The Suspect's Daughter (11 page)

“Yes, Papa.”

She smiled. Did flirting with Grant Amesbury equate flirting with danger? She highly doubted a man like him would tolerate a little innocent flirting. Which made her actually want to do it, just to twit him.

Throughout the following day, Jocelyn glanced repeatedly at the clock as she saw to the final details. Strange. She hadn’t experienced such nervous excitement since her first season years ago. The knowledge that Grant Amesbury would be present…no, surely that could not be the explanation.

Her maid arranged her hair with great care creating a stunning effect and picked up the evening gown laid out on the bed. After agonizing over her attire, Jocelyn had decided to Lady Hennessy’s advice about wearing blue. The wintery blue evening gown with silver netted overskirt brought out the color of her eyes, and the hem kissed the tops of her new kid slippers in royal blue with silver shoe flowers. A blue and silver band in her hair made a pretty final touch. Avoiding the pearls, she chose instead a sapphire broach and earrings. White elbow-length gloves completed the ensemble. She stood and drew a steadying breath. Tonight was just another dinner party. Nothing more.

When the hour of the dinner party arrived, Jocelyn stood at her father’s side and greeted the guests as they gathered in the drawing room before dinner. She made sure everyone had something to drink and was conversing comfortably. Grant Amesbury had yet to arrive. He’d given her no reason to believe he was attracted to her, and he clearly disliked social gatherings; perhaps he’d changed his mind. Disappointment dimmed her enjoyment.

But he didn’t seem the kind of man to break his word. She wouldn’t give up on him.

She glanced back at the doorway. He had arrived. With hair as dark as a starless night, a tall figure clad almost entirely in black strode toward them. Something shifted inside her and she took a step back from his presence of power. As he neared, his air of deadliness swept ahead of him like a giant clearing the path. Piercing gray eyes set in his fearsomely handsome face caught and held her gaze as he drew nearer.

She chided herself. Grant Amesbury had protected her. Why everything about him seemed so deadly tonight, she couldn’t explain, but she surely had nothing to fear from him. Firmly wearing the role of hostess, she moved to welcome him. He was dressed in beautifully tailored clothing, as fashionable as the clothes he’d worn the night he’d brought home Jonathan. His new haircut and style gave him Town polish.

“Welcome, Mr. Amesbury.” She sank into a curtsy.

He inclined his head. “You look lovely.” The words fell awkwardly from his lips as if he’d rehearsed them. She doubted he often paid compliments to anyone.

“How kind of you to say.”

He paused and focused on her. Something changed in his expression. He studied her in a way that sent heat from her face clear down to her toes. Oh heavens, if these were the kind of looks he was capable of giving, he clearly was dangerous to ladies, but not in the way she’d thought.

Her attention zeroed in on his lips, and hers tingled in response. Powerless under his stare, she wrenched her gaze from his and nervously touched her brooch as if to assure herself it remained in place, anything to restore her good sense, which had quite literally failed her for a moment.

Softly, his voice ringing with sincerity and an unaccountably sultry quality, he said, “You are beautiful.”

The simple complement, and his delivery of it, dried her mouth. With an expression she could only describe as surprise, he swallowed and took a step back. She moistened her lips and focused on the floor to give herself a moment to compose herself.

When she raised her gaze to him, Mr. Amesbury’s gaze had shifted to her father as if searching for a valuable bit of information. She’d love to pretend he wondered if her father would approve of him as her suitor, but didn’t dare flatter herself, despite that world-tilting moment that came and went too quickly.

“Sir.” His greeting carried some hidden meaning, but she was at a loss as to decipher what.

Her father extended a hand. “It appears I am, once again, in your debt, Mr. Amesbury. Indeed, I can never repay the service you rendered to my daughter and my sister yesterday.”

Mr. Amesbury took the hand, his features schooled into perfect impassiveness. “I’m glad the outcome was not more serious.”

“It would have been, if you hadn’t come to their aid. How can I thank you properly?”

Mr. Amesbury blinked as if unaccustomed to such an outpouring of gratitude. “No need. Their safety is enough. I enjoy administering a bit of justice now and again.”

The corner of his mouth twitched and an unholy gleam shimmered in the hardness of his eyes. For a fleeting moment, a vision of Grant Amesbury hunting down the criminal who’d attacked her and exacting some form of vengeance upon him flashed through her mind. He was like a rogue knight with his own code of honor and his own methods of justice. But that was a silly fantasy. Men like that lived in the Middle Ages, not in today’s world.

Papa tilted his head as he regarded Mr. Amesbury. “We are having a house party next week. We’ll have archery and fencing tournaments as well as riding, fishing, shooting. Perhaps a little cricket. We may have a few political discussions as well. We’d be pleased if you’d join us.”

“It sounds like a pleasant diversion,” Mr. Amesbury replied. This time he was all courtesy. “I accept.”

“Grand. I thought you the type who would enjoy such activities. Nice to get out of London for a while, too.”

They discussed details while Jocelyn mentally worked out the sleeping arrangements for next week. She could put Grant Amesbury in the west wing, in the green room. He might appreciate the masculine décor, and she doubted he cared that it failed to offer a view of the gardens. She’d move Doctor Blake to the red room—smaller, more ornately decorated, and a view.

“I look forward to it, sir,” Mr. Amesbury said.

Jocelyn led him to other gentlemen in attendance. “And you remember Mr. Dawson from the ball, of course.”

Mr. Amesbury seemed to grow even more alert, and his darting gaze probed deeper into Mr. Dawson’ face. He inclined his head in a brief bow. “Yes, of course. You are advocating for Fairley to be the best prime minister, if I recall.”

“Of course I do.” Mr. Dawson sniffed. “He’d do a better job than that monkey in the seat now.”

Mr. Amesbury asked casually, “You don’t view Mr. Redding as a candidate?”

Dawson waved off his question. “Not at all. He’s not strong enough get our country back on track after the war.”

Mr. Amesbury digested that information. “I agree the current prime minister should be removed posthaste. It’s a wonder we’ve put up with him for as long as we have.”

“It is my hope after the king’s coronation we can recommend Fairley to His Majesty.”

“How likely do you think that is?”

Dawson straightened. “It’s not all in my hands. If it were, there would be no question.”

Jocelyn studied Mr. Amesbury’s profile, fascinated with his cautious probing. He was so solemn, so intense. If only he’d smile. But no, perhaps it was best he didn’t. He’d probably be so handsome she would be rendered unable to utter an intelligent word.

When the butler opened the door to announce dinner, she said quietly, “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Amesbury, but I’ve seated you next to me.”

He blinked as if he’d forgotten she stood next to him. “Why would I mind?”

She huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. “You seemed a bit ill at ease yesterday when you came for tea.”

His pale gray eyes passed over her. Again came that intensity. His hard edges softened. “Not because I object to your company, Miss Fairley.”

It was ridiculous, really, the warmth that wrapped around her like a blanket at his words. She probably grinned like some kind of silly schoolgirl. His crusty, protective barrier returned in his posture and his expression. How long would it take her to break open his emotional armor and find the real Grant Amesbury?

Dinner passed uneventfully with conversation that shifted between politics to gossip to the growth of America. Mr. Amesbury ate silently, alert as a watchdog but offering very little comment. He moved his hands beautifully as if performing some kind of dance as he ate and lifted his glass to drink, each motion a study in seamless grace. His posture remained utterly still as if he were encased in a bubble and any sudden movement might pop it, yet poised to leap to his feet if necessary. Years of war must have made wariness a part of life.

Jocelyn tried to imagine the kind of danger he must have endured, but all the stories she’d heard were likely transparent echoes of the true horrors brave Englishmen faced. The thought tugged at her heart, urging her to offer him comfort, a gesture he would, no doubt, soundly reject.

Once the guests finished dessert, Jocelyn stood and raised her glass. As the assembly followed her lead, she said, “A toast to my father. With a little luck, the future Prime Minister of England.”

A chorus of, “Hear, hear” rang out and all glasses raised to her father.

They drank and she held up a hand of entreaty. “Ladies, if you’ll follow me?”

As she stepped away from her chair, she nodded to Mr. Amesbury. For a second, she faltered under his focused stare. Was that desire in his gaze? Admiration? Or did he find her no more important than a vase? She longed to ask him what he was thinking but doubted he’d be open enough to tell her. He returned her nod briefly. Remembering herself, Jocelyn led the ladies out of the room to leave the men to their brandy. All the while, she puzzled over the mystery of the intriguing Grant Amesbury and his many secrets.

Seated at the Fairley’s dinner table, Grant sat back and toyed with the stem of his glass, leaving it largely untouched so as not to cloud his head. With the ladies gone, conversation turned to politics. As far as Grant could determine, all tonight’s guests served in Parliament. He watched Fairley work the room using the right balance of charm, humor, and intelligence. Based on the nods, smiles, and thumping on the table with the occasional ‘hear, hear,’ gentlemen liked Fairley and agreed with the points he made. Dawson, in particular, supported Fairley enthusiastically.

Despite the condemning evidence against him, Fairley didn’t seem desperate enough to want to kill the prime minster so he could take his place. But one of the informants had named Fairley in connection with the conspiracy—not to mention Barnes’ famous instincts—so Grant had better not make the mistake of allowing his opinion to distract him from his mission.

As conversation waned, Fairley spread his hands. “Gentlemen, shall we join the ladies?”

A chorus of agreement accompanied the scraping of chairs as men stood and followed the host out of the dining room toward the drawing room.

Grant sidled up to Dawson. “I must admit, I’m convinced Fairley is the man for the job. Too bad there isn’t a way to guarantee his success.”

Dawson’s gaze slid to Grant. “Too bad, indeed. But I have every confidence the best man will win this one.”

“I hope you’re right. I only wish I had the power to help you make that come to pass.”

“As do I. He’s like a brother to me; there’s no length I wouldn’t go for him—and for his family.”

“He’s fortunate to have such a loyal friend.”

Dawson inclined his head. Grant let the subject drop, content to let the seed germinate in Dawson’s mind that Grant might be a possible candidate for their secret club sworn to remove the prime minister and make way for Fairley to step into the role. If Fairley were part of the conspiracy, surely his closest friend was, as well.

The men joined the ladies who sat chatting comfortably. Miss Fairley sat next to an attractive woman he recognized from the ball a few nights’ past—Lady Everett, if he remembered correctly. Fairley went to the woman’s side immediately, and they conversed in low voices, their postures intimate. A love interest, possibly.

Fairley turned to address the group. “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we begin a game of whist? Ladies, choose your partners.”

Dawson called to Grant. “Come, Amesbury, do join us.” He introduced Grant to the couple present as Lord and Lady St. Cyr.

Grant inclined his head and took a chair. As the cards were dealt, he surreptitiously observed the men, St. Cyr especially, since he’d also received a covert message outside Westminster.

Lord St. Cyr cast a glance at Grant over the top of his cards. “Mr. Amesbury, I don’t recall seeing you at many social events.”

“I don’t often attend them,” Grant said.

Lady St. Cyr eyed him, her gaze pausing only briefly on his scar. “Not much interested in frivolous social functions?”

“Nothing that involves girls looking for husbands.” Grant allowed a wry smile.

While the others chuckled appreciatively, Dawson nodded toward the host’s daughter sitting at a table with three other ladies. “The only unmarried girl here is Fairley’s daughter, and she’s absorbed entirely on helping her father, not searching for a husband. At least, not this Season.”

“No?” Grant asked, in case any useful information about Fairley arose.

Dawson placed his bet. “She’s focused on being the perfect hostess and daughter. If I had a son old enough to wed, I’d send him her way. She’s a fine girl, very fine girl. Her head isn’t stuffed with all that nonsense like so many her age.”

Lord St. Cyr let out a sigh. “I have three daughters, and they do nothing but chatter about dresses and boys.”

Lady St. Cyr raised a brow and said defensively, “And sew and study French and play music and dance and draw…”

With a nod and a gesture of surrender, Lord St. Cyr acquiesced.

Dawson’s gaze flicked to Grant. “I’m well acquainted with your eldest brother. He’s a fine man, and his political views seem well aligned with Fairley’s.”

Lady St. Cyr put a hand on her chin. “Your brother is Lord Tarrington, is he not?”

“He is.” Grant nodded. Quickly, he added, lest the lady verbalize ideas about his eligibility for her afore mentioned daughters, “I don’t get into political discussions much with him, so I don’t know who he favors as prime minister.”