Outrageously Yours (20 page)

Lord Drayton held out his arms. “Search if you like. Quiz my servants. But I assure you, she is quite gone.” His posture eased. “See here, your assistant is right. We should sit down and discuss the matter calmly.”

With a show of reluctance, Simon dragged himself to an armchair. Ivy followed, taking a seat on the settee. Lord Drayton completed the triangle in another of the richly upholstered chairs. His hands gripped the padded arms.

“Gwen came to me seeking advice—”

“And is that all she got from you?”

Lord Drayton’s jaw turned to steel. Ivy tried to catch Simon’s eye, to communicate that his sarcasm wouldn’t accomplish anything useful. When he failed to cooperate, she resorted to clearing her throat. Loudly. They needed to find Lady Gwendolyn, and if Lord Drayton could lead them to her, it would do them little good to antagonize him.

Simon’s mouth pulled in irritation. “What kind of advice did she want?”

“Mostly how she might appeal to your better nature without worsening matters.”

“And she thought
you
could assist her with that?”

“Lord Harrow . . . ” Ivy murmured a cautionary sing-song. Her impatience grew in direct proportion to the anger that so obviously prevented him being objective. So be it. He might berate her later, but her obligation to Victoria demanded that she not sit silently by. “Lord Drayton,” she said, “did Lady Gwendolyn tell you why she left the palace?”

“She said she was homesick,” he replied tersely, eyeing her with just enough disdain to convey his annoyance at being questioned by an underling. His attention shifted back to Simon. “And that she wished to reconcile with you.”

“Nothing else?” Simon’s caustic retort sent frustration shooting through Ivy. She burned to ask far more pointed questions than his accusatory ones.

Lord Drayton held out his hands. “Isn’t that enough?”

Ivy decided to take a chance, just to gauge the earl’s reaction. “Did she perhaps mention having in her possession a particular item from the palace?”

His nostrils flared and his chin protruded. “Are you accusing Lady Gwendolyn of stealing?”

“He is accusing Gwendolyn of nothing,” Simon replied before Ivy could.

Another silent battle electrified the air between the men. Obviously, their mutual resentment centered on Lady Gwendolyn herself, and Ivy’s imagination took flight with possibilities.

Had Lord Drayton ruined her? Victoria hadn’t mentioned that, but she might not have known the full story of why Simon had disowned his sister.

Lord Drayton was the first to break the seething hostility by flicking his gaze down at his boots. “Actually, she did ask for money to cover her traveling expenses.”

Those last two words, perhaps keys to Gwendolyn’s whereabouts, once more splintered Ivy’s restraint. “Traveling expenses to get her where?”

Lord Drayton scowled but replied, “As I said, to London. Or so I believed.”

“Did you give her the money she requested?” Ivy pressed, the difficulty of obtaining answers making her want to yank on her own curls.

The man narrowed his scrutiny on her in a way that made her want to shrink back against the cushions. “What are you, some sort of detective?”

From under his brows, Simon flashed her a warning. She chose to ignore it.

“Hardly, my lord,” she said to the earl with surprising steadiness. “I am merely doing as Lord Harrow hired me to do. Assisting him by offering a second point of view.”

“Humph.” Lord Drayton’s irritation didn’t fade. “I find your questions impertinent and none of your business, young man.”

“But the answers are very much my business.” Simon leaned forward. “Did you give Gwendolyn any money?”

Lord Drayton sighed. “Thirty pounds.”

“Damned generous of you,” Simon murmured drily. “And did she give you anything in return? Or promise you something in exchange for your assistance?”

“Such as what?” Lord Drayton’s handsome features twisted to a dangerous scowl. “If you’re suggesting that Gwen came here to—”

Simon’s chin came up. “I don’t suppose she offered to help you win the Copley Medal?”

“How the blazes could Gwen do that? And why the hell would you conclude that I’d require or accept such help?”

“Because as you said, the work you’re presently engaged in isn’t flashy enough to attract the Royal Society’s notice.”

“How dare you? My work may lack a certain dazzle, but it is every bit as vital as whatever is producing those sparks you so enjoy shooting from your tower lair—perhaps more so. If my focus on finding a way to protect England’s harvests from pestilence and infestation means I’ll never win a Copley Medal, then I say to the devil with the Royal Society.” Though indignant, Lord Drayton kept his anger in check; his quiet admonition bore a dignity that convinced Ivy he spoke the truth.

Yet Simon seemed to have heard none of the man’s sincerity, for he latched on to one phrase only. “How dare I? That you of all people should pose such a question to me . . .”

Lord Drayton shoved to his feet. “That is enough. Hang it, Simon, this is precisely why Gwen got cold feet when she tried to come home. You don’t listen, and you don’t forgive. You haven’t an ounce of empathy in you.”

“Oh, now, that isn’t fair. He—” Ivy pressed a fist to her mouth.

She had planned to keep a cool head through this interview. This was not her battle, yet Lord Drayton’s charge incited her outrage. Ivy had experienced nothing
but
empathy from Simon. Unlike every other man she had ever encountered, he alone comprehended what it meant for women to be banned from the classroom, the laboratory, and every other place where they could challenge their intellects. He not only understood; he applauded her talents, and Ivy could not sit by and hear him so unfairly insulted. Except . . .

Both men were staring at her, Simon in censure and Lord Drayton in perplexity. Then they went back to ignoring her.

“I can’t very well forgive my sister if she persists in hiding from me.” Simon put emphasis on the word
sister
, as if to imply that he would readily forgive Gwendolyn’s offenses, but not Lord Drayton’s.

“That is between you and Gwen.” Lord Drayton’s lips whitened with bitterness.

Simon came to his feet and adjusted his coat with a tug. “If you did know where my sister is now, would you tell me?”

Lord Drayton again glanced down at his boots, and when he looked back up from beneath a fringe of blond hair, his ire had been replaced with a calmer, more conciliatory emotion. “I know you love her, and that you’re concerned about her. If I knew where she’d gone, yes, I’d tell you. And if I could have prevented her from going anywhere but London or home, I would have. Upon my honor, she had me convinced she’d do the right thing.”

For a moment Ivy thought Simon would contest that assertion. But the tension drained from his posture and he nodded. Then he strode to the doorway, issuing a command over his shoulder in a single, terse syllable. “Ned.”

Ivy jumped up from the settee and trotted to keep up with him. Retrieving his cloak and top hat, he made his way down to the hall and out to St. Andrews Street. Bright leaves rustled along the thoroughfare; the brilliant sunlight offered little warmth.

They had ridden into town, a sedate ride befitting the well-bred gentlemen they appeared to be, and had stabled their horses on Market Street. As Simon headed north along St. Andrews on foot, Ivy fell in beside him. Many aspects of the past quarter hour had left her puzzled, but one question in particular nagged her.

“That encounter was painfully personal,” she said. “Why did you allow me to witness it?”

Simon spared her a sidelong glance. “The queen’s authority grants you the right to gather your evidence first-hand.”

“Yes, but that interview involved a good deal more than fact-finding. You and Lord Drayton were practically at each other’s throats.”

He said nothing as they passed the gates of Christ’s College. From beneath the Beaufort coat of arms, Lady Margaret’s statue seemed to follow their progress with a moue of disapproval. To their left, the bells of St. Andrew the Great rang out the half hour, a note simultaneously echoed from the university’s numerous colleges across the city. A few steps past the church, Simon turned west onto Market Street.

Ivy tugged the brim of her own top hat lower against the wind. “I suppose we’ll attend the ten o’clock.”

“The ten o’clock what?”

“Service. It
is
Sunday, you realize.”

“Is it?” Simon picked up the pace, forcing Ivy to hasten to keep up and nearly sending her tripping over her feet again. “I have another stop to make. If you wish, you may attend the service at St. Mary’s, or turn around and go back to St. Andrew’s.”

“You won’t come?”

He halted and turned so abruptly she nearly ran into him. “I have not attended church in more than a year. A year and a half, to be exact.”

“Oh.” She didn’t need any further explanation. “If your next stop is about your sister, then I had better accompany you.”

“As you like.” He resumed walking. “Only this time do a better job of holding your tongue.”

“I have a right to ask necessary questions.”

“At the price of giving yourself away? Do you realize what would happen should anyone discover the truth of who, or shall I say what, you are?”

“Of course I do. Simon . . . I do wish you’d slow down.” When he didn’t, she sprinted to resume her place at his side. “Why does Lord Drayton infuriate you?”

“Back to your confounded questions, eh?”

“I cannot help but be curious. What did he do to you?”

“He exists.”

“That isn’t an answer. If I am to recover the queen’s property and settle matters between her and your sister, I must understand the dynamics of the situation.”

“The dynamics, eh?” His sarcasm stole a portion of her confidence.

She slowed, and to his back said, “Well, yes ...”

She would have said more, but he stopped suddenly and whirled again. The sunlight slanting through the buildings flashed full on his face, carving a renewed surge of anger into harsh relief. “Very well, then. Here are your dynamics. Last winter, Colin Ashworth convinced my sister to join him at a roadside inn about ten miles outside the city. I don’t know what lies he told her, perhaps that he’d marry her. All I know is that he took advantage of her young, romantic heart. Fortunately I arrived in time to prevent him from taking advantage of more than that and ruining her completely.”

Disgust sounded in his voice. “Not that Gwendolyn thanked me, mind you. On the contrary, she was so blindly smitten that she cursed me for interfering and swore she’d never obey me again. With few other options, I arranged for her to join the queen’s household.” He laughed without mirth. “I believed that to be the one place where she wouldn’t get into any further trouble.”

Ivy stepped closer and placed a hand on his coat sleeve. “You lost your sister
and
your friend that day.”

The angry darkening of his skin made her snatch her hand away. Fury flashed in his eyes, powerful enough to frighten her. Then it was gone, leaving him with a lost, haunted look that gripped her heart. He bent his head and nodded. “I hold few expectations of ever getting either back.”

“You don’t know that. There is always hope.”

His head snapped up, his features this time edged in ice. “You asked why I brought you to Colin’s. The queen’s authority is only half the reason. I needed you there to prevent me from tearing into his throat with my bare hands.”

He pivoted and continued on at a brisk stride.

 

Simon and Ned went next to visit Errol Quincy in his suite of rooms above the bookbinder’s shop on Rose Crescent. Upon his daughter’s death, Errol had deemed the house they had shared west of the city to be filled with too many memories, of both Aurelia and his deceased wife, Emily. After selling the place, he had taken up residence in town in a small but comfortable flat where he lived among his books and small experiments and where he hosted frequent symposia in his parlor.

Errol offered them tea but could offer no insights as to Gwendolyn’s whereabouts or her recent antics. Simon hadn’t thought the visit would yield any new information, but there had always been the off chance that Gwen had taken the elderly man into her confidence and persuaded him to silence. Simon said as much as he and Ivy returned to Market Street to retrieve their horses.

Simon paid the groom and walked both animals out into the yard himself. “Not that Errol would keep silent out of ill intentions, but my sister is like a second daughter to him. He’d do anything for her, including keep a secret.”

“In Lord Drayton’s defense,” Ivy said, “I don’t believe he kept silent out of ill intentions, either.”

“And on what evidence do you base your conclusion?” Simon checked the horses’ girths, tightening that of Ned’s mount, Butterfly, a notch. “You don’t know the man as I do.”

“Which means my opinions about him aren’t colored by hostility.”

Simon bit back a retort, kicking at a stone in the road so forcefully the horses lurched. He gestured for Ned to mount, linking his hands together to offer her a knee up.

She lingered where she was. “What about the fourth member of your club?”

“Ben?” Simon shook his head as he unclasped his hands and straightened. “He and Gwendolyn have always been cordial, but little more than that. She wouldn’t have gone to him.”

“Perhaps she’s staying with a friend?” Ned patted the mare’s nose.

Simon mentally ran through the list of his sister’s most trusted friends, many of whom were now married. “I’ll send out inquiries in this afternoon’s post.”

“You’re frightened, aren’t you, about what might have happened to her?”

“Of course I’m concerned. But my dear little sister thrives on dramatics. If she hadn’t been born a marquess’s daughter, she might have had a successful career on the stage. But that doesn’t stop a voice in my gut from warning of danger. She is only eighteen, and not nearly as sophisticated as she likes to pretend. It may be best to call in the authorities.”