A Bride by Moonlight (10 page)

“Yes, of course,” he said, his sneer twitching. “I defer to the expert. How shall we begin?”

“Firstly,” said Lisette, “I should like to know if you think Lord Saint-Bryce died a natural death.”

Suspicion flared in his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“And secondly, I should like to know your precise connection to the gentleman.”

“Would you?” The suspicion softened but little. “And I should like to know how—”

She threw up a hand, palm out. “Yes, I helped out in my uncle’s newspaper business, Mr. Napier,” she said. “I have some idea how to dig out facts. You said you were going to see family. In Wiltshire. Specifically, to a house in mourning. And you instructed me to pack my most elegant clothing.”

“And so . . . ?”

“And so the facts tell me that there was but one gentleman of great consequence who died in all of Wiltshire these last three months or better, and that was Baron Saint-Bryce, so—”

“Good Lord,” he interjected.

“—so one can only conclude you have some relation to him,” she pressed on. “And since you seem no more happy than I to be making this journey, and since you have ordered me to confuse and waylay your relations, one must conclude you are investigating something of a criminal nature.”

“Good Lord,” he said again.

“Yes,” said Lisette impatiently, “He is. But He is not apt to help either of
us
, is He? So you may as well cease using His name and just tell me who is who and what is what in Wiltshire.”

He shot her a dark look. “You seem to have grasped a vast deal without my having said a word. Why do I not permit you to simply carry on?”

Lisette forced an indulgent smile. “Come now, Napier, I’ve accepted your bargain. Is there any reason I should do it halfway? Better a good job swiftly done, and all the sooner we’ll part ways. That’s how I see it.”

“Aye, now there’s a bit of logic to cling to,” he grumbled, “along with my sanity, I pray. But very well. Saint-Bryce was my father’s elder brother. And I have no notion what killed him. His death, however, was sudden, and occurred mere weeks before he was to marry again.”

Lisette pondered the explanation for a long moment. “But his family name is Tarleton,” she finally said. “Are you a bastard?”

“Perhaps. But my parents were married.” There was a glint of sardonic humor in his gaze, and for the first time Lisette realized his eyes were not really black, but a dark, lustrous blue. “My father took his wife’s name. It’s rather a long story.”

“And this is rather a long train ride,” Lisette responded. “But we’ll let that go for the nonce. We’re traveling then, I collect, to Burlingame Court?”

“Yes,” he said laconically.

“Which was the home of Baron Saint-Bryce and of . . .” Here, she considered it. “His father, who would be your grandfather?”

“Yes.”

“So your grandfather, then, is Viscount Duncaster?” she pressed. “Really, Napier, must you make me pull teeth here? I’ve lived half my life in America. I haven’t time to sort through a decade of newsprint along with the society gossip, too.”

“What do you wish to know?”

“You must tell me about these people.”

Napier tossed his elegant black hat onto the seat beside him, and puffed out his breath through his cheeks. “Very well,” he said. “Duncaster had three sons. My father, the Honorable Nicholas Tarleton, was the youngest, but left the family after a quarrel and was disowned.”

“Ah,” said Lisette. “Money? Or marriage?”

“Marriage,” said Napier. “Hence, there was no money. Well, no family money.”

“No, there usually isn’t,” said Lisette dryly. “But your father changed his name. That’s . . . impressive—well, it’s something, anyway—and it explains how you came to be earning your own crust. How often do you go home?”

“Every evening after work,” he said tightly. “But I’ve been to Burlingame only twice. Last year the Earl of Hepplewood wrote to ask the Home Secretary to—”

“And Hepplewood is married to your great-aunt, I collect?” she interposed. “To Lord Duncaster’s sister?”

“A half sister, yes,” said Napier. “The issue of a second wife. As to her husband, Hepplewood died at Burlingame after writing a strange letter to the Home Secretary. My great-aunt remains there, dripping crepe and venom.”

“At Burlingame? Not at her husband’s home?”

“I gather they’ve always spent a part of each year with Duncaster,” said Napier, “then moved in semi-permanently a year or two ago. One gets the impression Hepplewood’s seat in Northumberland is a drafty old pile.”

“
Northumberland
and
drafty
do not sound ideal together.”

Napier shrugged. “And Lady Hepplewood has always been willful, I collect,” he said. “She is much younger than her brother, much doted on, and prefers her childhood home. Hepplewood, being a diplomatic man, apparently obliged her.”

“Yes, I recall his political career,” Lisette remarked. “Was he not briefly the ambassador to the United States?”

“I believe so.”

“And such an important man might wish to remain close to London. Who manages his estates?”

“Some distant cousin.” Napier gave an offhand gesture. “Though Hepplewood does have a pampered, overweening son knocking about London.”

“Who is now Lord Hepplewood,” added Lisette.

“Yes. Tony, I think he’s called.” Napier’s gaze turned inward. “Aunt Hepplewood had him late in life and doubtless spoils him. Beyond that, I know little of the fellow save that he’s frightfully rich, lives in Clarges Street, and gambles incessantly—but only in the very best places, of course.”

“Never dropped by for dinner in Eaton Square, this dashing cousin of yours?” asked Lisette dryly. “I wonder why.”

“I daresay he did not fancy dining with a disinherited government drudge,” Napier returned, “any more than I fancied dining with a spoilt and arrogant wastrel.”

Lisette shrugged. “One imagines Burlingame a crowded place,” she remarked. “Saint-Bryce left children, did he not? And dear old Grandpapa Duncaster still breathes?”

Again, Napier’s mouth twitched. “Despite certain protestations to the contrary, I expect to find Duncaster quite in the pink,” he said. “And yes, Saint-Bryce has a married daughter who’s often about. The eldest is an avowed spinster and the third and youngest is still in the schoolroom.”

“And Lady Saint-Bryce?”

“There were two. The last died about a year ago after a long illness.”

“So both wives left Saint-Bryce with no heir,” Lisette murmured. “And he died before he could marry again. Interesting. Whom else I should know about?”

Napier grunted. “That’s it, thank God,” he said. “No, wait—Hepplewood’s cousin, Diana Jeffers. I gather she’s a companion to Lady Hepplewood.”

“Very well. Let us reprise who is who.” Lisette ticked them off on her fingers. “At Burlingame we have your grandfather Duncaster. Then his much-younger sister, Lady Hepplewood, now widowed. We have her son Tony, who resides in London. Her companion, Diana. And Saint-Bryce’s three daughters—give or take one. May I know their names?”

“The eldest, the spinster, is called Gwyneth, I think,” said Napier. “Anne is married to a balding, put-upon-looking fellow whom I merely glimpsed at the funeral. Bea is the little one.”

“Very well,” said Lisette. “At least I now have some idea who we’re dealing with. And yet you don’t mean to tell me precisely why you are going or what it is you suspect?”

“I do not,” he replied.

“As you wish.” Lisette lifted one shoulder. “I concede it wasn’t part of our bargain.”

Without further argument, she rose, dragged her carpetbag off the rack, then rummaged through it for paper and pencil. But just as she handed the bag up again, the train let go a loud whistle and lurched left, braking hard. Caught in mid-reach, Lisette was pitched violently backward.

“Oh!” she cried, tumbling.

But a pair of sure, strong arms caught her around the waist. The train straightened, the whistle faded, and Lisette realized she was staring up into Royden Napier’s piercing blue eyes, and splayed crookedly across his lap. One of his arms was lashed around her waist, and the other hand was settled quite snuggly over her right breast.

She swallowed hard, heat flooding her face. “Oh!”

The large, warm hand covering her breast slid away, but in no great hurry. “I beg your pardon,” Napier murmured.

Lisette seemed unable to respond, or even to think. They were so close, she could smell his musky, masculine scent and see the hint of black stipple that shadowed his cheeks. A shock of dark hair had tumbled over his forehead, softening the severity of his face but making him look faintly disreputable.

Lisette blinked up at him. “Heavens,” she managed. “How awkward—even given our pending marriage.”

The tension broke, Napier’s eyes glittering oddly. And somehow Lisette found the presence of mind to clamber off his lap, with Napier lifting her away as if she were no more than a feather. But his hands left her almost lazily, hesitating a trifle longer, she thought, than strictly necessary.

Seizing the luggage rack for balance, she shook out her twisted skirts, then sat down with as much grace as she could muster. The train had now
clackity-clacked
its way into a station—a mere shed of a place, from the look of it—and was grinding to a halt.

“Thank you,” she said, “for catching me.” She took up her pencil and paper, praying her face was not beet red.

“Miss Ashton—” said Napier a little tightly.

She glanced up to see Napier’s knuckles had gone white where he gripped the seat. “Yes?”

“That was . . . inappropriate.”

Lisette flung the pencil down. “Well,
pardon
me,” she said hotly, “but I’ve little experience with trains. As to inappropriate, sir, that was
your
hand on
my
—well, never mind that.”

“That was not what I meant,” he returned. “What I meant was . . . that I was . . . or that we—well, we should perhaps not be too often together at Burlingame. It might be for the best. I shall have my job, and you shall have yours.”

“Well, yes. I daresay.”

“And we should keep our minds on what we’re about,” he added a little harshly. “We cannot afford to step wrongly here.”

“Napier, I did not
step wrongly
.” Lisette snatched up the pencil again. “I was flung upon you by this awkward, monstrous beast of a machine you’ve blackmailed me onto.”

But his eyes were still glittering dangerously. “You’ve quite a fondness for that term
blackmail
.”

“Because it’s accurate,” she retorted. “Moreover, the last useful mechanical contraption invented, to my mind, was the printing press. So once this curst business is over, you may put me on the first mail coach back to London, kissing my heels as I go. And trust me, once I’ve grasped the details of this awful chore, I will do
my half
of this job faultlessly.”

Now Napier looked oddly amused. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

Lisette made a sound of exasperation. “Look, just go through all the names and precise titles again,” she said. “I must write it all down and memorize it.”

“Why should you care,” he said without rancor, “when I scarcely do?”

Lisette looked at him impatiently. “You’re too entirely accustomed to bludgeoning your way through life, and having the power of the law on your side,” she said. “But now you are on your way to visit family, Napier, and under disingenuous circumstances at best.”

He lifted one broad shoulder. “And—?”

“—and you mean to present me as your future wife,” she finished. “Even if you have no interest in those people, it will appear quite odd to them if I do not. It is the sort of thing women
know
, Napier. It is the sort of thing, to them, that matters greatly.”

“Yes, I daresay.”

“You daresay?” Lisette looked at him chidingly. “What if I am an opportunist? Most women are, you know. I am almost certainly marrying you for your family connections.”

“And not my overwhelming charm?” said Napier mordantly. “Or my vast wealth?”

“You haven’t any charm,” she said. “But pray tell me more of this vast wealth. It may kindle my affections.”

“A wolf by the ears,” he muttered.

Lisette just smiled, pencil held expectantly aloft.

The bustle beyond the window at an end, the train started up again and after dragging a hand down his face, Napier began to recite off every detail of the Tarleton family, practically down to their height and weight. Lisette was not surprised; it was his job to know everything when directing an investigation.

He recited it, however, in a precise but dispassionate way, as if they were someone else’s family, his gaze focused unseeingly out the window, with Lisette occasionally glancing up at him as she took notes. The morning sun shone faintly upon his face now as they traveled a stretch of open countryside, casting him half in shadow and half in light—which seemed oddly in keeping with his nature.

Lisette had once suggested it in jest, but Napier was quite a striking man. Not a beautiful one, no, for his face was too strong, his eyes too hard. And he had a harsh blade of a nose that spoke of Roman blood, and of sheer, unbridled obstinacy. But in a room crowded with wealthier, more beautiful men, Napier would have turned every female head for he possessed what her old governess had called “a certain
je ne sais quoi.
”

And while he might be hard-hearted, he was at least half a head taller than she, a remarkable accomplishment indeed. It oddly pleased her; they would not look like an awkward couple when she met his family.

By the time he’d finished speaking, Lisette had more or less sketched a family tree, and an old and noble one indeed—though in that moment it had not yet occurred to Lisette that there was still one last and critical detail missing.

“Are you going to remember all that?” he said, cutting into her thoughts.

“I think I already have,” she murmured, ticking down the list. “I’ve a knack for memorizing things once I’ve read them.”

He watched her without commenting. Lisette laid the paper aside. “Well, that’s that,” she said. “Your grandfather. Your great-aunt. Her companion. Your uncle Saint-Bryce’s daughters: one spinster, one married, and one in the schoolroom. And perhaps, if we’re lucky, this dashing and disreputable Tony chap will turn up to entertain us. Is there anything else I should know?”