To Lure a Proper Lady (7 page)

“I'd much rather play Rumpy Pumpy,” the man next to Dysart muttered. Lord Allerdale, that was the name. He'd been the source of the lewdest comments over port.

Unfortunately, Lady Whitby must have overheard the comment. She sent a glare in their direction and raised her nose. “No, I think we'd best play something a bit more staid.”

Allerdale sighed. “Suppose that remark will cut me off a few guest lists, but if it spares me evenings of charades, it might be worth it.”

Lady Caroline's lips stretched into a grin that could only be described as calculating. The expression raised the hairs on the back of Dysart's neck. “I think we
should
play Buffy Gruffy, but I'll wager we can make it far more interesting.”

Lady Elizabeth eyed her sister. No, she didn't trust this scheme any more than Dysart did. “What do you mean, more interesting?”

“Well…” Lady Caroline paused for effect. “Under normal circumstances, we'd just have everyone sit in a circle, blindfold somebody, and then they'd have to guess who they were standing in front of. I think it would be far more fun if the blindfolded person had to sit in the lap of the person whose identity they were guessing.”

Gasps and giggles erupted from the ladies, all but Lady Whitby, whose expression grew thunderous.

“Oh, yes, let's.” Lady Philippa had been true to her reputation as the quiet sister up to this point, but now she chimed in. “It'll be decidedly more fun if we blindfold the ladies and let them guess who the gentlemen are.”

A few more gasps and giggles emerged from behind fluttering fans. Several of the gentlemen stood a bit straighter. Allerdale muttered, “Perhaps this won't be so bad, after all.”

Lady Whitby, on the other hand, grasped her daughter by the arm. “Come along, Anna. I refuse to allow you to participate in such scandalous goings-on.”

“It won't be so scandalous,” Philippa protested.

“Besides,” Caroline added, “if you and the other chaperones leave, things are certain to become scandalous. You wouldn't want to be party to that, would you?”

Judging by Lady Whitby's expression, she
did
wish to be party to scandal—if a witness could be considered party. Dysart recalled her sort from his youth. She'd die before she missed out on an opportunity for prime gossip. So would the other mamas and chaperones, who all seemed to be watching Lady Whitby for a silent cue.

Caroline recognized as much, for she moved in for the kill. “Why don't we have Elizabeth go first, and you'll see it's just innocent fun.”

In a trice, the chairs were arranged, and Caroline herded Dysart into one of them, next to Pendleton—who smelled like the bottom of a wine barrel, damn it all. A pity Bow Street didn't hire women, because she'd managed him into that seat more efficiently than most Runners brought in a thief. Most of their female guests ringed the walls to observe whatever scandal was about to take place.

Philippa twisted a swath of fabric about Lady Elizabeth's eyes. The set of Elizabeth's lips reminded Dysart of an expression he'd often seen on his quarries just before he brought them in, something of resignation mingled with terror. He wasn't sure he blamed her. Allerdale was practically rubbing his hands together and drooling at the prospect of a firm female arse on his knees. The bastard.

Philippa turned her sister in a circle before giving her a little push. “Off you go now.”

Hands outstretched, Elizabeth lurched forward, reeling toward Allerdale as if she'd drunk as much port as Pendleton.

“No, not that way,” Philippa cried out.

Elizabeth wobbled to a halt and pivoted in the direction of her sister's voice. Facing Dysart's side of the circle. And why did he get the sudden feeling he was being set up?

Doubtless because he was. The thought of Caroline's hearty approval floated through his mind. The little hoyden had recruited the youngest sister in her campaign to ensure Elizabeth lived up to the family name. Dysart was all for that—as long as they left him out of their schemes.

Elizabeth stumbled in his direction. No, she headed toward Pendleton's seat. In another instant she'd be in the scoundrel's lap. Dysart couldn't let that happen, not with Pendleton in his cups. Without thinking, he reached out and dragged her into his arms.

She landed on his knee with a soft
whoosh
of air, a sound he might have taken for a sigh of pleasure in more intimate circumstances. At the same time, he breathed in a great lungful of roses. The silk of her gown slid beneath his fingers just as cool and smooth as he'd imagined. The texture dug up thoughts of the skin beneath the thin barriers of her skirts and chemise. It would be just as soft. Softer.

She settled back against his chest, and his hand found the firmness of her thigh. The devil take it. They were supposed to be proving this game was not scandalous, and he was groping a bloody duke's daughter in front of a roomful of people.

So much for not drawing attention to himself. He could only hope Lady Elizabeth blocked Lady Whitby from catching a clear view of his face.

“Go on,” Caroline prompted, her smile irritatingly broad. “You're supposed to ask questions and guess who's holding you.”

Elizabeth wriggled on his lap, settling herself closer. His breeches became uncomfortably tight, and he constricted his arms about her. If she didn't stop fidgeting, she'd have to stay right where she was for a good long time until certain parts of his anatomy decided to behave.

“Ah, let me see…” She sounded oddly breathless, like she'd run across the breadth of the estate, rather than crossing a few strides to him. “On what occasion were we formally introduced?”

Liar.
But he'd have to lie, rather than admit to the entire assembly they'd never been properly presented to each other. Lady Whitby would surely swoon if she learned Lady Elizabeth Wilde had ventured to Bow Street by herself. But then, Lady Whitby would require a good deal more than smelling salts if she could see the state of his breeches.

Caroline crossed her arms. “Oh, good heavens. If you're going to ask after such mundane things, you'll have us all to sleep in no time.”

“Maybe we should ask the questions for her,” Philippa put in. “I've a much better one. Does Lady Elizabeth have occasion to know how well you kiss?”

A flash of heat raced down the back of his neck to pool in his groin. He tugged at his cravat. Sherrington's confounded valet had tied it in some cunning fashion or other. Dysart had the feeling it wasn't meant to constrict with every breath, but that was just what the blasted linen swath seemed to be doing—throttling him slowly, one inhalation at a time.

Lady Whitby let out a screech. She'd placed herself squarely in front of Anna as if her physical presence might protect the chit from such a disgraceful sight. “You promised this would be innocent.”

Caroline cocked her head. “What is so shocking as a kiss given in forfeit in a simple parlor game?”

“To answer the question…” Dysart cleared his throat and started over, remembering to disguise his voice this time. “The answer is no. No, she does not.”

No matter that he'd enjoy remedying that particular situation. He'd love to savor the sweetness of her lips and more, and to hell with any scandal he caused.

“Pity.” Caroline paused while she inspected her nails. “You know, Philippa, we never did decide on forfeits for this game.”

In his lap, Elizabeth stiffened. Whether in reaction to her sisters or his now-raging cockstand was moot. She was about to get up and expose him to the assembly, and he could hardly ask her to stay put a little while longer.

Before she could jump to her feet, the rasp of a throat clearing drew everyone's attention to the drawing room door. Caruthers hovered on the threshold. “The Lady Chaloner Wilde.”

Elizabeth gasped as an old woman swept in, spry and sprightly despite her apparent age. A mass of snow-white curls quivered beneath her lace cap. Vivid blue eyes sparkled amid a mass of wrinkles. And her gown…Dysart had seen similar garments on the drabs near St. Giles, castoffs of the nobility and at least five decades out of fashion. Lady Matilda's bright red bodice plunged to reveal a creased bosom.

Snowley bolted upright. “Grandmama.”

“Do forgive the lateness of my arrival.” The newcomer spread a fan that matched her gown and waved it with practiced boredom before her face. “We didn't set out before noon. But my goodness…” She let out an incongruously girlish giggle. “It seems I'm just in time for the fun.”

And with that pronouncement, she sailed to the opposite side of the room and plopped herself in Lord Allerdale's lap.

Lord Allerdale's face matched the color of Great-aunt Matilda's gown. Lizzie saw as much the moment she leapt to her feet and tore off her blindfold. Good gracious, what a mess. At least Lord Allerdale was too courteous to unceremoniously dump an old lady onto the floor.

The only person missing who could make matters worse was Great-aunt Matilda's hulking blond footman.

“Where is Sven?” Lizzie asked.

“And a good evening to you, too.” Great-aunt Matilda showed no inclination of leaving her current perch. “Lovely weather we're having, wouldn't you say?”

Two spots of heat formed on Lizzie's cheeks. No doubt they, too, matched Great-aunt Matilda's gown. If matters kept progressing in this fashion, the entire room would soon coordinate. Lady Whitby was also sporting a fetching shade of scarlet, although, in her case, the coloring was the result of holding in a display of temper.

Lizzie, however, could only feel the hot wash of shame at her lack of manners. Goodness, her aunt had wandered straight into a house party to which she'd not been invited. The moment the old lady realized that, she'd be hurt. As much as Lizzie wanted to ask how Great-aunt Matilda had chosen this precise moment to pay the family an unannounced visit, she could hardly do so in front of a roomful of guests.

“How have you been keeping, Aunt Matilda?”

“That's much better. For a woman my age, I can't complain. In fact”—she gave Lord Allerdale's shoulder a firm pat—“I'm feeling quite vigorous. Do tell me what the game is. I should love to participate.”

“I think we've had enough of games for one evening,” Lady Whitby burst out. “Such a shocking display.” She stood squarely in front of her daughter as though that might preserve the chit's innocent eyes.

Great-aunt Matilda let out a most unladylike snort. “You always were the worst sort of spoilsport. Still, I don't suppose it would do for my generation to show up you younger people.” And with that, she pushed herself to her feet.

“Thank God,” growled a voice at Lizzie's back. Dysart, just as she'd suspected the moment she landed on a solid pair of thighs. It was his particular clean scent tinged with a hint of tobacco. That she'd recognized it ought to alarm her, but it was the least of her worries now.

No, she was going to have to find a bedchamber for her great-aunt. The old lady might not balk at sharing quarters, but she'd certainly refuse to share with Snowley.

“Aunt Matilda.” Lizzie held out her hand. “Why don't we see about getting you settled?” She'd give up her own chamber. She could sleep in Papa's sitting room for the duration of the party—or at least until Lady Whitby decided she was affronted enough to leave. “I'm sure the journey was tiring.”

“Nonsense. I napped in the carriage.”

“Well, perhaps we can find Sven to take your bags up. You won't be staying in your usual rooms, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, I sent Sven straight on to see his grace. That's the reason I'm here, you understand. It's about time the duke tried a different sort of treatment for his ailments.”

At that statement Dysart stiffened, or so Lizzie surmised. It was the only explanation for the sudden waves of tension at her back. In her imagination, she saw his keen expression, the same one he'd worn in his Bow Street office.

“Who is this Sven?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. On edge.
In an investigation no one is above suspicion. Not until I say they are.
He might well have reminded her of that small fact aloud.

“He's Great-aunt Matilda's manservant, I suppose.” Lizzie was careful to keep her tone light. The others were listening.

“And what business does he have with the duke?”

“I'm not sure, exactly. Sven barely speaks English.”

Lady Whitby let out a huff. “Such carryings-on, and at your advanced age.”

Great-aunt Matilda waved her fan. “Whatever are you trying to insinuate?”

“Well, it's just so vulgar.”

“If you say so,” Great-aunt Matilda drawled, fan still fluttering. “Although you really ought to give it a try. I'd lend you Sven for an hour or so, and you'll see for yourself. The man's hands are nothing short of magic.”

Lady Whitby cast a terrified glance in her daughter's direction. Anna's expression could only be described as curious. Lady Whitby wrapped her hand about her daughter's wrist. “Come along, dear. The company here is no longer fit for the likes of us.”

Chin high, the hapless Anna in tow, Lady Whitby flounced from the room.

Great-aunt Matilda watched them go, eyes glittering, a slow smile stretching her aged features. “I never did like that woman.”

“I'd never have guessed,” Dysart muttered. “Good thing the other one left. I was beginning to wonder if we'd have to call for a bucketful of water to toss at them. The way you do with fighting cats.”

“Such a pity it didn't come to that,” Allerdale put in. “On the other hand, that was the most entertaining display I've seen in an age. Better than the theater.”

Insanity ran in Sherrington's family. That was the only explanation. From Lady Caroline parading about in breeches to the great-aunt—not to mention the duke himself—they were mad to the last. Except, perhaps Lady Elizabeth, and even then Dysart wasn't completely certain. She came off as the most sensible of the lot—but then, she might still reveal some odd personal preoccupation or other, like an unhealthy interest in moonlight bathing under that fish fountain. Stark naked.

He shook aside that thought. No matter how delectable her tight little arse had felt wriggling against his thighs, he had no call to imagine what it looked like unclothed. Not with someone of her rank.

Dysart prowled the corridors of the sleeping house, half wondering if madness was something you caught, like a cold. Either way, he refused to turn in until he was sure Pendleton had retired to his bedchamber. Somewhere on a lower floor, a case clock chimed a single stroke.

Damn the bastard, what was he about? Besides availing himself of Sherrington's brandy. After the disastrous attempt at parlor games, several of the gentlemen had repaired to the library to empty the decanter. But Dysart had only caught up with them later, after seeing to the duke.

At the thought of what he'd witnessed in Sherrington's bedchamber, a shudder passed through him. Mad, good God, yes.

He'd led the way up, Lady Elizabeth and Great-aunt Matilda following in his wake. Energy had spiked through him when a loud groan echoed into the corridor. But it wasn't one of his grace's attacks, not based on Great-aunt Matilda's reaction. “Oh, that Sven. He does do a fine job.”

That comment had left Dysart most reluctant to open the bedchamber door. The scene on the other side would have sent Lady Whitby into a dead faint had she not already taken herself off.

For Dysart had found Sherrington laid flat out on his belly, with nothing but a sheet to preserve his modesty. And towering above the duke, a blond giant of a man kneaded the old man's thin shoulder muscles. With each squeeze of those massive hands, the duke let out another groan of pleasure.

Sven had looked up and emitted a simple
“hej hej”
before setting back to work. As if it were an everyday occurrence to discover a duke in bed with a mountain of muscle.

“You ought to try it sometime,” Great-aunt Matilda had said with a nudge and a wink. “It's marvelously calming.”

Now, hours later, Dysart revisited the scene with an analytical eye, but he could find nothing sinister in the goings-on. Although…if Great-aunt Matilda was Snowley's direct relative, she might wish to see the dukedom pass on before she left this earth.

“You're grasping at straws,” he muttered to himself. “Likely there's nothing wrong with the old bugger. He's just as nutty as the rest of them.”

A scream, high-pitched and fearful, ripped through the quiet. Heart pulsing, Dysart pelted in the direction of the sound, the thud of his boots heavy in the renewed silence. Past chamber doors that clattered open as he ran by, the occupants blinking sleepily.

At the end of the corridor, double doors stood ajar. Damn it all, the duke's apartments. The cry had come from there.

He burst across the threshold and took in the scene in an instant. Lady Elizabeth, hair unbound and tumbling over the shoulders of a flowing white night rail. Pendleton, facing her with a menacing glare.

Anger surged. Dysart plowed into the bastard, hauling him by the lapels, manhandling him across to the wall. With a crash, Dysart pinned the scoundrel, one forearm across his throat.

Elizabeth let out another screech.

Dysart ignored her. “What the bloody hell are you about?”

Pendleton gurgled, but Dysart knew he was exerting just the right amount of pressure—not enough to crush the man's windpipe but sufficient to hold his attention. Dysart's skull throbbed with rage, as he recalled the last time he'd caught Pendleton alone with a female.

Finish the bastard. End it.
But if he acted on his emotion, he'd be no better than Pendleton.

Dysart settled for bashing Pendleton's head against the wall. “Answer me.”

The inner door swung open. “I say, what's going on here?”

Splendid. They'd roused the duke, along with the rest of the house. Dysart kept his focus on his quarry—but dearly hoped, for Elizabeth's sake, that Sherrington had donned a nightshirt.

Something tugged at his topcoat. “Let him loose.” In the midst of Dysart's fury, Elizabeth sounded so calm. “He merely startled me.”

“You explain to his grace, then, if he won't. Gods, what are you even doing here?”

“Your pardon for the disturbance, Papa,” Elizabeth said. “When Great-aunt Matilda turned up tonight, I realized we'd more guests than bedchambers. I gave her mine and came here to sleep.”

“And Pendleton?” Dysart grated. God help him. After he'd warned her, had she been foolish enough to plan an assignation? But no, that didn't explain the scream. Christ, he
was
going mad.

“I don't know. I was asleep, and he came in and startled me.”

Dysart loosened his grip—slightly. “Explain yourself.”

Pendleton coughed. He still stunk of drink. “You already heard I had business with his grace. I was merely attempting an audience since I wasn't granted one when I asked.”

“Oh?” said Sherrington. “This is the first I've heard of it.”

“I gave your man a coin to carry the message. Do you mean to say he didn't?”

“Caruthers knows when not to disturb me. I'm certain he would have said something eventually. At any rate, you can be sure I would never have been receptive at such an hour as this.” Sherrington may have spent the past few years all but bedridden, but he hadn't forgotten his ducal inflection. He managed the mix of imperiousness and dismissal with practiced ease.

“You'd best state the nature of your business,” Dysart said.

“It's a private matter—about a horse. I'd prefer not to have the story circulate.” Pendleton infused that last with a hint of menace.

“Horse?” Sherrington said. “I know nothing of a horse.”

“I contracted with your man to buy one of your mares.”

“In that case, you ought to perhaps consult Lady Caroline. She oversees anything to do with the stables. My health, you understand, forces me to pass certain duties along to others. But I'll advise you to choose your hour more wisely. Now, if you don't mind…”

That should have been the end of it, only the duke didn't trail off in suggestion that Pendleton leave. His statement ended in a groan of pain.

“Papa!”

Elizabeth's horrified cry tore at Dysart's heart. It also tore his focus away from Pendleton. He caught a glimpse of Sherrington doubled over, his daughter at his side, the skirts of her night rail floating ghostlike about her ankles. Pendleton took advantage of that instant to break Dysart's grip and rush to the door.

But not through it. The excitement had drawn a crowd.

Breathing hard, Pendleton turned an accusing finger on Dysart. “This man attacked me without cause.”

Clenched fists at his sides, Dysart advanced. “Not without cause,” he answered carefully. If he revealed the way he'd caught Pendleton alone with Lady Elizabeth, he could damage her reputation. “You were trespassing. Under rather suspicious circumstances, I might add.”

“Are you insinuating I had something to do with his grace's collapse?”

“Not at the moment, but if you don't wish for things to look fishy, I wouldn't entertain any ideas about leaving the party too soon.”

“This shall not be borne. I—”

“Stop it, both of you,” Elizabeth interjected. “We need to see to Papa. Where is Caruthers?”

“Here, my lady.” The butler emerged from the crowd about the door, followed by a pair of footmen and Sven. “Let us take care of the matter.”

In no time, they swept up the agonized duke and carried him into the bedchamber. The door swung shut with an echoing
thump.

Dysart turned toward Pendleton, but Elizabeth let out a whimper. Damn it all. That tiny cry tugged him back from his duty, yet for some reason he couldn't ignore her need.

Before he could make up his mind, the footmen and Sven filed out, leaving Caruthers shut up with Sherrington. One of the servants cast a glance at Elizabeth.

“That…that will be all,” she quavered.

With a nod, the man left. Dysart followed, only to find Pendleton gone once he reached the corridor. He dispersed the other onlookers with a glare. He ought to depart, as well, ought to go after Pendleton or return to his chamber, but the shivery note in Elizabeth's voice echoed through his mind.

He couldn't simply leave her, and the passage was now deserted.

He slipped back into the duke's quarters, to find Elizabeth standing in the same spot, her arms wrapped about herself. She stared at the door to Sherrington's inner sanctum, her lower lip caught in her teeth.