There's Something About Lady Mary (2 page)

Mary shook her head in quiet bewilderment. “Could I perhaps trouble you for a glass of water?” she asked as she sank back against her chair, her mind buzzing with an endless amount of questions that would in all likelihood never be answered. “Or better yet, make that a brandy.”

R
eturning home from Oxford for the holidays, Ryan Summersby was comfortably seated in his father’s landau as it swayed gently from side to side before taking a sharp turn onto Duke Street. He gazed out of the window as it continued on to Grosvenor Square, where it slowed to a steadier pace before finally coming to a complete halt outside a white brick town house that was separated from the pavement by a black, wrought iron fence. The coachman stepped down from his seat, hurrying around to the side to open the carriage door and set down the steps with speedy efficiency. A moment later, Ryan appeared. He handed his travel bag to the awaiting coachman and stepped down slowly, fully aware that his height might otherwise make him appear clumsy. Instead, he reached the ground with remarkable grace, his lips edging upward in a smile of boyish anticipation.

“Welcome home, sir,” Hutchins remarked as he reached for Ryan’s bags. The aging butler, who’d been with the Summersbys since Ryan’s older brother, William, had been born, still maintained a youthful spring to his step.

“Thank you. It’s good to be back,” Ryan said as he started up the front steps of his father’s London home. “Has Papa arrived yet?”

“No, not yet, but he should be here no later than tomorrow evening. He’s just tying up a few loose ends back at Moorland—the usual business when he’s planning on remaining in town for an extended length of time,” Hutchins replied. “And your brother will most likely be unable to join you before next week at the earliest. He was recently called away on an urgent assignment, which I believe has taken him to Scotland. But there’s a guest waiting for you in the drawing room. I won’t say who, as I’ve no desire to spoil the surprise, though I’ll wager you won’t be too disappointed.”

Ryan eyed the butler with a large degree of suspicion as he peeled off his calfskin gloves and handed them to Hutchins together with his hat. “What are you up to, old chap?”

“Oh, nothing but the usual,” Hutchins told him, his face completely lacking any kind of emotion. Still, there was a twinkle in his wise old eyes. “Just keeping you on your toes, sir.”

“Then by all means, carry on,” Ryan told him cheerfully as he headed for the drawing room door.

It took him only a second to spot the man who was standing by one of the tall bay windows looking out onto the street as he waited patiently for Ryan to arrive. He was almost as tall as Ryan, though his frame was frailer. His hair, which had turned gray in the space of one week roughly six years earlier, had surprisingly enough retained its thickness. Turning his head away from the window at the sound of the door opening, a pair of light brown eyes came into view, creasing slightly at the corners as they locked onto Ryan.

“Sir Percy!” Ryan exclaimed, unable to hide his enthusiasm as he crossed the floor and reached out to shake the older gentleman’s hand. “It’s so good to see you again. By Jove it’s been far too long.”

“Almost a full year,” Percy agreed, allowing his mouth to widen into a broad smile. “You look well, though. It does appear as if Oxford agrees with you.”

“In some aspects, it certainly does,” Ryan agreed with a lopsided smirk.

“And would that be the social aspects, by any chance?”

“You know me too well,” Ryan replied. He sighed as he made his way across the room to the side table. “Can I perhaps offer you a glass of claret?”

“Certainly, but only if you’ll join me.”

Ryan curled his fingers around the cool neck of a crystal carafe. “I do believe a drink might serve me well after suffering through all those bumps in the road for hours on end.”

“Whatever excuse works for you,” Percy quipped. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s essential to my good health. In fact, I’m quite convinced it’s what keeps me from knocking at death’s door.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Ryan said with a smile as he handed Percy his glass. He studied the man who’d always been like an uncle to him. Percy was one of his father’s oldest and closest friends and if that wasn’t enough, he was also the permanent secretary of the Foreign Office. It was unlikely that, with Ryan’s father out of town, he would pay a visit for no other reason than to be sociable. Something was afoot; Ryan was certain of it.

“As glad as I am to see you again, Percy, I have the distinct feeling that you’re not here to inquire about my health,” Ryan said as he gestured toward one of two green silk-clad armchairs. “Please have a seat and tell me why you’re really here.”

Percy paused for a moment while the hint of a smile played upon his lips. He gave Ryan a short nod. “Very well then,” he said as he sat down in the proffered chair and placed his glass on the small, round side table next to him. “I admit that I have an ulterior motive for coming here today.”

“I am listening,” Ryan told him with genuine interest as he sat down in the other chair and turned an expectant gaze on Percy.

“A number of years ago,” Percy began, “I made a promise to an old friend that if anything were to happen to him, I’d keep a watchful eye on his daughter. Apparently, this friend of mine was under the impression that his daughter would be in some sort of terrible danger if anything did happen.” A pensive look came over Percy’s face. He paused, narrowing his eyes on Ryan. “As it happens, he passed away almost a year ago from a gunshot wound he sustained at Waterloo. From what I understand, he was hit by a stray bullet while attending to a wounded soldier—dratted business, really. He was a good man and an excellent surgeon, the best I’ve ever seen. Such an unfortunate and unnecessary loss.

“The funny thing is, in spite of my inquiries, there hasn’t been the slightest trace of his daughter since then. I sent word out to a couple of agents who were already stationed in Belgium at the time, but they were unable to find her. It almost seemed as though she’d evaporated into thin air—until yesterday, that is, when she finally resurfaced right here in Mayfair after a two-year absence from England.” Percy paused for emphasis as his eyes met Ryan’s. “I was hoping I might be able to convince you to assist in this matter.”

“You do realize I no longer work for the Foreign Office, right?”

“First of all, if this were an official matter, it wouldn’t be handled by the Foreign Office. The Home Office would take care of it. And second of all, this is a private matter regarding a promise I’m honor bound to keep. I’d like for it to remain classified.”

“You’re leaving me with very little choice here, Percy,” Ryan argued. “I was hoping to sow some oats this summer, perhaps even attend a few mandatory balls if I have to. What you’re suggesting hardly sounds like any fun at all.”

“Oh, do stop complaining, Ryan,” Percy told him fiercely. “I’ll wager you’ve sown a whole granary full of oats by now—enough, at any rate, for you to wait a while before jumping into bed with the next actress who comes along. Damn it, boy, I’m asking you for a personal favor here.”

“Very well then,” Ryan said, still lacking any enthusiasm for this unexpected venture. “What’s the chit’s name? And more importantly, who is she?”

Percy took another sip of his claret. A slow smile began to spread its way across his face. There was an impish gleam in his eyes as he turned his gaze on Ryan. “I’d be careful about calling her a chit if I were you,” he said. “After all, being the Marchioness of Steepleton, she
is
a couple of steps above you on the social ladder. And to answer your question, her name is Mary Croyden.”

Ryan stared at Percy with the very unpleasant feeling that he’d just been had. He should have known that Percy would keep an ace like this up his sleeve until he’d already agreed to help. If there was one thing Percy loved, it was the element of surprise. But Ryan was not about to be played the fool, especially when he very much doubted that the Marchioness of Steepleton was even a real title. “How on earth is that even possible?” he asked dubiously.

“Do I really have to explain it to you, Ryan? I would have thought that your father might have seen to the matter by now.”

Ryan groaned. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Percy. I’ve never heard of a Marquess of Steepleton, and now there’s suddenly a marchioness? Forgive me if I’m reluctant to believe such a thing, but it hardly makes much sense.”

“Hm. . .I suppose you’re right. You see, here’s the thing of it: the title went into obscurity for a number of years through lack of usage. For whatever reason he might have had, Lady Steepleton’s father was determined to make his own way in life, as far away from the social constraints of the upper classes as humanly possible. All the same, he did manage to ensure that his daughter would one day inherit the title from him.

“The point is, if he believed her to be in danger, for whatever reasons he might have had, then she’s more likely to be so now that she’s returned to London and claimed her inheritance. The sudden appearance of a marchioness is going to make the headline in every gossip column this country has to offer. If someone’s out to get her, they’ll be crawling out of the woodwork before you know it, mark my word.”

Ryan nodded thoughtfully. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so boring after all, he mused. He rather liked the image he envisioned of himself dodging bullets as he saved the marchioness from imminent danger. There might even be a swordfight or two, perhaps a race across the countryside at breakneck speed while a group of ruffians chased after them and. . .He suddenly blinked when he heard Percy’s voice practically yelling at him.

“Ryan? Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

“Hm? Oh, I was just wondering how I might best handle the matter.”

“Yes, I’m sure you were,” Percy told him with a frown. “You need not worry yourself about that, however. I will ensure that Lady Steepleton receives an invitation to the first ball of the season, which happens to be this Saturday evening at Richmond House, by the way. As charming as you are, I’m confident you’ll have no trouble at all in befriending her.”

“And once I find her, may I tell her why I suddenly have such a keen interest in her?”

“Ryan, you and I both know that women hate the feeling of being watched, even if it is for their own good. If she so much as suspects that your interest in her lies only in protecting her from supposed harm, she’ll most likely make it her mission in life to avoid you for the remainder of her days.”

“I see your point,” Ryan muttered as he mulled that over.

“You’re a handsome lad, Ryan. Surely it won’t be impossible for you to convince her that you are genuinely interested.”

“But I’m not,” Ryan said with a frown. “Am I to understand that you wish for me to give this woman a false impression of my true intentions?”

“It is for her own good, you know,” Percy remarked.

“Look, you know how much I despise dishonesty, Percy, and to take advantage of any woman’s desire to form an attachment just feels wrong.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, Ryan, but spying is a pretty dishonest business.”

“Must you always mock me?” The frustration in Ryan’s voice was practically scratching at the walls. “Fine; if it will keep her alive, then I’ll agree to do whatever it takes—though I’m by no means pleased about it, I’ll have you know.”

“I am so happy to hear it,” Percy remarked rather drily as he drained his glass of its last few drops before jumping to his feet. He looked eager to be gone, no doubt before Ryan changed his mind. “I’ll see to it you get an invitation to Richmond House as well then, shall I?”

“That would certainly be an excellent idea,” Ryan replied, his words dripping with sarcasm as he walked his father’s friend to the door.

“Listen,” Percy said, turning back around on the threshold and placing a solid hand on Ryan’s shoulder, “I know this isn’t exactly the sort of thing you want to get tangled up in right now, so I appreciate your help.”

Ryan nodded. “It’s my pleasure.”

“Oh, I hardly think so,” Percy chuckled, turning about and starting down the steps that led toward the pavement. “But thank you for saying so.”

Ryan remained in the doorway a moment longer until Percy had hailed himself a hackney and climbed in. Well, perhaps he ought to ask Hutchins to press one of his black tailcoats. After all, he now had a marchioness to impress.

M
ary stood at the edge of the wide marble terrace behind Richmond House, looking out over the garden and enjoying the feel of the cool night air as it wafted against her skin. She’d gone out there to escape the oppressive heat of the ballroom, which she imagined to be far worse than in the hottest of the British colonies. But to be perfectly honest, the stifling heat was not her only reason. She’d also come outside to escape the hoard of overly eager gentlemen who, it seemed, had swooped down upon her like vultures the moment she’d made her entrance. Each of them wanted to dance with her, or if not dance, then at least bring her something to drink or eat—anything at all that she might be in need of. One gentleman had even offered to bring her an ice from Gunter’s in Berkeley Square, declaring that it wouldn’t be any trouble at all and that she’d be sure to find it refreshing. Before Mary had managed to speak a single word to anyone, she was juggling three glasses of Champagne and a plate piled high with canapés.

Then, of course, there were all the unmarried ladies who, feeling threatened by the overwhelming amount of interest the men were showing the new marchioness, had begun their critical dissection of her. They had started at the top of her head and worked their way down to her shoes, conveying each of their opinions to one another in a low whisper that had snaked its way around the room. Apparently they’d concluded that her hair was the color of mud, her eyes the size of teacups, and her mouth too vulgar to appear in polite society, while her figure bore too much resemblance to an upside down pear. And if that weren’t enough, the word
plain
was mentioned so repeatedly and with such a degree of intonation that Mary couldn’t help but feel herself the most flawed woman in the whole wide world.