Let Me Be The One (19 page)

He applied himself once again to the consideration of the Earl of Rosemont's daughter. He could not recall the slightest hint of scandal attached to her name. Quizzing Southerton, after he learned of his friend's slight connection to Elizabeth through his sister Emma, had provided no more useful information.

Lady Elizabeth's first Season had not taken. She had had some admirers, but none of them had apparently come up to snuff in either her eyes or that of her father's. Northam reasoned that having to face William Penrose, Earl of Rosemont, would inspire sufficient terror in the breast of most potential suitors. Elizabeth's choices might have very well been limited to the desperate and the foolhardy.

Northam's own acquaintance with Rosemont was limited to passing him in White's or observing him in the House of Lords. The man took his responsibilities to provide leadership and rational debate in the Parliament seriously. His opinions were oft-quoted and he had the ear of the Prince Regent. It was said that he was in support of Wellington as the next Prime Minister, the inference being that he would not consider himself as a candidate for the same post. He was rather stiff of bearing, not stuffy, but invariably correct. Appearances seemed to mean a great deal to him.

From the colonel, Northam knew that Rosemont had been a widower for a number of years before remarrying. It had been his beautiful second wife, the former Lady Isabel Milford, youngest daughter of an earl herself, who had taken Elizabeth in hand and guided her through the balls and entertainments of that Season. Northam also knew Rosemont's much younger wife had delivered him an heir some six years ago.

The relationship that existed between Elizabeth and her father could not properly be categorized as an estrangement, the colonel had told him. Elizabeth was in residence at Rosemont twice a year and stayed for several weeks each time. Neither was she a stranger to his London home and had been known to visit his properties far to the north. She was unfailingly respectful and brooked no public argument with him, making Rosemont the envy of every father who had known the frustrations of a rebellious child. Because she was the very model of rectitude and good sense, the earl gave her his leave to spend a considerable time in the company of the most amiable and unexceptional Lord and Lady Battenburn. This was all well and good, the colonel had said, his tone indicating the very opposite, but over the years Elizabeth had also become less known to
him.

Her letters were infrequent, her visits few. He was not fooled by Elizabeth's denials of a strain between herself and her father—it had existed at some level since the unfortunate death of her mother—but Blackwood would not countenance that strain when it began to unsettle his own connection with her.

Had her accident at Rosemont been the source of the odd cutoff with her father? The colonel had certainly placed no significance to the event. He had not even mentioned the fact of her limp, leaving it to Northam to discover for himself.

"Tell me what she is about," the colonel had asked instead. "I cannot shake this dread I carry on her behalf."

Dread. It was a good description, Northam decided. In spite of the pleasantness of the day, he felt considerable tension in his neck and shoulders. A muscle worked rhythmically in his cheek. He turned over on his stomach, discarded the blade of grass ground at one end between his teeth and plucked another, promising himself he would treat it more delicately.

He tried to imagine using Elizabeth's own words to explain how things were to the colonel. He could not. How would he say it? "
I regret to inform you, sir, but the daughter of your beloved cousin Lady Catherine has announced in no uncertain terms that she is a whore."
Northam could almost feel the pain of the pistol ball that would surely pass through his heart if he delivered that message. No, it wouldn't serve.

Even less palatable would be admitting his intimacy with her. "
I have firsthand knowledge of that fact, sir."
But did he? Northam's experience with whores had been limited to camp followers. He had mostly made it a point to avoid them. In his early days in London he had set up a succession of mistresses, all of them intelligent, gracious, and skilled in bed, but ultimately found himself dissatisfied with the arrangement. He made each of them a generous settlement when he ended it, and inadvertently attracted the notice of a goodly number of other women with similar reputations and an eye for the main chance. He had bedded several but had never been moved to offer his protection, and he had never thought of them as whores.

Evidence to the contrary, he did not think that of Elizabeth Penrose either. She had set forth her best arguments to send him on his way, had even charitably offered him an exit by staging her own retreat to her dressing room. He had ignored it all.

Northam knew there had been no force involved in what he had done to her, yet he believed the thing had been done against her will. She had not fought the battle with him, but with herself. Her surrender had caused no anger to be directed toward him. What he had seen in her eyes, the tears making them almost painfully bright, was self-loathing.

She had not spoken of a parade of men through her bedchamber. She had made mention of only one. No, that was not quite true. He sought the memory of her exact words...
there was at least one other before you...

He groaned, wishing his memory would have played him false.
At least one other
could mean
only
one or the veritable parade he now feared.

Northam sat up suddenly, feeling restless and edgy with ill-defined frustration. With little provocation he could smash someone's face. He spit out the blade of grass and whistled for his mare. She sidled over while he jammed his hands into his gloves and put on his hat. He mounted, swinging his leg hard over the saddle. Every bit of his aggressive temperament was communicated to his mount and in moments they were flying across the meadow, trying to outrun the demons of doubt.

* * *

"I believe we are to be partners, Lady Elizabeth."

Elizabeth turned and found herself having to tilt her head up to Viscount Southerton. She smiled warmly. "Indeed, my lord, it appears so. I begged Lady Battenburn to place you with someone more quick-witted than myself, but she could not be swayed. I must tell you at the outset that I am not good with riddles."

"It does not matter," South said graciously. "I wager you have more familiarity with the twists and turns of this house than anyone but our hosts and perhaps a few of the servants. Since the latter haven't been invited to play and of necessity the baron and his wife had to excuse themselves, you are my very best chance to recover the treasure." His light gray eyes danced. "What is it, by the way? The baroness is being uncharacteristically closemouthed and his lordship would not divulge anything last evening, even when he was well into his cups."

"Do you mean you tried to get him foxed so he would tell you what it was?"

"I don't believe I encouraged him unduly."

Elizabeth laughed. "I should think not. Harrison enjoys his brandy." She tapped South's forearm with her closed fan. "As for the treasure, I haven't the least idea. I have not been privy to any of the planning regarding this hunt, else I would have had to excuse myself as our hosts have."

Southerton feigned disappointment. "Well, I suppose I shall have to endeavor to be brilliant. It strains the gray matter."

"It
strains
the imagination."

Startled, South's mouth clamped shut. When it opened again it was to let loose full-throated, hearty laughter that was not easily contained in the drawing room.

"Sh," Elizabeth chided him, trying to temper her own smile. "You are attracting attention."

On the other side of the room, Lady Powell snapped her wrist and her fan opened with a flourish. She used it to hide her frown as she watched Southerton try to check another bout of laughter. "I shouldn't wonder that he injures himself."

"Indeed." Northam was also listening to his friend. His eyes, however, were on Lady Elizabeth. Her humor was in every way the opposite of his own, and the more she tilted her radiant smile in South's direction, the more he felt like breaking something, starting with Lady Powell's ivory fan and ending with his best friend's nose. If, somewhere in between he caught Lady Elizabeth's fine chin, all the better.

It was all a fancy, of course. He wasn't going to hit anyone. It wasn't done. Not by him. Not ever.

Lady Powell tapped his shoulder with the tip of her fan. "The best revenge is winning, don't you think? There is nothing for it but that we should take the prize."

Northam looked pointedly at the fan beating a tattoo against his arm. She removed it hastily. "Of course," he said. Turning his back on South and Elizabeth and blocking the same view from Lady Powell, he gave her his mostly undivided attention. The widow was an attractive woman, very much in her prime, with cocoa-colored hair and large brown eyes. Her figure was trim, her smile knowing, and her temperament was most politely described as mercurial. She wed young and had been, by all accounts, a faithful wife to her older husband throughout their marriage. After observing the requisite year of mourning in solitude in the country, Lady Powell had rejoined society at the urging of family and friends. Northam knew he could have drawn a much less desirable partner.

"I believe Lord Battenburn is about to give us the rules," he said, offering his arm. "Shall we step to the fore and have a listen?"

The baron cleared his throat and waited for quiet to settle over the gathering. He stood apart from the crowd, slightly elevated by a box that had been found for just this occasion. Rather nattily dressed in a lavender waistcoat, butter yellow breeches, and a pristine shirt with a chitterling and a casually tied cravat, he would have commanded a certain amount of attention without benefit of the box.

"It is really very simple," he began in his pleasant baritone. "And I promise you, as long as the Gentleman Thief does not arrive at the treasure first, your efforts will be rewarded most handsomely."

Chapter 6

The baron saw he had captured his audience and went on. "Her ladyship has secreted away a treasure somewhere within the confines of Battenburn. I mean the house itself, not the lands. You can be assured that it will not be found among anyone's personal possessions. Bedchambers most definitely should not be included in your search and no clues are meant to lead you there." He pretended not to hear the titters that ran through his listeners, though it took effort not to stare reprovingly at Lady Heathering. With every one of her giggles she was extending a rather blatant invitation to Lord Allen to find
her
treasure.

"Lady Battenburn is moving among you now to hand out the first clues. They are not, in all cases, the same, but will eventually lead the cleverest of you to the right places. When you find other clues, leave them behind for those who follow you. There is only one treasure and you cannot mistake it for anything else. Have no doubt that you will know it when you find it."

"Is there a time limit?" one of them called out.

"Ah, yes, thank you. You have but until midnight." He made a point of lifting his fob and checking the time. "By my reckoning it is two hours hence. So that it is fair to everyone, we will mark the time by the clock in the great hall." His eyes swept over his guests and he paused in anticipation of more questions. "Nothing else? Very well. You may begin as soon as you have your first clue."

Their location near the back of the drawing room forced Southerton and Elizabeth to wait their turn. They both nodded politely as Lady Powell swept past them, her arm most possessively wrapped around North's sleeve. Elizabeth did not like the queer little turn her heart gave as she watched them go, or the fact that Southerton seemed to sense it. He was kind enough not to give her a pitying look and offered her arm a slight squeeze instead.

Their first clue was not terribly difficult.
A clergyman rises in the meadow and one to one, makes peace with his God.
Southerton asked Elizabeth to lead him to the library, where he instructed her that they were looking for a copy of Oliver Goldsmith's
The Vicar of Wakefield.
On page one hundred twenty-one, or one-two-one, they found their next clue.

Bright laughter, the odd shout, and much whispering could be heard echoing the halls of Battenburn. As the guests passed each other on their way from one solution to the next, they sometimes traded information and, on occasion, partners. Lady Heathering was able to finally corner Lord Allen, and they gave up any pretense of finding the treasure when they secluded themselves under the wine cellar stairs. Mr. Rutherford, finding Lady Powell to have switched her attentions yet again, began a dogged pursuit of Miss Caruthers, which resolved itself in some furtive groping in the lamp room.