BVC Announces Duke of Deception by Marissa Doyle

Duke of Deception
The Ladies of Almack’s Omnibus #3
by Marissa Doyle

Volumes 7 and 8 of  The Ladies of Almack’s: fighting supernatural crime since 1771…

Young widow Annabel Chalfont, Countess of Fellbridge, has two small sons to raise, a mountain of her late husband’s debts to pay off, and a secret: she’s a shadow-shaper, able to manipulate shadow as anyone else might clay. She and six other high-born ladies with equally extraordinary abilities defend England against supernatural crime—but the world knows them only as the Lady Patronesses of Almack’s, Regency London’s most exclusive social venue.

This volume includes the next two installments of the series:

The Missing Missives: Attempted royal blackmail is bad. Betrayal by a trusted friend is worse.

Betrayal at Brighton: The Ladies learn that keeping a spoiled teen-aged princess out of trouble in the most sophisticated town in England is nothing compared to uncovering treason.

The Ladies of Almack’s, Volumes 7 and 8

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Marissa Doyle intended to be an archaeologist but somehow got distracted, so instead she excavates tales of magic and history from the matrix of her imagination. Or something like that. She lives in MA with her family, her research library, and a bossy pet rabbit. Visit her online at www.marissadoyle.com.

Buy Duke of Deception in the BVC bookstore

Read a Sample

Chapter One

Chesterfield Street, London
Late June 1810
A Tuesday morning, at an ungodly hour

“Gghrugr-ghurgr-ghrugr-ghrugr-ghrurrr!”

“What?” Annabel lifted her head from her still-damp pillow, blinking swollen eyes in the early morning light. She had forgotten to draw the curtains last night—or this morning—before she’d dragged herself to bed to finish crying herself to sleep.

“Gghrugr-ghrugr-ghlugghlllady Fellbridgghrugr-ghrugr-ghrurr?”

Oh, no. She sat up and glared at her windowsill. A large gray pigeon perched there, gazing around her bedchamber with great interest. “I thought Sally had replaced you all with the ghostly footmen?” she said irritably to it.

The pigeon fluttered its wings and flew a few feet further into the room, perching on the back of a chair. “Gghrhurghr. Footmen wouldn’t come. You—ghrughr—look a gh-gr-wreck,” he added, turning his head to peer at her first with one dark, beady eye, then the other.

“Are you here to comment on my appearance or summon me to an emergency Lady Patronesses’ meeting?” Confound it, if she wanted to be thoroughly miserable in the privacy of her own bedchamber, she would. She certainly had all the reason in the world to have cried herself to sleep last night after Quin’s cold—and very public—cut direct yesterday in the middle of King Street.

She winced at the memory. After their kiss in Mrs. Bunwich’s parlour in Epsom, after what he had said to her there—after everything that had passed between them in the last few months—what had made him do it?

And why, as suddenly, had his behavior toward Frances Dalrymple, her fellow Lady Patroness, undergone an equally radical change? Shatter-witted, spinsterish Frances had chased him for years; he’d responded to her flirtations with bored civility or, more usually, thinly veiled contempt—when he’d noticed her at all. But no more; she and Frances might as well have switched places, for Quin had barely acknowledged her existence yesterday, while offering Frances every sign of regard. It had been almost a physical blow when Quin’s eyes had slid over her as if she wasn’t there—

“Ggghrrr!” The pigeon rustled his feathers peevishly. “I’m here—gghruhhr—to summon you, if you would—gghrur—pay attention.”

“I beg your pardon, but I had an excessively bad day yesterday.” Annabel reached for her wrapper—her old one, not the confection of ribbon and lace Mama had bought for her—at the foot of the bed. “Why couldn’t the footmen come?” She cast a suspicious look at the windowsill and floor beneath the chair where the pigeon perched, but both were unsullied.

“Wouldn’t—gg—come. Ignorrrhed the call.” The pigeon somehow managed to look somber. “Lady Ghr—Ghersey is most displeased.”

“I’m not surprised.” Sally loathed the garbled speech of the pigeons, which was why she’d hired the ghostly footmen—though this particular pigeon was unusually articulate. What could have made the footmen refuse her summons? Such a thing had never happened before. “I expect you have someone else to call on,” she said before he could accuse her of wool-gathering again. “So if you will be so kind as to tell me what time I am expected—”

He—how did she know the bird was a he?—shook his head. “No one else to tell. Ghr—tryinggg to tell you—prrivate meeting. Not everyone there.”

“Oh.” That was interesting. Annabel knew that some investigations were of such a sensitive nature that only those Lady Patronesses chosen by Sally and Mr. Almack to conduct them knew about them. This was the first time she’d been called to one; a pity, as it was difficult at this time to conjure much interest in anything beyond her own misery.

But that could not be helped: she was a Lady Patroness, and a summons could not be refused in any but the most extreme of circumstances. Not even being dead was an excuse, as Mr. Almack could attest. She rose, pulling her wrapper on over her nightrail. “Very well, then. Thank you. If you will excuse—”

“You’re to be at G-Gh-Khing Street no later than eight. Might want to rring for yourr maid.” The pigeon stood up taller and flapped his wings once or twice. “Should—gghrr—have breaggfast before you gggo,” he added hopefully.

The thought of trying to choke down anything, even toast, was singularly repulsive, but Winters would fuss if she didn’t have something sent up. It was a fortuitous circumstance to have a talking pigeon in her room who, it appeared, would welcome a bite to eat. She went to the bell pull. “Yes, but hide yourself when the chambermaid comes in, please.”

The pigeon fluttered up to the canopy rail of her bed and perched there, unmoving, while the chambermaid brought her hot water and promised to send Winters up with toast and strong coffee and to order down to the stables for her carriage to be ready for half past seven. Annabel bent over the gently steaming washbowl; a brisk interview with soap and water would hopefully wash away the ravages of a tear-filled night. But when she sat down at her dressing table and began to comb her hair, her reflection told her otherwise—as did the pigeon, now gazing down at her from the mirror’s frame. “Ghrr—not much better,” he commented.

Annabel’s comb hit a tangle. “Ow. I’m beginning to understand why Sally prefers the footmen.”

The pigeon shrugged. “Ghr. You’rre unhappy. Hh-hwhy?”

A lump rose in her throat. The beastly bird actually sounded sympathetic. “Someone I know—that is, I thought I knew—was not—does not feel as he led me to—as I thought he did.”

“Hhurr.” The pigeon dipped his head a few times. “Know hhow—ghr—how that feels.”

Annabel stopped combing. “You do?”

“Ghrr. My beautiful one—she of the deepest eye, the plumpest breast, the smoothest feathers—ghhrr.” His beak drooped. “She loved me once, but does no longgher.”

The poor thing! Evidently even pigeons could be crossed in love. “What happened?”

“Ghr. Don’t know. Flew up to see her, in the park where our flock gh-goes in the morning, and—hhur—she wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t look at me.”

“Why, that’s exactly what happened to me,” Annabel said. Who would have guessed that she’d be spending this morning swapping heartache stories with a pigeon? “I wish I could help you. Does she, er, speak to humans?”

The pigeon nodded. “Gghr. Our flock gh-got enchanted many eggh-lives aggho. She used to summon you ladies too, same as others of us. Wouldn’t gg-go today, when order came.”

“How odd. What do you think—oh, thank you, Winters.”

Annabel’s maid had just backed into the room, bearing a tray. She set it down on a side table and sketched a curtsy. “Your breakfast, ma’am. What do I think about—good heavens, there’s a pigeon on your looking glass!” She hurried toward it, flapping her apron. “How did it get in here? Shoo, you!”

Annabel put out a restraining hand. “No, please don’t—he’s a friend.”

Winters halted, regarding the pigeon suspiciously. “A…friend, madam? That malodorous creature—”

The pigeon flapped his wings back at Winters and muttered a rude word.

Winters’ jaw dropped. “Did it—did it just say what I think it did?”

“Very likely,” Annabel said. “However, I would appreciate his not doing so again,” she added sternly. “He’s here to call me to a meeting in King Street.”

Winters, to her credit, only blinked once before saying, “Of course, madam. Shall I get out your blue walking dress?”

A memory, unbidden, flashed through her mind: the last time she’d worn that dress had been to the Summer Exhibition at Somerset House with Quin after Angelique Ronderley had put the pictures aright. Her breath caught; was this how her life would be for the next few months? Would things she did, clothes she wore, anything she heard or saw be defined by the last time she’d done or worn or seen or heard them with Quin? It was as if—as if he was dead, only she’d not felt any such desolation whilst she was in mourning for Freddy. And that was precisely what it was: mourning.

For a moment, she could not answer. Finally, she managed, “Yes, that will do, Winters.”

Her maid glanced at her, then went back to the tray and poured a cup of coffee, added liberal amounts of sugar and cream, and brought it to her. Winters knew something had happened yesterday; she didn’t ask what, for a good servant never would. But she made it clear that she understood something was amiss and sympathized.

“Ghr—you ggghoing to eat that?” The pigeon had hopped over to the table holding the tray and was examining the toast-rack with interest.

“Yes, she is.” Winters glared at him.

“He can have a piece,” Annabel said quickly.

“With gh-jh-jam!”

“Hmph.” But Winters scraped some jam onto a triangle of toast. The pigeon took it delicately from her, did a complicated sort of movement that was part nod, part bow, and took flight out the window.

Winters went to it and pulled it partly closed. “I—er—I know what you told me when we were at Epsom, my lady, but a talking pigeon?”

“Yes, it’s rather a shock, the first time.” Annabel put down her cup. “It’s usually ghostly footmen these days.”

Winters shuddered. “I think I prefer the pigeon. May I help you with your stays?”

Annabel allowed Winters to help her dress and did not object when she tactfully suggested a little pearl powder to reduce the shadows around her eyes. But she was abstracted—and not wholly because of Quin. She could not get the pigeon out of her mind, for obvious reasons…but also, why had the footmen not come when Sally called them?

A little more than an hour later, Annabel was climbing the stairs to the Lady Patronesses’ meeting room on the second floor of Almack’s. At this hour it was quiet and shadowy; no servants bustled about sweeping floors or putting fresh candles in the chandeliers, and Mr. Willis had stifled a yawn as he opened the door for her. But a gentle murmur of conversation and the aroma of coffee as she came to the top of the stairs told her that her new pigeon friend had not misled her. She straightened her shoulders and tried not to think of how she would much rather have been in bed, trying to sleep through her misery…no, she would not think of that. Who else had been summoned to this special, private investigation? She could hear Sally’s penetrating tones and a softer voice that might have been Clementina’s.

“Good morning,” she said, stepping around the partly-closed door—and stopped short, gripping the door frame with one hand for support.

Yes, there was Sally, of course, and an empty seat with a pipe on the table before it, indicating that Mr. Almack was present. On Sally’s other side was Clementina Drummond-Burrell, as she had guessed.

And there in the seat by Clementina was Frances, wearing a sunny smile.

Frances. Here. Now.

“Annabel!” she exclaimed. “Are you helping with this investigation too? What fun! Come and sit by me!” She patted the table next to her. “I’m so glad you’re here—it saves writing a note. Won’t you dine with us on Thursday? Remember, you promised Alec you would once you were back.”

Annabel forced her fingers to uncurl from the frame of the door. “G-good morning,” she stammered. Frances! Of all the Lady Patronesses Sally might have asked to join this investigation, why did Frances have to be one of them? Why now?

“Ah, good morning, Annabel.” Sally inclined her head in greeting. “May I trouble you to shut the door behind you? Frances, shall we save the discussion of dinner invitations for later?”

Frances pouted slightly. “I beg your pardon, Sally.”

Annabel shut the door and took the chair next to Mr. Almack, busying herself with removing her gloves and trying not to look (or look as if she was trying not to look) at Frances across the table from her. All she could see, in her mind’s eye, was the adoring look Frances had given Quin yesterday—and his returning smile.

“Thank you.” Sally looked around the table. “Before we begin, I feel I must apologize for the pigeons. I don’t know what happened to the footmen.”

Annabel took a steadying breath. This would not do! Sally had called her here because she was needed; it was time to put aside her own problems and attend to the larger one at hand. “Yes, I heard. The pigeon who came to me was…he liked to talk,” she said. Her voice even sounded almost as it always did, at least to her own ears.

“Dreadful creatures.” Sally sniffed. “Believe me, I shall be having a word with the footmen. Now, as we’re all here…” She leaned forward and fixed each of them in turn with a grave look. “This is an excessively delicate situation indeed, one that will require the utmost discretion. It is also unusual in that two of you have not yet participated in a private investigation—but Clementina is the one who was first made aware of the situation, and your shadow-shaping, Annabel, will be particularly useful.”

“What about me?” Frances asked.

“Yes, Frances, you too,” Sally said. “Your help will be important, as you’ll hear. Clementina, will you begin?”

Clementina straightened in her chair. She was past the early months of her pregnancy now and looked less pale and peaked than she had earlier in the spring. “Very well. I happened to consult my physician yesterday afternoon over a trifling matter. Do any of you know Sir Henry Halford?”

“Halford?” Annabel asked. “Freddy went to him about his indigestion once or twice, I believe, although I never met him. He’s much consulted by the royal family, is he not? I’ve heard the king likes him very well.”

Frances tittered. “It’s a wonder he has time to see anyone beyond the king. They say the old man’s getting monstrous bad again—quite dotty, in fact.”

Clementina raised her eyebrows slightly, but did not reply. “Yes, that Sir Henry. He’s a cousin of my mother’s by marriage. And he does take care of several members of the royal family. He’s an excellent physician.”

Annabel leaned forward. “I do hope your complaint was a trifling one, Clementina.”

Clementina smiled—truly smiled—at her. “Yes, thank you, Annabel. As it happens, Sir Henry was more in need of a sympathetic ear than I was.”

“Oh my goodness,” Frances said. “Now I am intrigued! What was Sir Henry so upset about?”

Clementina looked at Sally, who nodded encouragingly. She took a deep breath and said, “Sir Henry has been put into the position of unwilling intermediary in an attempt at blackmail.”

“Blackmail!” Annabel was shocked into exclaiming.

“Blackmail!” Frances sounded equally appalled. “But what—that is, of whom?”

“Sir Henry received an unsigned letter yesterday, directly before I saw him—which might explain why he confided in me. The writer of the letter states that he is in possession of correspondence that its author would doubtless not wish to see broadcast to her family and friends—or beyond.”

“Who is the author of this correspondence?” Annabel asked.

“Her…” Clementina hesitated. “Her Royal Highness, the Princess Amelia.”

Oh, dear. Princess Amelia was the youngest surviving child of the king and queen, and very much the king’s—and the entire family’s—petted darling. She had been a bouncing, lively girl until the age of fifteen, when a mysterious knee inflammation sent her to the seaside at Weymouth for a course of therapeutic sea-bathing. While eventually the inflammation subsided, the princess’s health was never the same. Now, at the age of twenty-seven, the once-boisterous girl could barely leave her room despite the ministrations and prescriptions of Britain’s most distinguished physicians. Who could be so heartless as to treat an invalid in such a way?

“No!” Frances goggled at Clementina. “To whom had she written the letters?”

“To Sir Charles Fitzroy, one of the King’s equerries.” Clementina was clearly deeply uncomfortable; no wonder Sally had warned them that this was a delicate situation. “It seems they have, er, been in love for years. The princess wishes more than anything to marry him.”

Frances tsked. “That rumor’s been around forever—but marriage?”

“The king would not allow her, would he?” Annabel thought she knew the answer, but had to ask.

“No, it’s not likely that he would,” Clementina said. “Remember that he took a great deal of convincing to allow the Princess Royal to marry the Duke of Württemberg—and he was a ruling monarch. Can you imagine him allowing his favorite child to marry his equerry?” She hesitated again. “It gets worse. Sir Henry told me that—that the princess is very ill and not expected to live much longer.”

There was a shocked silence around the table before Mr. Almack said, quietly, “The puir lass.”

“This is an outrage!” Frances burst out. “How dare this…this villain attempt such a thing on a dying woman? I wonder that he did not approach her directly.”

“Sir Henry said he was glad that he did not,” Clementina said. “The last thing he wants to do is for her to know about this letter. The princess can be, er, rather excitable, and might almost be pleased to have her intimacy with Sir Charles trumpeted to the world in hopes that it might forward their scheme of marriage. Except…” She glanced at Sally again, as if seeking permission, then said, almost in a whisper, “If she does that, Sir Henry’s fear is that the balance of the king’s mind will be irretrievably overset.”

This time, the silence around the table was a fraught one. “So it isn’t mere gossip, then?” Annabel asked, to break the tension. “The king is truly that fragile?”

“That is what Sir Henry implied,” Clementina said. “The poor man is distraught; he said he would gladly pay the blackmailer’s demands out of his own purse in order to keep this whole matter quiet but cannot afford to—an extraordinary sum has been named. We must think of something to do about this!”

“I know what I should wish to do; this blackmailer deserves to be drawn and quartered. The poor, poor, dear princess!”

Annabel glanced up in surprise. Frances’s cheeks were pink and her eyes narrowed in indignation. Yet a moment ago she’d referred disparagingly to the king as a dotty old man. How odd.

“I hope you will all agree that we must track this blackmailer down and get the letters from him before he goes either to the princess or to the king,” Sally said.

Annabel had been a Lady Patroness long enough now that she could guess the broad outline of Sally’s strategy: find the blackmailer and remove the letters from his possession without his knowing. “We’ve had a good deal of practice with stealth in our investigations so far this season,” she commented.

Sally nodded to her. “Indeed. Stealth is our best strategy in this situation. While I could wish that it were not necessary for Clementina to be involved in her condition—”

“Nonsense, Sally,” Clementina interrupted. “I’m in perfectly good health—well enough to help with this matter.”

“I wish Georgiana were here,” Annabel was surprised to hear herself say. “She and I have worked well together on other investigations of this sort.”

“I do too, Annabel. But she’ll be away in the country for another few weeks to recuperate from her exertions at Epsom. I believe Jem Salter is helping her.” She turned to Clementina. “If we’re to have any chance of finding the blackmailer, Sir Henry must be convinced to permit Frances to examine the letter he received. Do you think he’ll be amenable to that?”

“I’ll send a note immediately to ask him to call on me tomorrow, if possible, and to bring the letter with him. I am certain he’ll be happy to once he understands that we hope to be able to resolve this situation. Will it be convenient for us to meet at noon? Annabel? Frances?”

“Yes,” Annabel said. It would necessitate another meeting with Frances, but she would have to learn to deal with that, wouldn’t she?

“I also wish to hear what Sir Henry has to say,” Sally put in. “Do you mind, Clementina?”

“Of course not.”

“If it isna too much trouble, I’ll come as well,” Mr. Almack said, then chuckled. “But I dinna think we need to inform Sir Henry of my presence. Not many of these men o’ science are likely to believe I’m here.”

“Of course you’re welcome to come, Mr. Almack,” Clementina said. “You always are, and I would be most grateful for your opinion on the matter. But…” She looked around the room at them. “I am somewhat concerned about how Sir Henry will deal with—with us.”

Annabel thought of her friend Eliza Denton and her maid Winters, both of whom she’d told her secret. “Sir Henry is your cousin. Do you think he can be trusted?”

“It’s not so much that, as whether he’ll believe us. He’s excessively clever—a man of science, as Mr. Almack said.” Clementina nodded to him—or to his chair. “But we are not scientific.”

Sally looked as though she’d found a slug in her strawberry trifle. “Scientific, my eye. We don’t need science!”

“No. But he does.”

Sally sniffed. “That is his affair. It is not necessary for him to believe in us for us to resolve this unpleasant matter as expeditiously as possible.”

Annabel tried not to think of Quin—Lord Quinceton, she reminded herself sternly—taking Demetria Pouli and Angelique Ronderley and Charlotte Broxley in stride. “I agree. So long as he is able to accept our resolving the situation.”

“I do not see why he shouldn’t. I know I shall be most interested to discover who this blackmailer is,” Frances put in.

“As will we all.” Sally sighed. “This troubles me. It’s one thing to encourage Sirens to leave London and resolve feuds among artists—but to blackmail a member of the royal family? It feels…I don’t know.”

“Ominous.” Mr. Almack spoke suddenly. “Like a cloud on the horizon that wasna there a moment ago.”

“Then we shall hope we can make it go away.” Sally rose. “We shall meet again tomorrow at noon, at Clementina’s, unless Sir Henry is unable to come. Thank you, ladies.”

“I am still aghast that anyone could do such a thing to poor Princess Amelia.” Frances fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief with which to dab at her eyes. “It’s dreadful.”

Both Clementina and Sally moved to pat her shoulders and murmur encouragement. Annabel hesitated, then spoke a brief farewell and quietly removed herself from the meeting room, hurrying down the stairs before Frances could pull herself together and descend on her with further plaintive invitations to dine. Frances was—had been—her friend; it made her feel even worse to want to avoid her. But if Quin had decided he preferred her…

She took a deep breath. Very well, then: she would allow herself twenty-four hours to adjust to this new state of affairs—to mourn, as it were, the stillbirth of whatever had begun between herself and him. Tomorrow, at Clementina’s, she would once again greet Frances as her colleague and friend, and Quin—Quin would be her late husband’s friend, and no more.

She gained the hall and slipped out the door and onto the pavement, pausing to pull on her gloves before going up the street a short distance to where Thomas stood with the carriage. There: she had survived. Now she would go home and call for a warm bath, and then write cheerful letters to Grandmama Shellingham and the boys. And perhaps a nap—

“Lady Fellbridge! Please—may I speak with you?”

Annabel looked up. A man, oddly enveloped on this pleasant summer morning in a cloak with the hood raised so that it partly concealed his face, stood a few paces from her. There was something vaguely familiar about his voice; hadn’t she spoken with him somewhere recently?

Then he pushed back the hood, and she knew him. “Why, Lord—Lord Rossing, isn’t it?” He had been with Lord Glenrick that morning she and Eliza Denton had visited the Summer Exhibition.

He glanced nervously about him, then bowed. “You are most kind to recall me from such an abbreviated meeting.”

Abbreviated indeed. He’d barely acknowledged her and Eliza’s presence; she remembered his air of boredom and mild annoyance as Lord Glenrick spoke to them. This morning, in contrast, he seemed anything but bored. Instead, a barely-contained agitation animated his craggy features, and his hands clutched the edges of his cloak in a white-knuckled grip. Annabel eyed them uneasily. “Is there something wrong, sir? May I assist you?”

He took a step closer. “Everything’s wrong,” he said hoarsely. “All of it. Ever since the Fourth of June—I’ve barely been able to sleep—” He swallowed convulsively.

The fourth of—oh, that was where else she had heard his name! The Fourth of June—the king’s birthday celebration at Eton that the Thames river nymphs had nearly turned into a catastrophe…for which Lord Rossing was directly responsible because he had failed to carry out his duties as King’s Maintenancer of the Tamesian Potamides. The memory of her son Will’s white, scared face as he’d clung to the gunwales of his boat on the roiling river was enough to make her want to belabor the man about the head with her reticule. If Quin had not been there that day—but she could not think of Quin just now.

Then she remembered further: Sally had tasked Frances with discovering why Lord Rossing had not fulfilled his duties as Maintenancer—whether through incompetence, neglect, or (although it had not been said aloud) malign intent. Frances had not reported back either at yesterday’s regular meeting or today about him, so she evidently had not spoken to him. Or had she? Was it a coincidence that he was here in King Street?

“May I ask what you wish to speak to me about?” she asked.

He made a movement as if to reach for her hand, but stilled when she drew back in alarm. “Those boys. In the water. You were there—you saw them.”

She watched him closely. “Yes?”

This time, he succeeded in grasping her arm. “I was there, too. My grandson—he was in the water with those monsters. He was unharmed, thanks to your quick thinking, but—” His mouth worked, then he burst out, “I didn’t know! If I’d had any idea that this would happen, I would never have agreed to it! Grown men are one thing, but endangering innocent children—”

“It wasn’t really my quick thinking,” she felt duty-bound to say.

“No?” He shrugged. “It’s what Quinceton told everyone that day.”

He continued talking—at least, she heard him say words—but all she could see and hear was Quin moving from group to group of picnickers on that grassy field by the river, warning them not to gossip about the events they’d witnessed. And telling them, it seemed, that it was due to her that all had ended well.

Yet yesterday he had practically looked through her.

“Lady Fellbridge?”

Lord Rossing was peering at her at her anxiously. She forced her attention back to him. “I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

He darted a quick look down the street, toward St. James’s. “Might I ask—would you be so kind as to permit me to call on you? I don’t—this is not a place to discuss—”

“Why, Lord Rossing! What a pleasant surprise!”

Annabel started, then sighed inwardly as Frances joined them on the pavement. So much for her quiet departure from the meeting! If only Lord Rossing had simply sent her a note asking to call on her!

But her dismay was as nothing to Lord Rossing’s. He practically leapt into the air, and his face drained of color as he turned toward Frances. “L-lady Frances,” he stammered.

“What a coincidence that you should be here now! My dear brother was saying only yesterday that he hadn’t had any news of you for too long and must call on you to invite you to dine with us soon.” Frances gave him a sunny smile.

By this time Lord Rossing had regained some of his composure, though he seemed to avoid meeting Frances’s eyes. “I’ve been—that is, it is most kind of him.”

“Not at all!” Frances brushed past Annabel and took his arm. “I’ve just had the best idea: why don’t you accompany me back to Carrick House now? It is not too long a walk, and you and Alec can have a comfortable chat over breakfast. Or coffee, if you’ve already broken your fast.”

His still-pale face turned positively ashen. “No! I—I really must return home now. I—an appointment—I’m expecting a caller—”

“Oh, la, sir, we shan’t keep you long. I am certain your caller won’t mind if you’re the littlest bit late. Do excuse us, Annabel,” she called over her shoulder. “I shall see you tomorrow!”

Annabel stared in bemusement as Frances propelled him down King Street. Thank goodness that Frances had latched onto Lord Rossing rather than onto her.

But something felt off about the whole business—something about Lord Rossing’s manner toward her and then toward Frances. Very different, but each equally odd. And something else—a recollection that wouldn’t quite return to her—

Sally emerged from Almack’s then, with Clementina close behind her. “Ah, Annabel.” She followed Annabel’s gaze down the street to Frances’s and Lord Rossing’s retreating backs. “Who is that with Frances?”

“Lord Rossing—also known as the King’s Maintenancer of the Potamides,” she added, more quietly. Oh, what was it?

Sally’s eyes narrowed. “Really? I wonder what he was doing here? It’s all to the good; I’d intended to ask Frances if she’d learnt anything more about him, but we’ve been so busy of late—”

That was it! “Do you recall how Frances said that she thought he might be an acquaintance of her brother’s, but she wasn’t certain?”

“Yes.”

“I ran into them—Lord Rossing and Lord Glenrick—together at the Summer Exhibition. They appeared to be more than mere acquaintances—much more. And just now Frances treated him as if he were an old friend and made him accompany her home, which makes no sense.” Annabel paused. “He—I think he was lying in wait to speak to me. He began speaking about what happened on the river at Eton and had asked if he could call on me when Frances came out. Her appearance seemed to startle him—no, it was more than that. Terrify him, I should have said.”

“How odd.” Sally continued to stare as Frances and Lord Rossing turned the corner into St. James’s Street and vanished from view. “Very well,” she said briskly, seeming to dismiss them from her thoughts. “May I offer you a ride home? I’m already bringing Clementina.”

“Thank you, but my carriage is here.” Annabel said good-bye to them, went to her landau, and brooded as her coachman drove her home. Would Lord Rossing pay his promised call today or tomorrow? And what was he so eager to discuss with her?

Once home in Chesterfield Street, she went to the front door while the carriage was brought round to the mews. Hanscomb opened the door for her. “Good day, my lady,” he said. “Mrs. Dailey inquired if you would care for a breakfast tray to be sent up on your return.”

“Yes, thank you, Hanscomb.” Not that she was the least bit hungry. But Mrs. Dailey would fret if she didn’t eat something.

“I shall inform her at once.” He hesitated. “Might your ladyship have a moment to spare? Diggle has asked if he might speak with you.”

Annabel paused in her path to the stairs. “Of course he may. Is there something amiss?”

Diggle, her night porter, emerged from his closet of a room by the front door. “Well, there’s amiss, and then there’s amiss, m’lady.” He fixed a stern look on Hanscomb. “Better be seeing about her ladyship’s breakfast, then, you.”

The corner of Hanscomb’s mouth gave the smallest twitch, and he bowed to Annabel and made his stately way through the door to the lower regions of the house. When it had closed behind him, Annabel turned to Diggle. “How are you, Diggle?” she asked. “Is London still agreeing with you?”

Absalom Diggle was Annabel’s oldest employee, at least eighty years of age but still straight-backed and sturdy. Born on the estate at Chalfont Abbey, he’d worked as a groom there as a young man before moving on to become assistant ostler, then head ostler at the posting inn in Chalfont village. At seventy he’d returned “home” to the estate to live with one of his granddaughters. Annabel had brought him to London and given him a job as night porter, much to his delight and not-so-secret pride. They’d always been friends, ever since she’d married Freddy and come to Chalfont Abbey; he’d heartily approved of her prompt provision of an heir to carry on the family name, and even more approved of her work to keep the estate together for Will to take over one day.

“Eh, I’m likin’ it prodigious well, m’lady. Except the beer. Beer’s better at home. But—” The twinkle in his eyes faded, and he drew himself up. “What I’m not likin’ is the feller that I seen two nights runnin’ now, ’round midnight, a-lurkin’ in the square and starin’ at the house.”

Oh, bother—on top of everything else happening now, she could add worry about suspicious men. Surely it couldn’t be someone else hoping to bribe a voucher…well, it could be, she supposed, though they usually came during daylight hours. Or—

“What kind of fellow is he?” she asked. “Do you think it is a—a house-breaker sizing us up?” If it were, he would do better at any of the other houses in the street; most of the family plate and jewelry were kept at Chalfont Abbey, and she had quietly sold much of her personal jewelry during a particularly lean time soon after Freddy’s death.

Diggle’s face scrunched in thought. “Dunno, m’lady. I’d a’ thought if it were a house-breaker a-plannin’ to rob us, he’d—y’know—move ’round a tad more, gettin’ the lay o’ the land. This feller—he jus’ stares. Stares and stares at the front o’ the house, not movin’ a’tall. All wrapped in a cloak, he is.”

“If he’s staring at the front of the house, I shall have to look for him tonight. Likely I’ll be able to see him from my bedchamber window.” She smothered a sigh. “Thank you for telling me, Diggle. I shall ask Hanscomb to be especially diligent about locking doors and ground floor windows at night. And if you see anything else that troubles you, please tell Hanscomb at once.”

Diggle touched his forelock. “Aye, m’lady, I will. An’ you be careful yerself, comin’ home at night from yer balls and dinners.” He shook his head. “This fair bothers me, I don’ mind sayin’.”

“No, nor do I. But I know that with you and Hanscomb keeping watch, we’ll all be safe.”

He grinned. “That we will. An’ now it’s time I was gettin’ my rest, so I c’n keep watch tonight w’out noddin’ off.” He touched his forelock again, then scuttled toward the door after Hanscomb.

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