To Lure a Proper Lady (20 page)

“All right,” he conceded. “You win that point. Order the carriage to be ready as soon as it's light.”

If he were any sort of horseman, he'd take his chances with Boudicca, but he hadn't been in the saddle in years. He also knew he couldn't ask a single horse to gallop the entire distance to London. But if Riggs's information was correct, Barrows had resorted to the mail coach.

“Can you be ready that fast?” he added. A last-ditch effort to put her off.

“Of course I can. I only need to change out of this.” She glanced down at the yards of rumpled pink silk that encased her form. “It wouldn't do to travel in a ball gown. But don't you think we ought to look for the books first?”

It was on the tip of Dysart's tongue to point out that Barrows, if he possessed a modicum of intelligence, would not have left a second set of books lying about. But Dysart needed to distract her with something so he could make his getaway. “An excellent idea. Why don't you do that?”

She eyed him, her gaze so penetrating he felt more naked than he ever had in his life. “And you'll wait until I've found the evidence before you set off.”

Another wave of guilt roiled through his gut. “Of course I will.”

Hours later, Lizzie sat back on her heels and rubbed at her grainy eyes, surrounded by the remains of her father's study. She'd left Dysart in the sitting room to steal up to her bedchamber in the dead of night, only to find Sven still on guard.

Thankfully, the Swede had permitted her to advance as far as her dressing room to change, while Great-aunt Matilda softly snored in the big, canopied bed. Lizzie's bed. How Lizzie longed to crawl in, even if it meant occupying a mattress alongside the old lady.

You can nap in the carriage,
she told herself. No doubt Dysart would wish to do the same on the trip back to Town. Over the past few days, he'd managed on less sleep than even the
ton
's most ardent revelers, and the effects barely showed. He must be used to getting by on little rest.

She shook away the notion as a needless distraction. She must stop thinking about beds in conjunction with Dysart and get back to her search. She glanced about the shambles she'd made of the study. The contents of the desk lay strewn across the floor. Sheets of paper, pens, ink bottles, sealing wax, and sand littered every available space, but she'd found nothing to prove Barrows's misdeeds.

Time was running out. The horses would be harnessed as soon as the sun rose, and she must be ready to meet the carriage. One more try.

Picking up the most recent ledger, she set it in her lap and thumbed through it once again. Precise entries, dated and calculated, marched down each page in ranks. A quick scan of the figures revealed no discrepancies, but she already knew they wouldn't. Nothing had changed since the other day; nothing had changed since the previous ten times she'd been over these books.

Gracious, she couldn't have done better herself where it came to making a proper entry.

For comparison's sake, she chose an older book, one dated over a decade ago, and scoured the figures. Same hand, naturally. Like Caruthers, the housekeeper, and the coachman, Barrows had been on staff for as far back as her memory stretched. She tapped her forefinger against the page. And what if Barrows had been skimming funds the entire duration of his employment?

She had no way of telling, but something else leapt out from these pages. A line here and there, struck through and repeated below. Corrections. Yes, and why not? Anyone might make the occasional error and have to amend it.

Except Barrows seemed to have improved of late. The recent books didn't show so much as a stray blot. She set the open ledgers side by side and stared. Could Barrows have recopied his entries on the latest pages and doctored the figures to hide any shortfall?

If so, the real figures had to be somewhere. Her knees creaked in protest and her feet tingled back to life as she pushed herself upright. She rifled through the desk again, rechecking empty pigeonholes and knocking the backs of the drawers in search of false bottoms.

Nothing. Still, the sets of ledgers must stand as proof of nefarious doings. Surely Dysart could make something of them.

“Good heavens, what on earth are you up to?”

At the sound of the voice, Lizzie snapped her gaze to the open door. “Great-aunt Matilda, what are you doing up so early?”

A glance at the window showed the sky had barely begun to lighten, but that meant Lizzie needed to get herself to the front door to catch the carriage before Dysart left.

“I am always up early.” Great-aunt Matilda toddled a step or two into the study but stopped before she trod on a stray pen. “It is good for the constitution.”

“Yes, but after the night you had.” Lizzie gathered the ledgers, set them on the desk, and picked her way over to her aunt. “You should still be in bed.” If she hurried, she could guide the old lady back upstairs, collect her evidence, and be off.

With surprising force, Great-aunt Matilda knocked Lizzie's hand from her wrist. “You're quite the one to talk. Have you even been to bed yet?”

The reminder of everything she
had
done since her aunt's fainting fit caused heat to race up her body. Her face practically glowed with it, she was certain.

Great-aunt Matilda nodded. “I thought as much. Such carryings-on. Under normal circumstances, I might even approve, but I'm afraid you and I need to have a little chat.”

Another glance at the window showed the sky had lightened by several more degrees. “I'd love to sit and chat, perhaps over tea later.”

“Oh, no, dear. I'm afraid this cannot wait.” Great-aunt Matilda's tone stood in stark contrast to the mildness of her declaration. Lizzie might well believe her great-aunt was addressing Lady Whitby in that manner—sternly telling her to relax her standards somewhat.

“I beg your pardon, but I really have no time.” Lizzie could not afford to give Dysart an excuse to leave without her. “A most pressing matter has come up, and I must be off to London, urgently.”

“And leave your own party? What utter nonsense.” Great-aunt Matilda held herself every bit as rigid as Lady Whitby in full-on harangue. “And what's this Sven tells me?”

Sven? The delay was over Sven? “I really have no idea, especially as I cannot communicate with the man. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Great-aunt Matilda stepped directly into Lizzie's line of escape. “He informs me that you and Snowley are engaged.”

“What?” At least Lizzie could put a quick and merciful end to this conversation. “No. We most definitely are not engaged. Sven must have misunderstood.”

As tenacious as any mastiff, Great-aunt Matilda was not about to release this particular bone yet. “Then why did he claim Snowley went down on one knee right in the upstairs corridor? Is that the proper setting for a proposal, I ask you? Though I suppose you ought to be grateful Snowley didn't choose Hyde Park Corner or some such.”

“Snowley did propose,” Lizzie admitted with a sigh. “I have yet to accept.”

“Thank the heavens for that. Tell me you'll refuse him.”

Lizzie ought to do just that—say whatever was necessary so Great-aunt Matilda would let her leave. But somehow she couldn't bring herself to outright lie to the old lady. But what truth could Lizzie placate Great-aunt Matilda with?

“Surely you're not considering it,” Great-aunt Matilda added when Lizzie took too long to reply.

“It is Papa's wish we marry.”

“To the devil with that.”

Lizzie's jaw dropped. Great-aunt Matilda might dress in a particular manner and behave outrageously at times, but Lizzie had never heard her utter language that would be more appropriate coming from Dysart.

“There's no need to imitate that ridiculous fish fountain your papa likes so much,” Great-aunt Matilda huffed.

Lizzie collected herself. “Perhaps you ought to discuss the matter with Papa. If you could talk him out of the idea, I might feel better about refusing Snowley. Papa seems to be under the impression Snowley's wife will need to possess a modicum of common sense to ensure the estate's continued success.”

That was if it could recover from whatever damage Barrows had done, but Lizzie was not about to inject that aspect into the conversation.

Great-aunt Matilda's brow furrowed. “As much as I hate to agree, your papa has a point. And don't start imitating that fish again. Snowley may be my grandson, but that does not make me blind to his faults. While a wife who possesses good sense would be a definite asset to him, that wife does not have to be you. You and he simply would not suit.”

Lizzie felt her lips stretch. She hoped her expression resembled a smile and not the relief that flooded her. Finally, someone besides her sisters had recognized that fact. “Yes, I know, but I cannot make Papa see that. And the sad reality is many married couples do not suit.”

Great-aunt Matilda raised a hand to Lizzie's cheek, the touch gentle and dry. “You don't think I'm aware of that? I do know from bitter experience. I'm trying to save you from a similar fate. In my day, parents scoffed at the idea of allowing their children to choose their spouse, but I'm not convinced the parents do a better job of it. Whoever you marry, remember this: Your papa will not be the person who has to live with your husband, and he will not be the one sharing his bed.”

Lizzie's cheeks heated once again. Great-aunt Matilda's statement had conjured a far different picture in her mind than intended. For Lizzie recalled Dysart's hands and lips on her person. His kisses, his touch, and the way he'd taken her apart nerve by nerve.

“When you've known the kind of proper passion that bursts into flame with the right person, another husband simply will not do.” Great-aunt Matilda repeated her caress, without doubt feeling the warmth radiating from Lizzie's cheeks. “But perhaps you're already aware of what I'm talking about. Don't ever settle for less if you can help it.”

Lizzie could only bob her head in reply. Her throat had somehow swelled shut.

“Now, whatever urgent matter needs taken care of, you'd best get about it.”

Blast. Lizzie glanced at the window. Still gray. Perhaps she had time. “You'll make my excuses to the other guests?”

“Of course I will. In fact, I may even forgive you for trying to hold your party without me…as long as you reconsider your position with Snowley.”

“As long—” No, she had no time left to argue.

With a grateful nod to her great-aunt, she took the ledgers from the desk and rushed toward the back of the house. She dodged a few sleepy maids on their way to light fires in the public rooms and experienced a twinge of guilt over the mess she'd left in the study. Some poor servant would have to set aside his regular duties to set things aright.

But Lizzie couldn't stop to worry over that. She burst through a back door and raced through a side garden, heading hard for the stable yard. The bare earth, beaten flat by countless hooves, stretched beneath a lowering gray sky. Empty. No waiting carriage. No Dysart.

Hang it all.

She should have given the coachman orders not to leave without her. To be certain she hadn't been abandoned, she strode into the stables. Bony noses poked over the tops of stalls. One of the inmates let out a hopeful whicker. There was no sign of the stable lads, however, nor the heavy muscled four that normally pulled the coach.

“Good Lord, I can't remember the last time I saw you in the stables.” Caro rested her forearms on the top of Boudicca's box. “I know you don't go riding often, but you'll need your hands to hold the reins. You won't have much chance for any light reading.”

Lizzie hugged the ledgers to her chest and ignored the jibe. “Have you seen Dysart?”

Caro's grin broadened. “If he asked you to meet him in the stables, I'm fairly sure he wouldn't want you bringing any reading material along, either.”

“Enough.” Lizzie leveled a glare at her sister. “Have you seen him?”

Caro rolled her lips into her mouth and let herself out of the stall. She was dressed like one of the stable boys, in a shirt whose linen had worn soft over time. A pair of breeches hugged her slim hips. Clearly, she'd been planning on a ride before breakfast—and before the rain began in earnest, if the clouds outside were any indication. “I haven't, but the carriage came out awfully early.”

“Did it leave?” At Lizzie's shrill tone, several of the horses tossed their heads.

“I heard it rattle off, yes.”

Lizzie let forth the string of curses that had been accumulating in her throat.

Caro took a step back and looked Lizzie up and down, her expression one of admiration. “My, Dysart has been teaching you some interesting words, hasn't he?”

“This is serious.”

“I gathered that, yes. What's going on? Something to do with the investigation?”

Given the most recent developments, Lizzie saw no reason not to discuss the case with her sister. She launched into an explanation. She finished with, “And now Dysart's run off to London without his evidence.”

“Are you sure he needs it simply to catch Barrows?”

“Are you saying he sent me on a chase to get rid of me? The thought had crossed my mind, yes.” After all, she hadn't found anything really solid.

“You're not planning on letting him get away with such underhandedness, are you?”

She'd love nothing better than to pull one over on the scoundrel. “I don't see what I can do. I can hardly set off in pursuit.”

Caro's grin reappeared. “Oh, can't you? Take Boudicca.”

For the third time this morning, Lizzie gaped. “I…You know I'm not used to haring around the countryside the way you do.”

“Boudicca would never let you fall.” Caro set aside her currycomb and strode for the tack room, Lizzie in her wake. “Besides, the last thing you want is to set off on a long journey at a gallop. A coach doesn't travel that fast. You can take things at a trot and still catch them before noon.”

“If you say so.” Lizzie bit her lip and cast a rueful glance over her garments. She'd donned a travel ensemble, not a riding habit. “But I'd need to change.”

“You can switch clothes with me.” Caro grabbed a bit and bridle from a peg on the wall. “Your seat will be steadier if you ride astride, at any rate. Come now, you're due for an adventure. This is your chance. Don't ruin it.”

Lizzie stiffened. “What does that mean?”

Caro paused in the midst of buckling the throatlatch. “If I were in your place, I'd run far and fast.”

“You mean from Snowley?”

Caro heaved a saddle onto Boudicca's withers. “From marriage.”

Lizzie blinked. Though Caro had always seemed reluctant to wed, she'd never expressed such a clear objection to matrimony. “But—”

“We've no time to discuss this now. Only do me one small favor. Leave the books at home.”

Well sprung a duke's carriage might be, but it still didn't allow for a comfortable snooze. Cheek resting against polished wood, Dysart dozed fitfully as the distance between him and Sherrington Manor increased.