papa’s.

Papa led Lady Everett to the dancefloor while other couples filled in around them. As strains of a waltz swelled, Jocelyn watched the dancers, recalling times when music and motion had swept her into a realm of bliss. She’d even waltzed with the handsome Duke of Suttenberg once, but he had only treated her with courtesy, not with the adoration of a suitor.

She pushed back looming disappointment that no one had claimed her hand for tonight’s dinner dance. It was just as well; as hostess she had a great many responsibilities. This Season was for her father, both romantically and politically. Perhaps next Season she would find her own true love.

A glance about the room assured her that the footmen had ceased serving drinks and gone to help with final preparations to serve dinner. She gave a satisfied nod. The butler, Owens, ran the household servants with the precision of a perfectly wound watch.

Her gaze fell on Grant Amesbury again. He stood, alert and almost wary, with Mr. Dawson. Apparently no young lady at tonight’s gathering had caught the handsome recluse’s eye enough to tempt him to dance. However, Mr. Amesbury had accepted an unexpected invitation and probably wore boots instead of appropriate footwear for a ball.

Remembering herself, she pulled her gaze from him and murmured a few greetings to some of her nearby guests. Yet once again her attention shifted to Mr. Amesbury. Curiosity about him finally drove her to his side. Surely as hostess, she could be forgiven for approaching a gentleman. Besides, she’d known Dawson all his life. She threaded through the crowd to reach Mr. Dawson and Mr. Amesbury.

“… went to school together and have watched our children grow,” Mr. Dawson said. He greeted Jocelyn warmly. “Ah, Jocelyn, there you are. I was just telling Mr. Amesbury about your family. A fine job you did of putting together the evening’s festivities.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”

He put an arm around her and gave her a little fatherly squeeze. To Mr. Amesbury, he said, “This girl is the age of my daughter, and I think of her as my own.”

Jocelyn tilted her head to look up at Mr. Dawson. “How is Charlotte?”

“Oh, she and Charles are very happy. I don’t see them as often as I’d like, but her letters are filled with joy. Still no mention of a grandbaby yet, sadly.”

“I’m so glad he returned home safely to her.” She glanced at Mr. Amesbury but he only observed them with serious, silver-gray eyes that contrasted sharply with the almost pure black of his hair.

She explained, “They were sweethearts since childhood. When the war ended, they married.”

Mr. Amesbury nodded without comment. Something shifted—darkened—in his eyes but his expression remained completely neutral. Had he left behind a sweetheart?

Giving in to her curiosity, she stepped on the edge of politeness and asked him a personal question. “I don’t recall hearing whether you’re married, Mr. Amesbury.”

“No,” he said shortly.

Then this handsome gentleman hadn’t found his happily ever after, at least, not yet. What was his story? Had he lost someone? Perhaps he had not found the lady of his dreams yet. Regardless, the subject appeared to be sensitive to him. Surely, a lady he preferred hadn’t rejected him because of his injuries. Why, that would be tragic.

She scrambled for a change in topic to something less personal and painful for him. “Do you follow horseracing?”

“A little.” Mild amusement touched his eyes, as if he saw through her attempt. Or perhaps he merely thought her silly.

Mr. Dawson took up the subject as she hoped he would, discussing the latest races and his own contender. Mr. Amesbury replied politely but without true interest. Still, he appeared knowledgeable, but not horse-mad, which suited her just fine.

Why she’d thought that, she couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as if she had any romantic feelings for the stoic man. No, her idea of a perfect husband included someone charming, who smiled and laughed easily, one who loved dancing and music. Although, after four Seasons, her requirements for a husband simplified to a good man who would love her with his whole heart.

Grant suffered through polite conversation until the orchestra’s final notes died away and dancers left the dancefloor. Mr. Fairley announced dinner, offered his arm to a brunette perhaps a few years older than Grant, and led the way into the dining room. Mr. Dawson excused himself and wound through the crowd.

Miss Fairley smiled up at Grant with an air of expectancy. “Shall we?”

He blinked. Oh, right. He was supposed to escort someone to the dinner table—her, apparently. “If you’d allow me?”

She smiled that brilliant ray of light that probably dazzled lesser men and took his arm. As they filed into the dining room, Cole caught Grant’s eye. His brother’s faltered step and wide eyes betrayed his astonishment. Grant shot him a meaningful look, hoping his brother would understand not to make a scene. Cole inclined his head, his expression smoothing over. Grant let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He spotted Christian, but his youngest brother seemed absorbed in conversation with his wife and never glanced Grant’s way. Jared’s wife, Elise, caught his glance and murmured to Jared, but his middle brother only nodded to Grant, making no visible reaction. His years in the Secret Service had obviously taught him to mask his thoughts.

Grant seated the Fairley girl at her end of the table and moved to his assigned seat next to his target, Mr. Fairley.

Once seated, Grant waited until the host had finished speaking to the lady at his side to address him. “Mr. Fairley, I understand it is your desire to serve as prime minister?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I admit, I don’t follow politics as carefully as my brother. To what policies do you adhere?”

Fairley launched into a well-rehearsed campaign about upholding time-honored traditions while improving the rights and opportunities to the lower classes. As if any politician really cared about any of that. Grant pretended to be totally absorbed while he searched through the man’s words, gestures, and expressions for any motives sinister enough to plot an assassination. Nothing obvious presented itself yet, but if Grant spent more time with Fairley, the man might yet reveal himself. If not, perhaps Grant could earn the candidate’s trust enough to be invited to join the group avowed to orchestrate the plot. But nothing was ever that easy.

Grant inclined his head. “I am convinced you care a great deal more about the state of this country than Liverpool.”

“We have different focuses.” Fairley sipped his wine.

“Do you think enough of the House will cast a vote of no confidence?”

“I’m not certain, but that is the hope.” Fairley smiled. “Unless Lord Liverpool simply decides to step down.”

Grant said very casually, “The world is a savage place. Accidents happen.”

Fairley assessed him curiously. “They do. But I think it will take more than a mere accident to remove Liverpool.”

“We can hope for that as well.”

Fairley had no comment, and Grant let it go, content to let the seed germinate in Fairley’s mind.

The rest of dinner passed in dismal predictability, exactly the same reason why Grant shunned such mindless gatherings. Although, he had to admit, the food was better than the fare Grant found at his usual haunts. If only formal dinner clothes could be more comfortable. He glanced down the table at Christian who’d probably snort into his dinner at the sight of Grant so meticulously attired. As fate would have it, at that moment, Christian caught his eye, raised a brow, and gave a maddening smirk before turning his attention to his wife. At least the whelp hadn’t made a scene.

As dinner wound down and the guests returned to the drawing room for more dancing, Grant took his leave of both Mr. Fairley and his still-cheerful daughter, accepted their renewed thanks for his aid with their prodigal son, and bade them good night.

In the grand foyer, he paused. The study lay just a few steps away. With everyone so occupied, perhaps he could make another search, this time without getting caught. And if he did, he could use the excuse of seeking a quiet place to have a drink.

He pretended to admire a Chinese vase until the footman at the front door turned the other way. Casually, Grant strolled to the study, slipped in and closed the door. He lit a lamp and explored the room. Gray coals in the fireplace gave off little warmth. A triangle of parchment at the far edge of the hearth caught his eye. He crouched down and picked it up. Most of the parchment crumbled to ash, but a corner remained intact.

rifles will be…

prime minister…

next meeting…

Well, that was promising. He pocketed the scrap. He doubted those words found in a single document conveyed an innocent meaning. After an unhurried prowl around the study, he found nothing else unusual. He would have to find a way to get invited to their meetings so he could expose the conspirators. In the foyer, as Grant sauntered toward the front door, a voice called him.

“Grant?” Cole’s voice rang out.

Grant turned and waited for his brother to catch up. The picture of perfect propriety, Cole bore the role of earl with precision. His parents would have been proud if they’d lived to see their heir assume his role so expertly.

Cole lowered his voice as he reached Grant’s side. “Should I be concerned?”

Grant shrugged. “Just following up on a lead.”

Cole nodded. “Let me know if I can help.”

“Wedded bliss and fatherhood too boring?” Grant smirked.

Cole’s mouth pulled to one side. “Not at all. I’m not looking for a lark, you cynic; just wanted you to know I have your back if you need me. Jared and Christian, too. You know that.”

Sobering, Grant held out his hand and let his brother clasp it. For a moment, he welcomed the human contact and the reassurance that he wasn’t completely alone. Still, Cole had a wife and a baby and the responsibility of the earldom. His other brothers had recently married. Grant would never subject his brothers to the kind of danger they once eagerly faced as bachelors. And Grant never asked for help.

“I’ll send you word if I need you.”

Cole shook his head slightly. “No, you won’t. But the offer still stands.”

Grant almost smiled. They parted. Grant hailed a hackney and returned to his bachelor’s quarters. Inside, he paused. Complete darkness greeted him. Only the faintest glow burned in the fireplace. He paused, searching with all his senses for signs of habitation. Clark, the boy who helped him with odd jobs, fetched for him and took care of his laundry, must have gone somewhere.

Within moments, Grant had candles lit and a fire popping in the grate, but his rooms stayed empty and cold. At times, his life seemed empty and cold. His heart certainly remained empty and cold.

He shook off the dismal thoughts and focused his energies on stripping off his clothes and getting into bed.

Tomorrow, he would watch Fairley’s house for signs of suspicious behavior and follow anyone who left. Briefly, Fairley’s daughter’s smiling face danced before his mind’s eye. Trailing her might not be too much of a hardship. Her voluptuous figure was so much more appealing than those overly-thin figures most girls starved themselves to achieve. Not that he had any interest in her beyond a means to condemn Fairley. Grant’s only interest in the Fairleys was to determine their involvement in a conspiracy for treason and murder.