To Lure a Proper Lady (6 page)

In this case, it turned out to be a lot of nothing. But that thought was small satisfaction weighed against the interview to come.

Or perhaps
confrontation
was a better term. No matter how he thought of it, Dysart intended to come out of this meeting with the assurance Pendleton would keep quiet about their history together.

Footsteps thudded in the passageway, coming closer. Dysart let himself slump in his seat, one booted ankle over his knee, the image of calm and casual, when inside he was anything but. The mere thought of Pendleton and all he'd done was enough to set Dysart's blood to boiling. Yet, he must appear as if he had all day and nothing better to do than avoid the marriage-minded mamas downstairs. A full dozen years since he'd left polite society, and not a single thing had changed.

So why not pay a surprise visit on an old friend? Or at least that's what he wanted Pendleton to think.

The handle turned, and the door swung partway open. “I should like a private word with the duke at the earliest possible convenience,” Pendleton said.

Whoever he'd addressed—Caruthers or a footman—gave a muffled reply, but based on the tone, it was less than encouraging. No shock there, when the duke believed himself at death's door.

“See what you can do.” Pendleton reached into his coat—for a coin, no doubt. “It's important.”

Then he pivoted and froze. Dysart watched his expression solidify into a mask.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Pendleton measured his words carefully, as if he had very few of them to waste. “How have you been keeping, Gus?”

Dysart rested his wrist on his bent knee. As gestures went, it was better than making a fist. “It's Dysart now. Just Dysart. As long as we find ourselves at the same house party, I wanted to make certain we've got that straight.”

Pendleton moved into the room and closed the door. “What corner of hell did you crawl out of?”

“One on Bow Street. I work for the law now, so you might want to keep on my good side.”

“What is it you want?”

For one thing, he'd like to know what important business Pendleton had with Sherrington, but that could wait. “Right now, I'd prefer to keep the past buried. If you don't go digging it up, I won't. Do we have an understanding?”

Apparently not, for Pendleton sneered. “Does the duke know you're here?”

“We've been introduced.”

“Let me ask again. Does the duke know
you're
here?” A simple change of inflection, but one that carried so much meaning.

“He recognized me. So don't think you can go running to him with my tale. He's already aware. How much he knows of
your
past actions is a different question entirely.” He plucked at a non-existent thread on his coat sleeve. “I couldn't help but overhear you say you had important business with Sherrington. I wonder how he'd feel about negotiating with a man of your predilections, shall we say.”

Pendleton advanced, fists clenched. “Is that a threat?”

“It's a bargain.” Dysart allowed himself a grin, one he usually reserved for games of hazard when he rolled three mains in a row. “You hold up your end, I'll hold up mine.”

“And just what, specifically, is my end?”

Dysart unfolded himself from the chair. “Very simple. You forget you ever had occasion to call me Gus. In fact, you forget you ever met me before today. And you don't do anything that might land you in trouble with me. Are we clear now?”

“I don't understand.” Lizzie ran her finger down the column of entries in the account book, but the numbers did not change.

“Is something amiss, my lady?” Lucas Barrows, Papa's estate agent, posed the question with a hint of mild surprise.

“It shouldn't be. Not according to these figures.”

But down in the kitchens, Cook had told a completely different tale. “Suppliers refusing orders over bills past due.” The woman had twisted her weathered hands in her apron as she fretted over their carefully planned menus. “Barely enough flour for bread, and we shan't have cake. Not for this crowd. And there's no salmon for tonight. Not unless we send coin. It's nearly midsummer. Why won't the fishmonger wait until we've collected the rents the way he usually does?”

Lizzie had neglected her guests for an hour while she considered their stores and rearranged their supper offerings. She'd sent a footman off with a substantial portion of her pin money to appease the local merchants and secure deliveries for tomorrow. Now she only had to sort out the books and figure who was owed what—except apparently they were all paid up.

She considered Barrows's creased face for a moment. He'd been with the family for years. If anyone knew how they'd come to this state, he would. “How is it possible the only foodstuffs we have in quantity are what the estate produces? But the miller and the fishmonger and goodness knows who else refuse to supply us? They claim we didn't pay the proper amounts in March and they won't extend any more credit. Yet the ledger tells a completely different story.”

“What's this?”

Oh, good heavens. The last thing she needed was Snowley poking his nose into the matter. Yet here he was, red-faced and panting. Had he run all the way across the house to find her here? He was also standing entirely too close, craning his neck to read over her shoulder.

“Why are we worried about business at a time like this?” he went on. “Our guests are seeking their hostess to direct the entertainments.”

Our guests.
As if he were the host. As if they were married.

She turned and thrust the ledger at him. “Can you make sense of this?”

A line formed between his brows, and he scrunched his mouth to one side. His fingers drummed against his thigh. “Everything looks to be in order.”

“Yes, you'd think so, but apparently we've enough bills outstanding that some local merchants refuse to extend us any more credit. I don't understand how that happens.”

Snowley gestured to their surroundings. Richly carved walnut paneling covered the walls of Papa's study. Thick Turkish carpeting cushioned their feet. Beyond heavy velvet curtains, an army of gardeners tended flowerbeds that stretched behind the manor as far as the precisely trimmed hedges of the maze.

“Common people see all our abundance and it makes them envious. They want a part of this for themselves. If they can gouge it out of us through higher prices…” He trailed off, as though the rest of his thought was completely transparent.

It was, but in a way that sent a prickle of annoyance along the back of Lizzie's neck. “That makes no sense,” she protested. “Honest merchants set prices, and we pay what they ask.”

In her experience, the locals had generally been fair. Why should that suddenly change?

“If I may, my lady,” Barrows broke in, “perhaps it is not the merchants who are dishonest.”

Snowley bristled. “What are you implying there?”

Barrows held up a hand. “I mean no offense. I only suggest someone may have taken payment destined for a merchant here and there and used it to feather his own nest.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Lizzie had rarely felt more betrayed. She knew Papa paid his staff generous wages. More than generous.

“If I knew the answer to that, I'd have taken the matter up with his grace by now. It could be a footman here and another footman there, for that matter.”

“There, there.” Snowley put a hand on her shoulder. No doubt he intended the gesture to be comforting, but she only wished to shrug it off. “Do not tax yourself with such matters.” He might as well have patted her on the head, like a puppy or a small child. “I'm certain Barrows will get to the bottom of it.”

“Indeed I will, my lady. You can count on it.”

“Come along, then.” That hand on her shoulder firmed to steer her toward the door—away from this enclave of masculinity.

As much as she hated her cousin's condescension, he was right. She'd spent far too much time away from the party guests.

But in the corridor a new obstacle presented itself in the form of Dysart. Jaw set, his shoulders seeming to span from wall to wall, he blocked their path.

As he had in the study, Snowley bristled. A hedgehog would have envied him. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I've been looking for Lady Elizabeth.” Dysart crossed his arms in a manner that proclaimed he had no intention of budging. “Seems I've found her.”

“We're about to join the others,” Lizzie put in. “You're welcome to come along.” At any rate, she had introductions to make if they were to pull off this charade.

“Not yet.” He eyed Snowley and jerked his head. “You can join the others. I need a private word with Lady Elizabeth.”

Snowley looked from Lizzie to Dysart and back. “This isn't proper.”

“Then find a chaperone. Perhaps she'll wipe your…” He paused, his eye gleaming with mischief that made Lizzie wonder if he was considering some forbidden part of her cousin's anatomy. “…nose for you.”

Snowley drew himself up, but even bobbing on his toes like a boxer, the top of his head didn't reach Dysart's chin. “Now see here—”

Lizzie's hand on her cousin's arm cut him short. “Go on and see to the guests. We'll be along straightaway. It'll be all right,” she added when Snowley didn't immediately bend to her will.

Potential problem there. He usually did whatever she said.

Another moment or two of glaring passed before he stood down. “Don't take too long.”

Lizzie waited until Snowley had slumped away before addressing Dysart.

“Do you enjoy sneaking up on people in corridors?” He'd done the same to her and Caro the previous evening, after all.

He didn't so much as blink. “It's part of my job.”

“What is it you wanted?”

“Not here.”

His gaze flitted past her shoulder to the open study door. Barrows was still in there—looking through the account books for discrepancies, with any luck, and mulling over who might have made off with the missing sums. Or perhaps he'd just witnessed the entire scene between Dysart and Snowley. They'd put on quite a show, and somehow Lizzie had come out of it feeling like a bone between two starving dogs.

She led Dysart along the passage to an unused sitting room, cool and dark in the heat of the day with its unlit hearth and drawn curtains.

“Who were you and Cousin Snowley talking to just now?” Dysart asked.

Lizzie supposed that was part of his job, as well, asking questions, discovering who everyone was. “Papa's agent, Mr. Barrows. It's nothing but domestic trouble.”

Dysart nodded, one firm jerk of his head that told her he'd filed the information away in his mind. “How well do you know Marcus Pendleton?”

The abrupt change of subject made her take a step back. “I beg your pardon?”

“Pendleton.” He stalked closer. She'd thought him a dog, earlier—a big one, a mastiff. But now she realized her error. Dogs rushed in. No, he was a cat, prowling quietly, waiting for his moment to pounce. “He's one of your guests.” Closer. “One you forgot to tell me about.”

Something in Dysart's tone—no, in his entire manner—set her on edge. “An oversight, I'm sure.” In fact, she hadn't known he was attending until this morning. “He'll be one of Caro's set. Why?”

“I wouldn't think he's the sort to come to one of these gatherings.”

“You wouldn't think…” she echoed. Heavens, how did a Bow Street Runner become acquainted with someone like Marcus Pendleton, enough to know whether or not he'd attend a house party? “He'll have come for the horse races. Caro always organizes some sort of cross-country event. She'll ride in it, too, if she can get away with it. One of her life's ambitions is to secure an invitation to ride to hounds with Sir Graham and company.”

“They don't allow women.”

Lizzie raised her brows. And how would Dysart know
that
? “Are you familiar with the hunt? I wouldn't imagine you ride.”

“I don't. Leastways, I don't enjoy setting a pack of hounds after some animal and breaking my neck trying to give chase. But we're running far afield. Stay away from Pendleton. Don't find yourself alone with him.” His voice rasped with urgency. “And warn your sisters, too.”

“Good heavens, what are you implying?” She'd never heard Pendleton was a rake. Once more, she asked herself how Dysart could know anything about one of their set, but a possible answer came to her and settled in the pit of her belly like a chunk of ice. Dysart made a living enforcing the law. Had Pendleton somehow run afoul of the magistrate's court? But if that were the case, gossip would certainly have circulated. “The man is received in society. If he were prone to ruining young ladies, he'd be barred from every guest list in Mayfair.”

“He ought to be,” Dysart growled. He leaned in, and his fingers curled about her forearm, tightening almost to the point of pain. “Please trust me on this.”

Lizzie had to swallow before replying. “What do you know?
How
do you know?”

“Alert every young lady here,” he went on as if she hadn't said anything. “Alert your staff, especially the maids. Can you do that for me?”

The sheer depth of his seriousness set her heart to pounding. “He ran afoul of the law, didn't he? What did he do?”

“He forced himself on a maid, but that's the way of the world, isn't it? His sort gets away with all manner of sins, while those of lesser station pay the price. I was unable to help the girl. Do you know what that kind of powerlessness feels like?” His fingers dug into her arm, and she let out a squeak. “Your pardon.” He dropped his hand.

“Has he…has he done it again since?”

“I don't know, but in my experience men who do that don't stop at once. At any rate, do you want to take that chance?”

Dysart had lied to Lady Elizabeth. Not an outright lie, granted. It was more an omission of pertinent facts. She'd been the one to suggest Pendleton had run into trouble with Bow Street, and Dysart had said nothing to contradict that notion.

Liar.

The word kept flitting through his thoughts like a persistent fly at a picnic. Every time he waved it away, it would settle elsewhere. Which was utterly ridiculous, because this afternoon was hardly the first occasion he'd lied to a woman.

His job required prevarication on a regular basis, for Christ's sake. Hell, he was attending this party under false pretenses. He'd spent a tedious two hours at supper fending off questions about his social connections.

Liar.

With every raised eyebrow, he'd added a few flourishes to the embroidery of his Scottish origins and his mother's friendship with Sherrington's duchess. All the while, he'd boldly stared Pendleton directly in the face, daring the other man to contradict the tale.

Liar.

So far, at least, everyone had taken his claims at face value—or perhaps they were too polite to call him an imposter and give him the cut direct. Of course, his mere reception by Lady Elizabeth and her sisters implied Sherrington's tacit approval. No one was willing to blithely fly in the face of a duke, even one who had yet to put in an appearance.

Although Lady Whitby had glared at Dysart with sniffy suspicion long enough. Whitby. That name tripped a distant memory. He may have met the lady in a former life when they were both much younger. With any luck, she hadn't any daughters to cluck over thirteen-odd years ago. With any luck, she hadn't paid attention to a young buck making his first forays into society. He hadn't done anything of note for the gossips—then. Still, prudence demanded he take care so as not to call attention to himself.

As for Pendleton, he'd gone from the first course to dessert pointedly avoiding Dysart's gaze. So much the better, as long as he kept his distance from Lady Caroline, who had, after all, extended his personal invitation.

That prospect seemed chancier. The gentlemen had just entered the drawing room after an endless half hour of port and bawdy jokes. Now, as Dysart watched, Lady Caroline disengaged herself from a group of giggling young ladies and made her way straight to Pendleton.

Damn it. He'd have to head that off.

But Lady Elizabeth was apparently a step ahead of him. She clapped her hands, effectively halting the buzz of conversation.

“Now that the gentlemen have joined us, what do you say to a game?” She'd dressed for supper—naturally. The fabric of her gown, something fine-threaded and luxurious, glowed softly in the candlelight, promising a pleasant slide under the fingertips. Under
his
fingertips. And that particular shade of pink…Christ, it was sinful. It matched her lips, but that only made him wonder about more intimate places on her body. “What shall we play?”

What unfortunate phrasing. The words sent Dysart's mind straight to the broad mattress in his assigned bedchamber. Yes, he could think of all manner of ways he'd like to play, but none of them involved a roomful of guests.

“Oh, let's play Buffy Gruffy,” one of the young ladies cried.

Several others eyed the men, and put their heads together behind their fans, chattering excitedly. A good thing, for Dysart was muttering a few choice words under his breath.