To Lure a Proper Lady (3 page)

“He's had several attacks.” She shuddered at the memory. Since the day a fortnight ago when he'd summoned his daughters, he'd done little but suffer. “Awful stomach pains. I don't believe he's exaggerating.” Not every single time. “And it's more than his food disagreeing with him. He's got Cook preparing him a strict regimen of plain gruel accompanied by a selection of the finest tripe, liver, and sweetbreads.”

Dysart winced. “Anyone fed me nothing but that, they'd be the one with the sore stomach. On account of my fist being planted dead center.”

“He swears by it. He's been eating that way for years, so that can't be the source of the problem.”

“Perhaps.” Dysart scratched his chin. “Unless someone wanted to add a thing or two on the sly. If the man lives on food no one else would touch, it would be easy enough to slip something in.”

Lizzie bit her lip. That frightening thought had entered her mind a time or three.

Dysart nodded. “You've stopped your arguing, I see. I knew you'd come round to my way of thinking eventually. We need suspects. Who stands to profit from your puh-
pa
passing on?”

“That's just it. I know of no one.”

“Surely he has an heir.”

“Of course, but what does that have to do with it?”

He planted a hand on either side of his thighs and leaned forward, his gaze sharp as a sword. “A dukedom means power. In my experience, those in power never have enough. Sure, the heir might be an earl now, but only by courtesy. Once he's a duke, he'll do as he bloody well pleases.”

Lizzie didn't even flinch at Dysart's language. Not when his statement weighed in her stomach like an overly rich feast. “He's not an earl. Papa doesn't have a son. His heir is a second cousin.”

“A second cousin, who stands to rise a great deal with your puh-
pa
's demise? And what is this cousin's name?”

“Snowley.”

“Snowley?” Dysart all but snorted.

“Snowley Wilde.” Yes, the name sounded ridiculous, but it went with his character. Yet was such a character likely to grow impatient while waiting for his inheritance? “It can't be him. He doesn't live with us.”

“These things can be managed with proper payment and promises.” He took up his page of scrawl and studied it, as if he expected that piece of paper to give him the answers he sought. “Two suspects so far. One has motive but less opportunity. The other has opportunity, but no clear motive. Who knows what I'll find once I've met the duke? We haven't even delved into potential enemies yet.”

Lizzie cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon?”

Dysart set his notes aside. “I need to interview the duke if I'm to conduct a proper investigation.”

“Now, wait just a moment.” Good Lord, she couldn't let this character hold an investigation. Not in the middle of Papa's precious house party.

“Oh, no.” Dysart shook his head. “You come to me with a problem, you can expect me to solve it. You've shown me we've got enough questions, at least, if not evidence, to open an investigation, and I intend to pursue it.”

Since he joined the Bow Street Runners, necessity had forced Dysart to use whatever conveyance came to hand—from the mail coach, to the back of a plodding beer wagon, to his preferred method, his own feet. In those more than ten years, however, he'd never ridden in a duke's carriage.

With its plush squabs, polished wood, and well-oiled wheels, this particular carriage felt just like it belonged to a bloody duke. Dysart's arse ought to be sore from every last rut between London and this godforsaken end of Suffolk, but he hardly noticed the state of the roads. Not in such a well-sprung conveyance.

There was only one problem. He could smell Lady Elizabeth Wilde. Her floral and no doubt expensive scent filled the cab. It had caused all sorts of alarm bells to set off in his mind from the moment his nostrils detected it, a full minute after the footman closed the door and they rolled off.

That blasted perfume only caused him to note how the dark fabric of Lady Elizabeth's traveling costume hugged her bosom. Velvet, no less, the texture tempting his fingertips for a sample. And that ridiculous feathered bonnet, the same one she'd worn yesterday to visit Bow Street, framed her face, setting off her cheekbones.

He must think of this woman as a job and no more. He most decidedly couldn't think of her as an attractive female. Even if certain parts of his anatomy insisted she was.

He ought to thank God for the maid wedged in next to Lady Elizabeth on the seat across from him, arms folded. The woman clearly hadn't forgiven or forgotten his cheek the previous day. If nothing else, her glare of silent judgment would keep him in line.

“Shouldn't we get our story straight?” Lady Elizabeth's question broke in on his musings, but the interruption was hardly a welcome one.

He inserted his finger into his collar and tugged. He hadn't worn a cravat in months, and the thing suffocated him like a bloody noose. “Leave that to me.”

“But what shall I tell people? In a day or two, the guests will start arriving.”

Right. The damned house party. The last society event he'd attended was a masquerade. Much easier to pass unnoticed with half your face covered. This event would be trickier, especially if she'd invited any sort of social sticklers who were likely to go running to Debrett's the moment they heard an accent that didn't meet with their general approval. “I c'n be anyone ye need me t' be.”

“I don't need that.” She eyed him up and down. “It doesn't go with your dress.”

No, he'd donned what passed for his fashionable togs for this job. He wiggled his toes inside his Hessians. The damned things pinched. “Suppose I can pass as Lord Dysart.”

“And your connections are?” Naturally, one of her position would ask. She, along with most of her guests, would realize no such title existed.

“Dinna fash, lassie. I be Lord Angus Alistair Dysart, fresh from Aberdeen, out of favor with my father, the Earl of Urquart, for being overly fond of a wee dram. So he's punished me by sending me to terrorize the Sassenachs.”

“That may be overdoing things rather much.”

Smoothly he slipped into a different role. “Faith, I can be Irish if ye prefer. Top o' the day to ye.”

Lady Elizabeth's brows disappeared beneath the brim of her bonnet. “That's quite a talent you have.”

“Trust me, you haven't seen all my talents.”

The words popped out before he could stop them, flirtatious and highly inappropriate. Such a line ought to be reserved for the serving wenches at the Cock and Bull, not duke's daughters. Not now, not where his life had led him.

The maid stiffened, on edge. Ready to intervene.

The tiny muscles about Lady Elizabeth's eyes tightened. “Which is your true voice, I wonder?”

God help him, she'd already heard it, but he'd be damned if he'd tell her which one. “They all are. They each have their uses in my line of work.”

The carriage slowed and turned a corner.

“Decide on a name, quickly. We're coming to the first rest stop.”

“I doubt we'll have to make introductions or explain ourselves.” Especially not if he remained in the carriage. “Trust me. I can talk my way out of anything.”

She paused in the midst of alighting. Her swishing skirts hinted at tempting curves beneath. Damn, but he didn't need that image burned into his brain. “Can you?”

He returned her gaze. “Yes. I can.”

When the carriage door closed behind her, he settled himself more comfortably against the squabs and tipped his hat over his eyes. The journey might pass more agreeably if he feigned a nap. The act would definitely guard against wayward thoughts.

Hours later, voices roused him. “We've nearly arrived.”

Ah, so the maid did possess the ability to speak.

Dysart straightened, raised his hat, and looked out the window. They were trundling down a long drive flanked by rows of trees, like a line of palace guards, or perhaps the bars of a prison. Beyond the silent sentinels, swards of precisely trimmed grass spread into the distance.

The carriage turned, and the trees gave way. Here, the drive circled about a pond edged with flowerbeds. Colorful blooms danced in the early evening breeze. The level rays of the setting sun shone on the curving scales of a giant marble fish in the midst of the water, a spout of white foam jetting from its mouth.

“Cor.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Elizabeth, naturally. The maid wouldn't deign to address him.

“Nothing.” For some reason, Dysart couldn't take his eyes off that marble fish. Ridiculous thing.

“But we haven't settled anything,” she protested.

“I told you before, trust me. As for my name, just follow my lead.”

Though the fish faded from view, they still weren't quite to the house. As soon as he caught a glimpse of the monstrosity, he wished he hadn't. Three stories; four if he counted the bloody turrets. Two of those, one at either end, topped with a filigree of cunning stonework. Diamond-paned windows peeked between stone mullions to reflect golden sunlight. High chimneys grouped at intervals along the gray roofline made of the same red brick as the house itself. None of it crumbling, even though this pile must have stood since Tudor times.

Broad steps led to a flower-edged terrace in front of the pond. Another carriage waited before the front door. A man stood beside the conveyance, watching their progress from beneath the shelter of a tall beaver hat. The wind stirred the points of his lapels.

“I thought you said the guests wouldn't arrive until tomorrow,” Dysart said.

“What?”

He nodded at the view. “See for yourself.”

She swiveled her head to catch a glimpse. “Oh, good heavens. Snowley's here already.”

Of all the rotten luck. Lizzie had hoped for a day's reprieve at least, during which she might explain Dysart to her sisters and convince them to play along with her and Dysart's little charade—whatever it ended up being. She'd hoped to pass him off as another guest, the better for him to carry out his investigation. She'd known Snowley would look askance on this newcomer, but with a modicum of preparation, her sisters might have backed her claims.

Now she must plunge ahead, ready or not.

She stole a glance at Dysart. He was staring out the window, turning all that intriguing intensity on Snowley's carriage, as though it might give up its secrets under sheer force of will.

“So it begins,” he muttered.

“But what…How do we explain you?”

Dysart turned to face her, teeth bared. She supposed the expression was meant to be a smile, but it resembled a wolf's leer more than anything. Eager and animal. Ready for the hunt.

“Follow my lead,” he said again.

She had no choice there. They'd rumbled to a halt on the pea gravel drive, and her footman, the very definition of efficiency—blast the man—let down the steps. When the door opened, Snowley himself stood ready to hand her down.

“Cousin Lizzie, isn't this—” His smile faded. He'd caught sight of Dysart. “And who have we here?”

Dysart burst from his seat, caught Snowley's hand, and pumped. “Angus Alistair Dysart, late of Aberdeen.”

Lizzie suppressed an urge to slap her palm over her face. At least Dysart had toned down his Scottish burr. Somewhat.

Snowley raised light brown brows, shaking out his hand before helping Lizzie alight. She ducked out of the way, just in time to avoid the pair of lips descending toward her cheek. Beyond her cousin, Dysart snapped to attention. Somehow Lizzie felt the movement like the crackle of electricity on dry winter air.

Snowley eyed the man, as well. “And how is it you've made my cousin's acquaintance?”

“Dysart is having you over,” Lizzie intervened. Follow his lead, indeed. “He does enjoy a joke now and again. He's the son of an old family friend.”

“Is that a fact?” Snowley drew the question out. “How is it that I've never heard of you before? Or anyone named Dysart, for that matter?”

“His mother and Mama were friends at school,” Lizzie replied.

“I wrote to the duke ages ago,” Dysart put in, thankfully adopting a more believable accent. “We've been keeping up a lively correspondence. His grace saw fit to invite me to this little gathering in hopes we might meet face-to-face.”

“Indeed.” Snowley rubbed at his chin. “And yet you have no conveyance of your own?”

“That was a stroke of pure luck, my good man.” The lightness in Dysart's tone contrasted with the hard glint in his eye. He clapped Snowley on the shoulder. “I was on my way here when my coach broke down. Lady Elizabeth happened along just in time to rescue me. She insisted on seeing me to shelter, as it were.” He threw out an all-encompassing arm. “And what a shelter it is.”

Snowley caught her gaze. “Lizzie?”

She gave him a tight smile. “It's just as he says. I could hardly leave him stranded. And what are you doing here, when the other guests aren't set to arrive until tomorrow?”

Not only that, he was clearly just leaving. Had Snowley hoped to make his escape before she came home?

“I had some business to discuss with the duke.” He brushed an invisible speck of dust from the front of his topcoat before staring at her straight on.

“What sort of business?” Although she could guess, given the way he was looking at her. In another moment or two, he'd be salivating.

“Now, now.” He waved a finger in front of her nose like a peevish governess reminding her not to breach some minor point of etiquette. “That's a secret, but you'll find out soon enough. Besides, I've heard he's been feeling poorly of late. More so than usual, that is.”

A prickle of alarm raised the hairs on the back of Lizzie's neck. What had Dysart said about this man? He had motive, yes. And perhaps opportunity. Had he stopped in to ensure his plans were working? “Who told you Papa's been unwell?”

She had to credit herself for keeping her tone light. And not looking at Dysart.

“Oh, you know.” Once more he brushed his hands down his front. “Word gets out. You know how servants gossip.”

“And how is Papa? I had to run to Town over some last-minute party details. I do hope nothing's happened in my absence.” Somehow she managed to force her reply past the rapidly forming knot in her throat. That last thing she'd wanted to do was leave Papa while he was feeling poorly to attend to business, but she'd had little choice. Doubly so when her consultation with Dr. Fowler had proven fruitless.

“He struck me as no worse than usual.”

Relief washed through her, but only for a moment. What if he wanted to convince her to overlook Papa's stomach ailments? “I believe I'll have a look in on him just to be sure. You were leaving, at any rate, weren't you?”

“I was.” He gaze flicked over her shoulder toward Dysart. “But I wonder if it isn't better that I stay.”

“Nonsense.”

She didn't get any further than that, because Dysart stepped in front of her to clap Snowley on the shoulder. Again. “By all means, stay. Not that my lady hasn't been delightful company, and I shall ever be indebted to her for coming to my rescue, but a man sometimes wishes for more masculine entertainments.” He reached into his topcoat, produced a silver snuffbox, flipped the lid, and waved it beneath Snowley's nose. “Do you partake?”

Above his impressive side-whiskers, Snowley's cheeks reddened. He stepped back, coughing into his fist so hard, he doubled over. Dysart pounded him on the back, which nearly sent Snowley sprawling face-first into the drive.

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Snowley wheezed as soon as he got his breathing under control. A stray tear leaked from the corner of one eye.

Dysart pulled a flask from his waistcoat. “I think I might have something for that cough.”

Snowley waved him off. “Your pardon. My housekeeper makes a most excellent cordial. Just the thing. Lizzie, you can count on me to return in time to help you greet your guests.”

Dysart smirked after him as he stumbled toward his carriage, nearly colliding with a pair of servants unloading Lizzie's London purchases. Gravel kicked up beneath Snowley's wheels as he clattered off down the drive. Soon enough he disappeared into the trees beyond the far end of the pond. Lizzie let out her breath and pivoted, only to find Dysart had turned his considering expression on her.

“Lizzie, is it?” he asked, looking her up and down. “I'd never have twigged you for a Lizzie.”

She caught herself just before something ill-considered popped out of her mouth—such as a question on what he had expected. However he viewed her shouldn't matter, not one whit. “As your chosen role in this house implies we are not well acquainted, you may refer to me as Lady Elizabeth.”

His cheeks creased under the force of his renewed smirk, and he gave his forelock an exaggerated pull. “If you say so, my lady.”