To Lure a Proper Lady (4 page)

“Are you always this irreverent?”

He laid a finger to his chin in blatantly mock consideration. “Now that I think on it, I'm much worse. You should be thankful you're a lady.”

She strode for the steps and the front door. “I'll have Caruthers show you to a room. I need to see my papa.”

He lunged after her, one hand whipping out to clamp about her wrist. “Not so fast.”

Pulling up short, she stared at the contrast of his long fingers against the dark fabric of her traveling costume. For some reason, the pale beige of his glove against the deep brown velvet fascinated her. “What are you doing?”

“We're going to get something straight before you go running off.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My investigation, my rules,” he grated. “The first one is, you let me ask the questions from now on.”

“Is this about Snowley? Might I point out that
you
ran him off? And right when he just told us he had private business with Papa?” An awful feeling settled into the pit of her stomach, like a ball of ice, but all sharp edges. “I need to make sure he's all right.”

She tugged at her wrist, but Dysart's grip only tightened. She felt it down to the bone. Deeper, perhaps. “He's all right.
If
Snowley's our man, he won't want to be so obvious about his plans for your puh-
pa.
” He squeezed again, a momentary flex of his fingers; this time the movement was almost comforting. “Let me ask the questions. You wade in the way you did just now, and you'll tip your hand. The trick is not to let anyone know we're on to them. And make sure that maid of yours doesn't talk to the other servants.”

He released her this time, his hold unraveling slowly, but he wasn't through. “Before you go up, tell me this. Do you come with the estate when your cousin inherits?”

“Me?” Under the force of his gaze, she took a step back. It was almost as if he could see through her traveling costume, past her undergarments, and directly into her heart. “What makes you ask such a thing?”

“The way he was looking at you. I've seen starved dogs eye a meaty bone with less interest.”

The image caused a shudder to pass through her. “What does that have to do with it?”

“I'm weighing motivation here.”

“But Snowley doesn't have to wait until Papa is gone to propose. In fact…Oh, good Lord.”

“Go on.”

Her thoughts jumbled along with the words to her reply. That ball of ice was suddenly blocking her throat. “Before I came up to London, Papa told…well, all of us—my sisters and me—that it was his dearest wish to see us wed before he passed on.”

Dysart made a small sound in the back of his throat. “Did Cousin Snowley know about this wish?”

“I certainly didn't tell him, but it's no secret. Papa's wanted to see us all settled for the last three Seasons, at least.”

“I'd say that gives Snowley a bit more motivation, wouldn't you?”

Dysart might be perfectly correct in his conclusion, but she simply couldn't imagine her cousin wished to marry her to the point of killing the duke. “Still, he doesn't have to commit murder for the privilege. Papa would be ecstatic over the match.”

Dysart watched her from the corner of his eye. “Yet you're seemingly not.”

“No,” she admitted—but then, her wishes in the matter had never counted for much. “Still, that's no reason to take it out on Papa.”

“What if he only wanted to make your puh-
pa
ill? Perhaps make you accept him out of panic?”

“Good heavens, what a harebrained scheme.” Unfortunately, Cousin Snowley had carried out more than his share of harebrained schemes in the past. “But if he's not trying to kill anyone, there's no real crime.”

“And if he slips up?” Dysart growled. “You convince the magistrate he didn't truly intend murder.”

“I wasn't trying to defend the man.”

“See that you don't where it's not warranted. Unless you'd like me to wish you well. In which case, I'll be seeing myself back to London.”

“I thought you went to Town on party business.” Caro's assessing gaze pinned Lizzie to the wall just as she closed the door to Papa's rooms. The man was in an unaccountably chipper mood, showing no sign at all of malaise. When she'd asked about Snowley's visit, he returned an enigmatic smile by way of reply. Blast the men and their plotting, especially when she was certain it concerned her.

“I did.” Lizzie looked her sister up and down. Caro was wearing boots and breeches, which meant she'd been racing across the fields again, jumping ridiculously high fences. She must have taken advantage of the duke's allowances with the guest list to invite some of the horsey set. No doubt she was planning a race of some sort. “Best not let Papa catch you dressed like a stable boy.”

“He won't. And don't try to deflect the conversation. I saw you arrive with a man.”

Lizzie waved a hand in the faint hope the gesture would brush away Caro's speculation. “I did him the courtesy of bringing him out in our carriage.”

“I didn't recognize him. Believe me, if I'd seen him before, I'd have remembered.”

So would Lizzie. When she'd first met Dysart on Bow Street, she wouldn't have described him in any more flattering terms than disreputable. But put him in a dark blue topcoat, buckskin breeches, and Hessians, and he looked nearly dashing, if rough about the edges. But that slightly ragged quality—the hair a bit too shaggy, the coarse shadow of a reddish beard on his chin and cheeks—hinted at adventure. Perhaps even danger. The very things Caro found attractive.

Lizzie, too, if she were completely honest with herself. She clamped her lips shut before she could blurt out something stupid like
I saw him first.

“When did you make his acquaintance?” Caro prodded.

“Oh, my lady, thank goodness.” Thank goodness for the housekeeper's arrival, which saved Lizzie from having to come up with a believable reply. Mrs. Moore's face was red, and her graying hair fell in straggles beneath her mobcap, as if she'd run up all the flights of steps from the kitchens.

“Is anything amiss?”

“No, my lady—that is, not now.” She pulled in a breath, and in spite of her reply, placed a weathered hand to her bodice.

“Will there be a problem shortly?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps.” Mrs. Moore produced a handkerchief and mopped at her brow. “Begging your pardon, but how long is our guest staying?”

“The man I brought out from London?”

“Lord Dysart, yes.”

“
Lord
Dysart?” Caro raised a single blond brow. Not that Lizzie could blame her skepticism.

Mrs. Moore nodded. “That's what he called himself, miss.”

Lizzie could almost see the wheels turning in Caro's brain, sifting through the names of all the well-connected families of their acquaintance. Weighing each one, and coming up blank.

Best to ignore that for now. “To answer your question, he's staying for the party.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Moore patted her face again. “I hope I haven't committed a terrible error.”

“I'm certain it's not as bad as all that.” Lizzie patted her arm. “What did you do?”

“I placed him in Cousin Snowley's usual room. It seemed expedient, since we'd readied it in a hurry in case he decided to stay. Oh, I don't wish to insult Lord Dysart by asking him to move.”

“No, no. Don't ask him to move.” Cousin Snowley's usual bedchamber was too close to her own for her personal comfort. If she could suspect him of poisoning Papa, she could suspect him of attempting all manner of indiscretions, like turning up in her bed. She suppressed a shudder at the thought. As bad as the notion of him kissing her cheek had been, this was far, far worse.

For some reason, Papa's parting words to her just now came to mind.
The eldest is often asked to make the most sacrifices. It is true of the duke's heir. It may also be true of the duke's eldest daughter. Duty, my dear.
Cryptic, indeed, when he'd been holed up with Snowley.

“But where shall we put Cousin Snowley when he comes back?” Mrs. Moore twisted her handkerchief between her fists. “He's sure to raise a fuss if we've given his room away. And with the rest of the lodgings already decided. Oh, we'll have to redo it all.”

“If he raises a fuss, you may kindly refer his complaints to me. In the meantime, give him Great-aunt Matilda's usual quarters.” They were opulent enough to placate Snowley's elevated sense of his own rank, with the added advantage of being on the opposite side of the house. “She won't be attending.”

Mrs. Moore dropped a curtsey. “Very good, my lady. I knew you'd manage to work it all out. Were you wanting anything else, as long as I'm here?”

“Oh, I ought to consult with Cook about the rest of the week's menus, now that I'm back. And send me Caruthers. I'd like a word with him.”

“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Moore bustled off.

“It's not going to work, you know.” Caro leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. Her expression had lost none of its speculation.

“What isn't?”

“I'm not going to forget you've brought a strange man back from London, just because you've thought of a hundred domestic tasks you need to see to. And Lord Dysart? Odd, but I've never heard that title before.”

“I don't suppose you'll believe he's related to an old friend of Mama's?”

“No.”

“How about that he's struck up a correspondence with Papa and Papa's extended an invitation?”

Caro simply shook her head.

Lizzie looked up and down the corridor. It was deserted, but she still leaned in and lowered her voice. If Snowley was doctoring Papa's medicines, he had help. It wouldn't do if that help learned she was on to the scheme. “I hired a Bow Street Runner.”

“You? You went to Bow Street all by yourself?” Funny, but Caro sounded almost jealous.

“I took a footman and my maid with me. It was necessary. Dysart will pose as a party guest while carrying out his investigation. We need to be sure Papa's stomach ailment isn't being encouraged.”

“Ah.” Caro nodded. “That makes a great deal of sense.”

“Tell me, how has Papa been while I was in Town? Has he had any more episodes?”

“Not that I'm aware of, but he could have hidden them from us.”

Lovely irony, that. Papa delighted in the attention he received from his exaggerated illnesses. Now that something might really be wrong with him, he'd possibly taken to hiding the condition. “Yes, which is why I'd like a word with Caruthers. If anyone knows, he does.”

Caro pressed her lips to together. “Yes, he would. But what are you going to do about Snowley?”

Lizzie shook her head. Why on earth was Caro so interested in Snowley? “I don't imagine I'll do any differently than I have been. I'll treat him politely while doing everything in my power not to encourage him.”

“I can't imagine our dear cousin is too delighted with Lord Dysart's presence, even if he doesn't know the reason behind it.”

Good Lord, where was this leading? “Why should he care?”

“Think of it from his point of view.”

“I'd rather not think about whatever Snowley's got turning in his mind, thank you very much.” Especially not when those thoughts might well involve marriage to her.

“You've invited a man into this house,” Caro went on as if Lizzie hadn't protested. “One Snowley's never met. One, I daresay, to whom you've never been properly introduced and who doubtless has no social connections to speak of.”

Lizzie cast a pointed look at her sister's breeches. “I never knew you were such a stickler.”

Caro snorted. An unkind soul might even say she sounded like one of her horses. “You know I'm not, but Snowley might decide to be, if he thinks he has cause to be jealous.”

Jealous? “Oh, good heavens.”

“I didn't see the man up close, of course, but I can imagine the attraction to someone who is, shall we say, a bit more rugged than the gentlemen we usually meet.” Caro was watching her closely, her words dripping with insinuation.

Lizzie glared at her. “I can't say I've noticed.”

Caro inspected her nails. “No, of course not.”

Blast Caro for pursuing the matter, and she hadn't even had a good look at Dysart yet. “I wasn't aware you were so interested in gossip.” And that sounded overly petulant, but Lizzie wasn't sure she cared. “If we're going to discuss this, let's talk about something important. Such as your opinion of our dear cousin and whether you think him capable of harming another person.”

The knowing smile melted from Caro's features. “This Dysart person thinks it's Snowley?”

“He says it's a possibility. What I'd like to know is whether you agree.”

“Snowley wouldn't harm anyone. At least, not intentionally.”

Caro's opinion hardly reassured Lizzie. Not when she'd already drawn essentially the same conclusion. Dysart's words flitted through her mind.
What if he only wanted to make your puh-
pa
ill? Perhaps make you accept him out of panic?
“He used to pull the wings off flies. Remember that?”

“Most boys do.” Caro waved a hand like she was fending off one of the said flies. “They grow out of it.”

“Not all of them,” growled a voice that was fast becoming all too familiar.

Lizzie pivoted. Dysart's presence filled the corridor with an electrifying intensity that made her wonder how she hadn't sensed his approach. His glare and his stance were enough to tell her he'd overheard the tenor of the conversation. Even Caro noticed, for she let out a gasp.

Yes, her dashed sister who had taken the trouble to point out the man's attractiveness. It struck Lizzie with enough force to empty every last drop of moisture from her mouth. His reddish hair flopped over his forehead. A shadow of beard darkened his skin, accentuating sharp cheekbones and the grim slash of his mouth. At his throat, his cravat straggled, as if he'd been pulling at the offending linen. But even if that swath of fabric had lain pristine, starched, and perfectly knotted, such a gentlemanly veneer did little to hide his true essence. If anything, the superfine and buckskin, the tailored lines, emphasized his underlying roughness. He emanated all the danger of a drowsing tiger.

Caro's smile returned, broader than ever. She cast Lizzie an expectant look.

Lizzie suppressed a sigh. “Caro, may I present Lord Dysart? Lord Dysart, Lady Caroline Wilde.”

Caro's gaze roved over him, from head to foot and back. Then she eyed Lizzie, her smile stretching into the most irritating of grins. “Oh, yes, I see it. And I approve. Most heartily.”

Heat rushed to Lizzie's cheeks. “What on earth does that mean, you approve?”

Dysart simply lifted a brow, and with that simple expression, all his crackling keenness turned to ice. In an instant, he'd become as disdainful as the haughtiest of dukes.

“Of the pair of you, naturally.” Caro was never one to let others' opinions cow her. “I think he'll be good for you. Much better than Snowley—but then, anyone would be.”

Lizzie should have known better than to ask. “He isn't here as my suitor,” she grated.

“Well, no, but wouldn't it be a lark to pretend he is? Has Papa met him yet?”

“No, your puh-
pa
has not met me yet.” Odd, but Dysart's tone sounded nearly amused. “But an introduction sooner than later would come in handy.”

“Please forgive my sister.” Lizzie caught herself extending a hand, as if the appendage had decided on its own to placate him. “She enjoys shocking people. She takes after our great-aunt Matilda in that.”

“Oh, I'm not nearly that bad.” Caro laughed. “And some of us would do well to emulate her a bit more. When are you going to live up to the family name?”

Dear Lord. An echo of Dysart's teasing passed through her mind.
Are ye now,
indeed. “Why should I bother when you do the job for the both of us?”

“Perhaps because it's fun.”

“Caro, do you not have anything better to do?”

“If you insist. I'll leave the pair of you alone so you can get better acquainted.” And with that pronouncement, Caro turned on her heel and marched down the passage. Her very posture proclaimed,
My work here is done.

“You'll have to make some allowances,” Lizzie said. “I don't know what came over her.”

Dysart turned his head to watch Caro's progress down the corridor. “I hear you have another sister. Should you warn me about her?”

He must have been talking to the servants…which made perfect sense. He'd have to ask them subtle questions for the sake of his investigation. “Philippa? She's the quiet one.”

“I shall need to meet her. And while we're on the subject…” His voice took on a hardened edge, and a glacial quality entered his tone. Yet danger still lurked beneath that ice. Something perverse inside her wanted to melt it. “We need to set another rule. You do not discuss my true business here with anyone. When I said your maid shouldn't talk to the servants, I should have specified you not talk, not even to your family. People will eventually wonder why I'm asking questions, but
I
control who works that out and when. I cannot have you alerting any potential suspects to our true purpose.”

Of all the nerve. “We're talking about my sister. She's hardly got—what did you call it?—motive to poison our father. Not for any reason.”

“In an investigation no one is above suspicion. Not until I say they are.” So assured he was. So confident. So cold.

She'd show him cold. “I suppose you think I'm suspect, as well.”

He shrugged, hang the man. “It's always a matter of likelihoods. The person who hired me wouldn't want me poking my nose into places if they were up to something. Someone who stood to profit from the duke's demise, on the other hand…”