Jane gathered herself enough to reply, “You did well, Ben.” Then anxiously to Case, “What’s this about his arm?”
Case removed her gloves, coat, and cap, led her to a chair at the table, and pushed her into it. His voice was matter-of-fact. “His arm was out of joint. I had to reset it. It was painful, but only for a moment or two. And after a good night’s rest, he’ll be more like himself. He’s fine, Jane, so stop worrying.”
Her huge eyes met his, then moved to Ben. He wasn’t keen on swallowing the marmalade tea, but he screwed up his face and did it manfully. Only then did his grandmother set the cup aside and pull the covers over him. Jane swallowed hard.
As she studied Ben, Case studied her. He hadn’t known that her hair was so long or so fair. Now that he’d removed the hideous cap that covered it, it fell in waves to her shoulders. There was a smudge of dirt on one cheek and her gown was mired in mud along the hem.
It seemed incredible to him now that she’d been attending the opera regularly with Sally Latham, yet he hadn’t noticed her until last Wednesday. He felt as though his worldview had shifted dramatically. He didn’t know whether she was beautiful or not. What he did know was that fashion plate or country dowd, spitfire or damsel in distress, she was utterly compelling.
He picked up the cup of marmalade tea, curled her fingers around it, and told her to drink. That she obeyed him automatically told him how shaken she was. After a few mouthfuls of Mrs. Trent’s elixir, however, she began to show signs of regaining her equilibrium. Her spine straightened, her shoulders squared, she put down the cup.
She looked up at him. “If you hadn’t come along when you did,” she said gravely, “things could have turned out badly for Ben.”
As grave as she, he replied, “I was glad to be of service.”
The look in his eyes made her feel self-conscious again so she got up. “Trentie,” she said, “we’ll put Lord Castleton in the room Miss Drake was to have. The fire needs to be lit, and his lordship will need hot water and fresh towels. I’ll tidy up down here and get dinner started.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” declared the housekeeper, appalled. “Lass, you look as though a puff of wind would blow you away. Sit yourself down and leave everything to me. There’s little enough to do. Everything is ready, or just about ready. Now drink your tea.”
She moved the teapot closer to Jane, gave Case a beseeching look, and left the room.
As Jane wandered over to the bed, Case topped up her cup.
She looked down at Ben. He was sleeping now and looked much younger than his fourteen years. She ought to be horsewhipped, she thought fiercely, for giving him so much responsibility. She should have foreseen that there might be trouble. What a muddle she had made of things! Now Emily was worse off than before, and Ben . . .
She passed a hand over her eyes as her head began to swim. A touch on her arm brought her head up.
Case said quietly, “You heard Mrs. Trent. Drink your tea. It will steady your nerves.”
She took the cup from him and choked down a mouthful of tea, then another. “This isn’t like me,” she said faintly. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“You’re human, that’s all. You have a right to be upset. Look, why don’t you slip upstairs and take a short nap? Mrs. Trent and I can manage things down here. When dinner is ready, we’ll call you.” When she shook her head, he said impatiently, “Jane, there’s no shame in letting others do for you. Let me help.”
She glanced at him sharply. “Don’t baby me, Castleton, or I won’t know it’s you I’m talking to.”
He was careful not to smile, though the sudden sizzle in her eyes sorely tempted him. “My friends call me Case,” he said.
“What?”
“Case. It’s short for Castleton.”
“We’re not friends.”
“You can say that after all we’ve been through together?”
Her cheeks turned pink. “I told you I was grateful. What more do you want?”
He stroked the bridge of his nose with his index finger. “If I told you, you might hit me.”
The pink in her cheeks went a shade deeper, but she gave him back stare for stare. “You have yet to tell me why you’re here. Something about the opera, you said?”
“Do you always change the subject when you become unsure of yourself? Ah. Now your temper is showing again. This can wait till tomorrow, you know. It’s not urgent.”
“It was urgent enough to bring you out here in a blizzard, wasn’t it? I’d rather get it over and done with.” Then the sooner he would be on his way.
“Fine. Shall we sit down?”
He held a chair for her, and when she was seated, took a chair on the opposite side of the table. He came to the point at once. “Last Wednesday night, when you left the theater, did you see anything unusual? Think carefully. Someone or something that seemed out of place?”
She was still struggling with her temper. Eventually, she shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”
He gave her the same expurgated account that he’d given Freddie and Sally Latham when he’d interviewed them, that a colleague at Special Branch had been set upon in a hackney outside the theater, and all possible witnesses to the attack were being questioned. Gideon Piers’s name never once came up. Her answers were much the same as the viscount’s and Sally’s.
After an interval of silence, she said, “And that’s why you came all the way out here, to ask me these questions about your colleague?”
“It’s important, Jane,” he said seriously. “But if I’d known that the weather was going to change, I would have delayed the interview for a few days.”
She shivered. “I’m glad you didn’t.” Her eyes strayed to Ben. “I’m glad you were here.”
He realized she was hardly aware of what she was saying. She’d been through a lot today and looked on the point of collapse. There was no need to question her further. He had what he’d come for. She couldn’t help him with the attack on Harper, and he had a very good idea now why Jane Mayberry didn’t advertise where she could be found, and it had nothing to do with Gideon Piers.
When he got up, he was feeling quite mellow. “Come along, Jane,” he said. “It’s time for that nap.”
She looked up at him in some confusion. “I can’t go to bed. There’s too much to do.”
“What, for instance?”
Her eyes fell on Lance. “I have to take care of my dog. He needs to be dried off, and fed. And—”
Patience wasn’t working with her, so he raised her to her feet, cupped her elbow and maneuvered her to the door. “Whatever you may think,” he said, “the world won’t end because you’re not here to direct things. I’ll take care of Lance.”
He opened the door and gave her a little push. Lance got up from the hearth, but when Case ordered him to stay, he sank down again. She picked up a candle from the hall table, and mounted the stairs with her back straight, but once she entered her own bedchamber and had shut the door on the world, she allowed her shoulders to slump.
The bed looked very inviting.
A wave of fatigue swept over her. She put down her candle before she dropped it, and stumbled to the bed. She would have that nap she decided, not because the earl ordered it, but because she didn’t have the energy to stay awake. After slipping out of her gown and donning a warm woolen robe, she stretched out on the bed and drew the eiderdown up to her chin.
The world won’t end because you’re not here to direct
things.
She huffed a little at that. He seemed to think she was domineering
,
whereas she thought of herself as capable and independent.
That’s how her parents had raised her—to be capable and independent. Of course, there was no money for an army of servants to do for them as the earl had at his disposal, only Mrs. Trent, and she was more like a member of the family. It didn’t take money to make people happy.
Her parents had done more than raise her to be independent. They’d encouraged her to read widely, to ask questions and defend her point of view. Her fondest memories were of family dinners, with a few interesting guests, and everyone talking across each other, teasing, laughing. It had never occurred to her, then, that she’d had an unusual upbringing, that not everyone appreciated a woman who had a mind of her own.
Her thoughts drifted, became less pleasant. There was one person in particular who was not impressed with the way her parents had raised her. But that was a long time ago.
She moved restlessly as random thoughts flitted in and out of her mind. Why was the earl here? She knew what he’d told her, but what made him think that she could help him when Freddie and Sally could not? They’d all left the opera together.
He’d helped her with Ben.
She was grateful to him, more than grateful, but he unsettled her and took pleasure in doing it. She didn’t like the way he looked at her; she didn’t like the way she looked at him.
She never blushed!
The sooner he went back to town to investigate the Hyde Park murder the better. Gideon. How did he fit into it? But Gideon was dead, wasn’t he? Then why . . .
She sighed and slipped into sleep before she could complete the thought.
At that very moment, Gideon Piers was enjoying himself enormously, though he hadn’t come to the Ladies’ Library primarily to enjoy himself. He was curious about Jane Mayberry, the young woman who, he was almost sure, had replaced La Contessa and Mrs. Standhurst in Castleton’s affections. For three days, the earl had been trying to find the elusive bluestocking. Today, he’d succeeded and, thanks to his informant, Piers, too, knew Miss Mayberry’s address.
Hillcrest by Highgate—that was where she lived and that’s where the earl was now.
“Why are we here?”
Piers looked across the table at John Merrick. They were in the tearoom, after catching the last ten minutes of a dreary lecture on property laws and the married woman. He didn’t think Jane Mayberry would have to worry about property laws if she married the earl. She’d be rich beyond her wildest dreams. And if Miss Mayberry was anything like the sober-faced women—no, ladies—who mobbed the tearoom, it would have to be marriage.
Either Castleton had taken leave of his senses or there was more to Jane Mayberry than he, Piers, had been led to believe.
Not that it mattered, because Castleton wouldn’t be around to marry anyone.
“Well?” asked Merrick.
Piers swallowed a sigh. He’d invited John Merrick along tonight instead of Joseph, because Merrick looked the part of an English gentleman. He fitted in. But in other respects, he was a great disappointment. Everything had to be explained to him. Joseph would have understood intuitively that Castleton— his habits, his preferences, his women—had become an obsession with him.
“Whatever interests the earl interests me,” Piers answered. “This is where the girl spends most of her time when she comes up to town. I want to take her impression from the company she keeps, and so on, and so on.”
“And I,” said Merrick sourly, “think we’re wasting our time. What difference does it make what she’s like? She’s of interest to Castleton and that’s what matters.”
“Yes, but how interested is he? That’s what intrigues me.”
Before Merrick could add to his annoyance, Piers got up. “We’re finished here,” he said. “Shall we go?”
It wasn’t an invitation, it was an order, and Merrick knew better than to argue with it.
In the hackney that was to take them to Piers’s hotel for dinner, Merrick said, “Does this mean that we forget about La Contessa and Mrs. Standhurst?”
“What gave you that idea?”
“If the Mayberry woman is Castelton’s new interest, why bother with the others?”
“To make a point. Don’t worry about it, John. It’s not necessary for you to understand. Castleton will understand. That’s the main thing.”
“What
is
the point?” Merrick’s ill-humor was beginning to show.
“Chivalry.” Piers smiled expansively. “Something the earl understands. You know what to do?”
“I know what to do. First La Contessa, then Mrs. Standhurst.”
“Leave the Mayberry woman to me.”
“Watch out for her dog. He can be vicious.”
Piers laughed. “The dog will be the first casualty.”
Chapter 8
It was an old, familiar dream. Her parents were at the dining room table, and she was outside, watching them through the window, trying to attract their attention. She was frantic and a little angry. They knew she was there, but they hardly spared her a glance. They were involved in one of their passionate debates, arguing some point or other about the sermon they’d heard at church that morning. That was just like her parents. They forgot everything once one of their famous debates got going. They didn’t feel her sense of urgency. Jack was after her. If he caught her, he would take her away then really hurt her. If they would only stop arguing and open the door, she could get inside and be safe.
It was too late. Jack’s hand was on her shoulder, but when she turned to fight him off, it wasn’t Jack who stood there, but Castleton. Gray, gray eyes, a predator’s eyes, held her in an unwavering stare.
On a cry of alarm, she hauled herself up. Air rushed in and out of her lungs. Her heart thundered against her breasts. Long moments passed before she came to herself.
It was ages since she’d had that dream. Now, there was a twist to it. The earl was after her, too. She wasn’t naive. She understood only too well where that thought came from. It was in the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her. He was deliberately trying to make her aware of him as a man. And he was succeeding.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
She’d learned her lessons with Jack. Men, no matter how attractive or charming, couldn’t help being males. They were hunters. Women were their quarry. When they caught them, they put them in cages.
She wasn’t about to become any man’s prey. She’d escaped from one cage, and nothing could induce her to enter another.
After several deep, calming breaths, she looked around the room. The candle was burning low, but the fire had been lit, giving off a warm glow. On the hearth sat a porcelain water jug. Obviously, Mrs. Trent had been here.
The clock on the mantel told her that she’d been asleep for hours. It was long past bedtime. Her stomach felt painfully empty. Thinking about it, she realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She cocked her head, listening. The house seemed deathly silent. It was long past Mrs. Trent’s bedtime, too, but she wasn’t sure if she could count on the earl going to bed this early, and she didn’t feel up to talking to him.
She wondered how Ben was doing. Her stomach growled. That did it. She pushed back the eiderdown and got up.
She didn’t take time to make herself presentable other than to wash her hands and face and brush the tangles out of her hair. Then, picking up the candle, she opened the door and walked downstairs.
There was a light spilling from under the kitchen door, but that was to be expected with Ben now using the kitchen as a bedchamber. The kitchen was always the warmest room in the house because the coal fire was never allowed to go out.
She pushed open the door and tiptoed in. Ben’s makeshift bed had been pushed back to its alcove, and he appeared to be sleeping soundly. Moving as quietly as she could, she crossed to the bed. He didn’t look feverish, but just to make sure, she touched a hand to his brow. It was warm, but nothing to worry about.
The lamp on the kitchen table was lit, so she blew out her candle, put it on the mantelpiece, and went to the larder. A few minutes later, she returned carrying a tray with a glass of milk on it, a thick crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. There was leftover game pie and baked ham if she’d wanted something more substantial, but she didn’t think she’d get much sleep if she stuffed herself before going to bed. Besides, it was a matter of pride to make sure there was plenty on hand for the earl’s breakfast.
When the door opened, she expected to see Mrs. Trent, come to check on Ben, but it was the earl who entered. He was wearing his greatcoat and it was covered in snow. Lance trooped in at his heels, and bounded over to her.
“So, you’re awake,” Case said, smiling faintly.
Startled, she watched him walk to the fireplace carrying a huge scuttle of coal. He knelt down and, using the tongs, began to add lumps of coal to the fire.
“Now let me see if I’ve got Mrs. Trent’s instructions right,” he said. “To bank the fire for the night, I must add the coal, then the vegetable parings, and finally set the guard in front of the grate.” As he spoke, he followed the housekeeper’s instructions. “Have I got it right?” He glanced at Jane over his shoulder.
She stared at him wordlessly. An earl didn’t bank the kitchen fire with vegetable parings. That was the job of the scullery maid, supposing there was a scullery maid.
“Jane?” he prompted, getting to his feet and throwing off his coat.
She was embarrassed and that annoyed her. “
You
shouldn’t be doing this!”
“I told you I would take care of things, and I meant it. Besides, who is there to do it? Ben won’t be able to haul and fetch for you for several days, not with that shoulder.”
“You should have wakened me. Mrs. Trent and I are used to managing on our own. We don’t haul coal in that scuttle. It’s far too big and heavy. We use a pail.” She raised her head, her eyes unfaltering on his. “You need not worry about Ben. Mrs. Trent and I know how to look after him.”
He’d stung her pride, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. But someone had to put this woman right about a few things. “Frankly,” he said, “it’s not Ben I’m worried about but you. A woman on her own . . .” When her expression changed, he threw up his hands. “All right, all right. It’s none of my business. I’m well aware of it. Believe me, I’m not finding fault. In fact, at the risk of sounding perverse, I have to say I admire what you’ve accomplished here.”
And that was the truth. Of course, he knew a great deal more about her now than when he first arrived at her house. From what he could gather from the housekeeper, Jane Mayberry was the sole support of this little household. There had been very little money after her father died, and she’d tried her hand at various things before settling here about three years ago. The housekeeper had been circumspect, but all had become clear to him when he’d walked into Jane’s study after dinner, at Mrs. Trent’s behest, to fetch the decanter of brandy that was reserved for honored guests.
The papers he’d found strewn around her desk— and, of course, his curiosity got the better of him so he had to look—had astonished him. Jane Mayberry was a writer! There were pamphlets on women’s suffrage and women’s rights under the law, and articles dealing with a hodgepodge of subjects ranging from the sublime (Is God Female?) to the ridiculous (In Praise of Stays). But it was the piece on the corn laws and free trade that held his interest. He could almost hear Freddie giving his maiden speech in the House of Lords, when he’d astonished his friends with his grasp of a subject he’d never shown any interest in before. And Jane Mayberry just happened to be Sally Latham’s friend.
When he made the connection, he’d wanted to laugh out loud. No wonder Freddie had been ill at ease when he, Case, started asking questions about Jane Mayberry. No wonder he’d blushed and protested he hardly knew the girl, much less where she lived. He was afraid of being found out. She’d written Freddie’s speech or helped him to write it. That’s how she earned her living. She was a professional writer, and a very successful one if this house was anything to go by. The house wasn’t large by any means, but it was well kept and, as far as he could see, in good repair. The furniture was comfortable and well used but far from shabby. The coal cellar was well stocked as was the larder. Though he detected a good deal of thrift in how Jane Mayberry ordered her household, they wanted for nothing. It was impossible not to respect and admire her, and impossible not to be irritated by the very qualities he admired. She was too independent and too capable for a man’s comfort, and he didn’t know why he was smiling.
She cocked her head to one side, her eyes dark with suspicion. “Are you all right?”
“As right as I’ll ever be,” he replied, erasing his grin. “I think I’ll join you.” He patted his midriff. “All that hard labor has made me hungry. Would you mind?” He indicated the door to the larder.
“Not at all. Help yourself.”
And he did, to the last slice of game pie, a fair chunk of the baked ham, a thick wedge of cheese, and a half loaf of bread. He deposited his plate on the kitchen table and returned to the larder. A moment later he was back with a jug in one hand, cutlery in the other, and a self-satisfied smile on his face.
“Marmalade tea,” he told her, setting the jug down, “without the marmalade or tea.”
He attacked his meal with all the gusto of a starving man. His hearty appetite made her own appetite fade considerably. Or maybe it was just his presence that made her ill at ease. At any rate, she picked at her cheese and bread, and forced each mouthful down with a swallow of milk.
She was beginning to feel comfortable when he suddenly looked up and pinned her with a hard stare. “Now,” he said, “I want to hear all about Miss Drake. I’m not asking out of idle curiosity. I think I’m entitled to know what I’m getting into.”
Her worry over Ben had driven all thoughts of Emily from her mind. She couldn’t see any point in evading the question. He must have worked most of it out by himself.
“Emily Drake,” she said, “is Andrew Drake’s sister. You may have heard of him, Drake and Mills, merchant bankers.”
Case nodded. “I’ve heard the name.”
“I don’t know Mr. Drake personally,” Jane continued, “but I know he’s much older than Emily—she’s his ward, by the way. He’s extremely wealthy and thinks he can improve his social standing by buying into the aristocracy. That’s where Emily comes in. He believes that money can buy her a title, and once she’s elevated to the aristocracy, his own social standing will improve. Unfortunately, the only candidate to take the bait was Lord Reeve.”
“And that’s when Emily turned to you for help?”
She sighed and nodded. “Yes. You see . . .”
For the most part, he heard her out in silence. It was just as he thought. Such marriages were becoming more common. It was a business arrangement. He knew several impoverished peers of the realm who had swallowed their pride and married into the merchant classes. That was the trouble with entailed estates. One could live in a castle and be a pauper, and there was no selling off part of one’s estates to fill the empty coffers. It was against the law.
Still, Andrew Drake should have done better for his sister than Lord Reeve.
When she paused, he said, “What I can’t understand is why she felt she had to run away. Couldn’t she simply say no to her brother, and no to Lord Reeve?”
Jane gave a snort of laughter. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Are you naive or deliberately obtuse? She’s eighteen years old. She has no money she can call her own. Her brother is her trustee. And because she’s a female, her opinion counts for nothing. How can she withstand such pressure? Her only chance is to break free.”
Though he could see her point, her derision was irritating. “I understand all that,” he said, “but what I don’t understand is how running away from her brother is going to solve the problem. How will she live? Who will look after her?” He looked around the cramped kitchen. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“We thought that in a week or two her brother would come to his senses and take Emily’s refusal seriously, or that Lord Reeve would retract his offer of marriage because he would hate to be made a laughingstock. Then, when everything was sorted out, Miss Drake would return home.”
“And what if her brother didn’t come round?”
“Then Emily could do what others have done before her—find employment, earn her own living. It would only be for a few years. When she turns twenty-one, she comes into her money.”
“Earn her own living?” Gently bred girls didn’t earn their own living. He didn’t know whether to laugh or remonstrate. What stopped him from doing either was the sudden realization that the young woman sitting opposite him had done exactly that.
He wondered why she had never married.
“What?” she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously on his face.
He shrugged, “I suppose,” he said, “Lady Octavia is the driving force behind this harebrained scheme?”
She visibly stiffened. “There’s nothing harebrained about it! We’ve done it before and it’s worked. As for Lady Octavia, she knows nothing about it, and if she had known, she would have tried to stop us. She can’t afford to have the library mixed up in something like this. We might lose some of our influential backers, then we’d never get the laws changed. That’s the most important thing—to change the laws. Until that happens, women will never have the right to make their own decisions and choose their own futures.”
She gave a little sigh. “It’s not that Lady Octavia is unsympathetic, you understand. I mean, there are always women in desperate straits coming to the library for help. We do what we can, but mostly, we just listen. If a woman leaves her husband, she has to give up everything—all her worldly goods and even her children. Few women will go that far, and we don’t encourage it. Surely nothing could be worse than losing your children?”
He was interested in spite of himself. “What if there are no children in the marriage?”
“It’s not much better. A woman’s husband is not forced to support her or return any part of the money that came to him as her dowry if she leaves him. And if his wife finds employment, he can garnishee her wages so that she has no means of support.”
“That’s iniquitous!”
“True, but that’s the law of the land.” Eyes glinting, she rested her chin on her linked fingers. “You should come to our lectures, Lord Castleton. I think you’d find them enlightening, and we’re always looking for wealthy patrons to support our cause.”
He felt as though she had checkmated him, and maybe she had. “I don’t need to attend the lectures,” he said with a disarming smile. “All I need do is listen to you.”
She looked at though she might take umbrage and surprised him by chuckling instead. “I
do
get carried away, don’t I? But this work is important.”
“So is parting with my money. Why do you need rich patrons?”