Sweet Enemy (22 page)

A giddy anxiety swept over her, and she shoved it aside, frowning.

“I’m beginning to suspect Stratford was not in on the planning of this party at all,” said Lady Emily Morton. “He certainly hasn’t singled one of us out to court, as expected.” Her tone clearly implied she’d fully expected that one to be her. She waved an arm to indicate the town around them, her lips dropping in a frown of distaste. She sniffed. “Had I known that wasn’t his intention, I’d never have agreed to journey to this dreary place.”

“Me, either,” chimed in a girl whose name Liliana didn’t know. “It’s so deadly dull. I’d much rather be in London, but when the chance to align with the Stratford family presented itself, Papa all but booted me out the door.”

Liliana shook her head. Somerton Park and its surrounds were anything but dull. If situations were different, she could envision herself riding the countryside every sunrise, exploring her way through the vast marshlands collecting samples and specimens, perhaps even turning that abandoned folly she’d spied at the far side of the lake into her own laboratory. And the library…she could spend years in there. Why—

“I suppose you disagree, Miss Claremont?” Lady Emily asked.

Liliana blinked and stared back at all of the inquiring faces turned toward her. Newton’s apple. What had she done to give away her thoughts? She cleared her throat. “I find Somerton Park quite lovely.”

Lady Emily gave her a speculative look. Then her face cleared. “You would. You never were much of a success in London.”

Titters of laughter sounded as the women turned back around and resumed their stroll up the street.

Liliana bit her tongue. It wouldn’t serve her purposes to blister Lady Emily’s ears. In fact, she’d use this opportunity to hang back, let everyone think she was upset by Emily’s callous comment, then slip away to the valet’s.

Penelope turned around, her eyes asking if Liliana was all right. Liliana winked and gave her a slight shooing motion. Pen nodded and turned back with the group.

Liliana let the girls walk on, stepping backward slowly until they had disappeared into the dry-goods shop. Now she just had to retreat three blocks, turn west, then follow that lane to the valet’s home.

She turned on her heel and ran straight into Lady Jane Northumb.

“Oh!” the girl exclaimed.

Liliana stepped back, her heart beating wildly from the startle. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were behind me.”

Lady Jane placed a delicate hand on her chest. “It’s quite all right. I should have made myself known.”

The two women faced each other. Lady Jane seemed to Liliana as so many other debutantes fresh out of the schoolroom, somewhat shallow but with a sense of security Liliana had to acknowledge made her a little envious.

At barely nineteen, Lady Jane knew her place, accepted it and didn’t think beyond that. She wasn’t constantly fighting against society’s expectations of her. She didn’t have to make the choice between having a family of her own and doing what she was born to do, because no man would have a wife who bucked custom and was determined to excel in a traditionally male discipline.

Liliana pushed that depressing thought from her mind. She’d long ago made peace with her choices. What now had her thinking such nonsense?

“You shouldn’t let what Emily said bother you, you know,” Lady Jane said with a gentle smile. “She just has a bee in her bonnet because Stratford hasn’t fallen at her feet.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Liliana answered, trying to think how she would rid herself of Lady Jane and still be able to sneak off. “You mustn’t worry about me. I’m made of sterner stuff than that.”

Lady Jane ducked her chin. “Yes, you are. In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

Liliana tapped her foot, waiting for the girl to continue.

Lady Jane looked up and took a deep breath. “How did you ever find the nerve to challenge Stratford on the field? I could never be that brave.”

Liliana blinked, surprised. Despite their differences, she had never disliked the fresh-faced young miss who
was the gossiped forerunner in the hunt for Stratford’s affections. Lady Jane had never before actually sought out or spoken to her, but neither had she been unkind.

“I’m not certain,” Liliana answered, “though I can tell you bravery it was not. Pride, I suppose.”

Lady Jane tittered, eyes wide. “My father would have starved me for a week had I done something so foolish. He’s ever so hopeful of an alliance between Stratford and myself.”

Something in her tone struck Liliana as off, and for the first time Liliana considered that perhaps other women felt as hemmed in as she. Not in the same way, certainly, but confined all the same. “But you are not?”

The younger girl bit her lip. “I’m not opposed, I guess. It’s just that he’s so…”

Striking? Intense? Yet good-humored and dashing?

“Old.” Lady Jane made a moue. “And dark. Not like Lord Holbrooke.”

Liliana held in a scoff. Old? Dark? How could Jane not find Geoffrey the most attractive specimen she’d ever laid eyes on? And to prefer Holbrooke? Why, the younger man, all slight and blond, literally paled in comparison. Geoffrey would—

Jane let out a sigh that sent the ribbon from her bonnet fluttering through the air. “Still, I shall marry Stratford should he ask. It’s what Papa wishes.”

Liliana strove for a bland smile. Where was her head? First, she had no reason to be thinking of Geoffrey in such a light. Second, an alliance with someone like Lady Jane would be precisely what Geoffrey would want. The Earl of Northumb was purportedly a lion in the House of Lords—a family connection that would open many a political door for Geoffrey. A tight ball that smacked of jealousy lodged in her throat, nonetheless. She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Has Stratford given you any reason to hope?”

Confusion stole over Jane’s face. “Not particularly—a situation I, too, find odd given the nature of this party.
None of the other girls can claim any more attention than I, which is why Lady Emily is in such a foul temper. In fact, the only person it seems he’s singled out in any way is”—an expression befitting a much more experienced society miss gleamed in Lady Jane’s eyes—“you.”

Liliana flushed, dropping her gaze to the cobbled path at their feet. She ran a slippered toe along the crevices of the stone and managed a wry laugh. “Stratford feels nothing more for me than an intense relief that after next week, we shall never see each other again.” The ball that had been in her throat moved down to her stomach, turning it suddenly sour.

Lady Jane laughed and the moment passed, but Liliana’s feeling of sickness lingered. She took a deep breath.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve decided I do want that pair of gloves I saw in the last shop after all,” Liliana said, bowing her head before sidestepping the girl.

“Shall I come with you?” Jane asked.

Liliana waved a hand behind her. “No, thank you. I’ll only be a moment. Join the others and I’ll meet you all at the tea shop soon enough.”

She didn’t look to see if Jane followed, only strode down the street with brisk steps. She welcomed the bracing breeze on her hot face. Her feelings regarding Geoffrey were becoming more and more of a muddle. The foolish emotions that had overcome her while talking to Lady Jane proved that.

The sooner she got this puzzle solved and left Somerton Park
and
Geoffrey behind her, the better. She hoped her next stop would finally provide her with some answers.

Geoffrey was finally getting some answers, much as he didn’t want to hear them.

“Someone’s been systematically siphoning money from my family for at least ten years?” Geoffrey shoved a hand through his hair, which was a more civilized alternative
to slamming his fist into the desk, as he really wished to do. Damn it all. He’d tasked his man of affairs with poring through the estate accounts in hopes of
disproving
that his brother had been being extorted. Not the other way around.

Clive Bartlesby—another ex-soldier and trusted friend Geoffrey had taken on—flattened his lips, his eyes crinkling as his head moved in something between a nod and a shake. “It seems so, sir.”

“Henry, what did you do?” Geoffrey muttered aloud, as if his dead brother could hear.

“Do you think it could have something to do with that letter you asked me to look into?” Bartlesby asked. “That your brother may have been paying the blackmailer all these years, and now that he’d dead, the bloke’s trying to collect from you?”

“I’m not sure.” Henry had been a profligate, utterly and shamelessly dissolute. A wastrel of the first order. And yet…“As earl, Henry would have had control over the money. He wouldn’t have had to steal from himself to hush anything up. You and I both know he spent indiscriminately,” Geoffrey said, referring to the past months he and Bartlesby had labored to clean up his brother’s financial messes.

“Unless he didn’t want anyone else in your family to find out what he was paying for.”

Geoffrey ran his fingers down the row of columns again, tapping at one entry in particular. He then flipped the pages back and repeated the motion, one page after another after another. Not so close as to be immediately noticeable, but when taken together…

“Bloody hell.”

“Exactly. And it’s not just in the rents.” Bartlesby grabbed another book, flipping it open. “See here, in the records of annual wool sales from your northern estate. The price received from each buyer, while never exact, is fairly consistent. Yet right here, the income is recorded as approximately two hundred pounds less than usual. I
checked with this particular buyer, and he insists he paid the same as the others.” He looked up at Geoffrey, his face cringing slightly, as if Geoffrey were a lord of old and he the poor messenger about to get his head lopped off for bearing bad news.

Geoffrey let out a long breath. “It’s the same with produce, grain, household accounts and so on. But there’s no pattern to it. Taken so sporadically over all of my family’s vast properties, it’s no wonder none of my stewards caught on.” He walked to the shelf behind him, grabbed a glass and decanter and poured a drink—to hell with the fact that it was barely ten in the morning. His back, already stiff from his morning ride, tightened further, as it often did during times of stress. He offered a snifter to Bartlesby, but the man declined.

“Yet, I’m hard-pressed to figure how it was done,” Geoffrey said. He placed his finger on a column, pointing to one of the suspect entries. “Look at this. There’s nothing to differentiate it from the entry above or below it, aside from the number. Nothing crossed out, no change in handwriting even. Nothing to indicate at a glance there’s aught amiss.”

He pulled out a register from the estate in Northumberland, then another from here at Somerton Park and yet another from his estate on the coast. “Each of these books is kept by a different steward, yet the same problem exists.”

Bartlesby remained silent, standing with his hands behind his back.

“Yet you say this has been going on clear back to a couple of years after my father’s death?”

Bartlesby nodded.

Damn. “Several of those estates have had more than one steward over the years. We’ll need to track down each man and interview him.”

Geoffrey closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. His day had started out so well. He’d returned from his morning with Liliana refreshed, rejuvenated
and more than a bit aroused by her—not only physically, though there was indeed that, but intellectually. Deeply. Curiously.

But when he’d arrived back at the manor, he’d been informed that Bartlesby had arrived from London and awaited him in his study. Geoffrey opened his eyes and looked at his man of affairs. “I’ve seen no out-of-place entries since my brother’s death. Have you?”

Bartlesby shook his head. “Not one.” The man looked road weary and exhausted.

“Go. Get yourself a meal and have Barnes settle you belowstairs. After you’ve rested, there will be plenty of time to put our heads together and sort this new development.”

“Thank you, sir.” The man nodded and left the room.

Geoffrey resumed his seat and picked up the account books. The first suspect entry he’d noted was in the fall of 1805. He grabbed a fresh quill and vellum and began tallying his figures with the ones Bartlesby had uncovered. The amounts were small, almost unnoticeable at first, growing ever larger like cresting waves as the years went on. When he reached the last book and scratched the final mark, the number astounded him.

Energy prowled through his limbs, bringing him to his feet. His instinct was to leave today, to visit each of his four estates and interview every last steward who had ever worked for the house of Stratford. He supposed he could send Bartleby in his stead, but that had never been Geoffrey’s style. He wanted to get to the bottom of this right now, himself.

Instead, he refilled his drink. He couldn’t leave Somerton Park now, not when influential men like the Earls of Northumb and Manchester and others would be arriving in two days. He may be new to Parliament, but Geoffrey understood that much political maneuvering was done outside of London, over drinks and friendly games of billiards in country homes much like his. He needed to win support for the Poor Employment Act, and if he
could get Manchester and especially Northumb behind it, the bill would certainly pass.