To Lure a Proper Lady (14 page)

“If it got me the answers I seek, what does it matter?” His intonation had dropped to something low and honeyed. A flighty chit like the heroine of Lizzie's novel might think it seductive. She could even allow herself to be taken in. “If you refuse to tell me, I shall have to guess. The way you're guarding those bits of paper, one would think you're carrying on a torrid correspondence with a secret lover.”

Her face flamed. “You…you think I…that I'm capable…”

A ray of morning sun caught the reddish hints in his hair. “I imagine you possess any number of secrets.”

Lord, the way he was looking at her. She felt like he could see straight through the layers of muslin that hid her bare skin. “This is hardly anything so scandalous.”

“Pity, that.” His tone implied that he'd love for her to engage in great amounts of scandalous behavior. Preferably with him.

Oh, but this was dangerous for their resolve to stay away from each other. “If you must know, I'm writing a novel.”

With an expression the very definition of smug, he settled his weight back and crossed his arms.
I knew I'd have it out of you
. She read the rejoinder in his features.

“What do you think of my technique now?” he asked.

“Infuriating.”

“But effective. Can I read your novel?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“It isn't finished, for one thing.” For another, she would simply curl up and die if he recognized himself on these pages.

“Then tell me why you're doing it.”

What a probing request, but something compelling in him prodded her to reply. “I suppose I'd like to discover if I've any kind of talent, the way my sisters do. Caro rides. Pippa paints. But—”

Dysart went rigid, any hint of teasing or seduction replaced with utter focus. “Pippa paints?”

“What of it? It's a perfectly respectable occupation for a young lady of breeding to dabble in watercolors or charcoals.” Although Pippa's creations went beyond mere dabbling. If she'd been born male, she might have asked Papa to send her to the continent to study with the masters.

Dysart turned his penetrating stare on Lizzie. “Just now you said she paints, not that she produces watercolors or sketches.”

Good Lord, what had he honed in on? “What does it matter?”

“Paints”—he pushed himself off the table and moved to the window—“can serve as a source of poison. Arsenic, to be exact.”

Lizzie jumped to her feet. “If you mean to imply my sister—”

He held up a hand. “I mean nothing of the kind…necessarily. Although I've already told you we cannot rule anyone out. But we very much do need to take into account that there is a handy source of poison in this house. And that knocks the outside suspects further down the list.”

Damn it to hell. Dysart should have known better. He
did
know better. The first lesson he'd learned when he joined Bow Street was never to let emotion rule over cool reason.

But he'd done just that. He'd let his hatred of Pendleton cloud his judgment and now Elizabeth's father might well pay the price.

“But…” Elizabeth approached, one hand extended. He watched those perfectly manicured fingers grow nearer, and his body ached for their touch. There was another emotional entanglement he could ill afford. If his blundering led to the duke's untimely demise, he'd cause this woman a world of pain. “Didn't you say we cannot discount outsiders, as they may be paying someone in the house? One of the servants?”

Somehow he found his voice. “I did, but we also have to consider what makes the most sense. Have you ever heard of Occam's razor?”

“Lex parsimoniae.”
He had to admire the fact that someone had taught her the rudiments of Latin and rhetoric. So many young ladies of her standing were allowed to wither in ignorance. “The simplest explanation is the most likely. But what's simplest here?”

Certainly not the notion that Snowley was making the duke ill to push Elizabeth toward the altar. No, the simplest explanation was Pendleton and that business with Lady Caroline's horse. Nothing was more straightforward than revenge. But his gut told him he'd overlooked something important.

“That all depends,” he replied. “How widely known is it that your sister paints?”

“It isn't a talent she puts on display, if that's what you mean.” Lady Elizabeth stilled next to him at the window, her arms crossed, her shoulder nearly brushing his. “She doesn't much like calling attention to it.”

“So the chances of Pendleton knowing?”

“Are not very high. As far as I know, he's more interested in gadding about the countryside than contemplating fine arts. But how do you even know the source of the poison is the paints?”

He joined her in considering the scene outside. This window overlooked one of the side gardens, beyond which a dark fringe of trees rose. The woodlands. Atop her mare, Lady Caroline galloped across the scene and disappeared into the trees. Several of the gentlemen followed, urging their mounts to keep up, in vain most likely. Closer to the house, a few of the ladies strolled among the vibrant blooms. From all appearances, the other guests hadn't missed either him or Lady Elizabeth.

“I don't, for certain,” he said. “Only I find it rather convenient. Downright diabolical, as well. Not too many people realize so innocent a pastime carries a potential danger.”

“How did you learn about it?”

“It's my job.” He allowed himself a grin. Part of him wished they could go back to the light banter of a few moments ago. “This isn't the first time I've seen this. One of my first cases involved an artist who was found dead in his flat. They called the Runners in on suspicion of foul play. It turns out he poisoned himself completely by accident.”

Elizabeth gasped. “Good heavens. Pippa!”

“Steady on.” He turned to her, and his fingers circled about her upper arms, lightly but insistently until she meet his gaze. “Here's the thing about arsenic. People use it as a poison because when given in small doses, the reaction looks like an upset stomach. Your sister—Lady Philippa—has she had any complaints? Any ailments like your Papa?”

“No, not that I'm aware.” A cautious hope infused her tone.

“She'll be all right.” He tightened his grip for an instant before letting his hands slide toward her wrists. “It's only certain pigments.” His hands swept up again in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “That artist we investigated, he was fond of bright colors, green in particular.”

Bright poisonous green. Dysart conjured a picture in his mind's eye of the duke's sickroom. All his grace's medicines stood in glass vials, a row of bright colors on his bedside table. Had any of them been that particular shade of green? Dysart could no longer recall with any precision. He would have to verify that particular detail before the day was out.

“Is there a way to determine if poisoning has occurred before it gets to the point of stomach pains?”

“None that I know.” Unfortunately. If they could test the duke, he'd have a better bloody idea what was happening than he did now. He'd been running on instinct and conjecture far too long. “The doctors can tell after death, but that won't do you any good. At any rate, your sister isn't likely ingesting her paints, now, is she?”

“Can you test her pigments, then? Is there a way to learn if she's using the dangerous ones?”

“I can see about that, yes.” Or he could if he were in London. A chemist with the proper knowledge might be harder to come by in this godforsaken corner of Suffolk. For now, though, he needed a distraction. A thousand pleasurable means of accomplishing that end flooded his mind, but he couldn't allow himself to act on any of them. No, he would have to settle for giving Elizabeth a job. “In the meantime, you can help me with something.”

“What?”

“I need a list of all your servants, but especially the ones who have direct access to your papa.”

“You're not mocking me anymore,” she pointed out.

He had a good idea what she was referring to, yet it felt more comfortable to prod for clarification. “I'm not?”

A tiny grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Puh-
pa.
”

Just as he'd thought. The back of his neck heated, and he placed his palm over the spot as if that would hide the sudden flush. “I can be an irreverent ass along with the best of them.”

“Have I stamped my foot and demanded an apology?” She pressed the tips of her fingers to his shoulder. “Now that I know your history, I rather understand why you'd make sport of someone like me.”

“I didn't know you as well then.” In fact, she'd just shone a candle on another small hidden corner of herself. His hands found her waist.

She emitted a sharp little gasp that sent his mind straight to the bedchamber and his blood rushing south. What he wouldn't give for a few hours, an entire night, to explore her delicious body and discover all the spots that would produce such sounds. The dip of her waist would only be the beginning.

No.

He made himself let go. He couldn't act on this deuced attraction again. He might have wanted to distract Elizabeth, but he couldn't afford to let his own mind wander off the matter at hand. “The servants,” he prompted.

A furrow formed between her brows, giving him the impression that she hadn't been put out so much over his making fun of her, but she was now. “The servants. There's Papa's valet, of course. And Caruthers. He usually sees to Papa when he has his episodes.”

Dysart had already spoken to both men at length. Another round of questions might be in order, though, in case their stories changed. “What about his meals? Does the same footman always deliver them?”

For that matter, the cook might be doctoring the duke's food, but would a cook know about the paints as a source of poison?

“Caruthers would have a better notion.” Her voice sounded much stronger than it had several moments ago.

Good. At least he'd accomplished that much. “Ring for him, then, but I need you for this.”

“Why me?”

He might have answered her question in so many ways, but part of him wasn't prepared to pick apart those reasons himself. So he glanced past her at the pages scattered on the table, at the neat lines of writing—the novel she claimed to be working on. Even the places where she'd struck out words were lined through with an almost military precision. “Have you seen my scrawl? Half the time, I can't even read my notes later. But this is too important.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowed. “I don't seem to recall you having any difficulty when I first contacted you on Bow Street. You took notes yourself then.”

Damn her perception. “They turned out to be useless.” Could he possibly think of a more pathetic reason? “I had to rely on my memory, but your staff here is too large. If I'm to get through this, I'll need your help.”

Dysart was up to something. Lizzie just knew it. Yet an hour later, she still couldn't work out what. At first she thought he wanted an excuse to keep her here so he could catch a glance at her manuscript, but he hadn't made a single attempt in that direction.

He hadn't made any attempts in any other direction, for that matter. He had her alone in a little-used sitting room. The other guests were occupying themselves outside, and the servants were bustling about their duties. If he wished to do something rakish, he had ample opportunity.

But no, since he'd learned of Pippa's painting, he'd turned all that keen focus she'd witnessed in him that first day on their current concerns. As he should. Lizzie had hired him to do a job, after all. She'd do well to think of that and not the way his kisses made her blood sing in her veins.

Papa.
They were sorting this out for him and no other reason.

She set aside her quill and shook out her hand. It had cramped long since from painstakingly copying out the list of their entire staff from the household account book. From Caruthers, to the footmen, to the hall boy and the scullery maids, down to the least of the stable boys, she'd covered two sheets of paper with names along with speculation on the likelihood of them being involved in the duke's illness.

A fortnight ago, if anyone had asked her what she thought the life of a Bow Street Runner involved, she might have said excitement and danger. Based on her current experience, she might well say the opposite. Dysart's occupation required a lot of sifting through tedious details.

Dysart ran his hands over his face. “What have we got?”

“A lot of names that point to nothing,” she replied. Frustration—his occupation involved a lot of that, too. Frustration, waiting, wracking of brains.

She rose from her seat. After sitting so long, she was more than ready for a constitutional. “Might I have leave to go, or did you need me for anything else?”

His gaze lingered on the lines of her figure. She could almost feel it run along her contours like fleeting fingers. She swallowed, as her mind called up images of the previous night. Those lips, those hands, that body. And he was thinking the same thing. He had to be, the way his eyes darkened as he contemplated.

“Yes, I reckon it's for the best if you leave me to look over our notes.” Again, but she hardly needed to point that out. “I may have missed something along the way, and it's better if I've no distractions.”

She nodded, but now that she'd resolved to step away, her feet became like lead weights. Reluctantly, she turned for the door.

Only to find her father standing just beyond the threshold.

“Papa! What are you doing out of bed?” She studied his features for the slightest hint of anything wrong, but his complexion had lost some of its chalkiness, and his lined face broke into a smile.

“I'm feeling rather better today,” he replied. “Thought I might have a look in on this house party.”

“I believe the other guests are outside. It's a lovely morning.” If, indeed, it was still morning. Lizzie was no longer certain.

“You're not.” There was a pointed edge to Papa's remark. His gaze traveled past Lizzie to land on Dysart.

“No, I've been assisting—” She broke off, unsure how to continue. Did Papa know of the reasons behind Dysart's presence? Ought she even refer to him as Dysart, or was Papa aware of the man's true name? That seemed likely, given Papa's expression when she first introduced them.

“I see.” That was neutral enough. “And what of Snowley?” And that was decidedly
not
neutral. Those four simple words carried volumes of meaning.

“I haven't seen him today.” By choice, but she couldn't admit as much in front of Papa.

“Come to think of it, neither have I,” Dysart growled in a tone just as fraught with implication.

Lizzie turned a pointed glare on him. “Don't you think you ought to leave things that way?” she asked through a fixed smile.

“No, I don't. In fact, I'm highly curious to discover what he's up to.” Dysart moved toward the door, with a nod to Papa. “It might be a good idea if I tend to that small matter now.”

Papa cast a speculative glace at Dysart's retreating back before returning his consideration to Lizzie.
Just what is going on here?
He may as well have voiced the thought out loud.

To head off any further questions in that vein, Lizzie leapt to the offensive. “Are you certain it's all right for you to be up and about?”

“Perfectly so.” He smoothed his hands down the front of his velvet waistcoat. Good heavens, he'd taken the time to dress properly for receiving guests. A superfine topcoat and breeches replaced his usual banyan. “In fact, your great-aunt Matilda's…er…Well, Sven. He recommended I take the air on a more regular basis.”

Lizzie might have pointed out she'd said that very thing more than a week ago, but the notion of Sven communicating a thought in a way Papa could understand stopped her. “I didn't think Sven spoke English.”

“He doesn't. He jabbered a lot of nonsense at me in Swedish and your great-aunt served as interpreter.”

Good Lord, she didn't want to consider how Great-aunt Matilda had picked up enough of the intricacies of Swedish to perform such a function. “So you're happy to take the advice of a foreigner when you won't listen to your own daughter.”

“Don't look so put out, my dear. Sven was quite forceful. And I reckon it cannot hurt to try. At the very least, I can show a bit more courtesy to my guests and greet them all personally. I believe I shall preside over supper tonight, and I do hope you arranged for dancing?”