Lyn Stone Page 3

  He raised one eyebrow and quirked his head as if to encourage her to go on. Not so much as a flicker of sympathy.

  She sighed, looked down at the faded carpet, glanced at his feet again, then back at the fearsome countenance. “I am Baroness Bradshaw.” She hesitated, waiting for him to challenge her claim. When he did not, she continued. “I believe my husband’s younger brother drugged me yesterday—or perhaps the day previous…What day is this?”

  “Saturday,” he replied succinctly.

  “Yesterday, then. I had been riding, came into my library and was offered a glass of wine. I only drank half. The next thing I knew, I awakened, locked in a cell in Bedlam. Of course, I didn’t know that until I escaped, but—”

  He smiled slightly and bit his bottom lip, but still did not comment. Now both eyebrows rose in a silent question.

  “After I awoke, I overheard two men conversing outside the door. When one left and the other entered, I knocked him on the head with the heel of my riding boot, dosed him with the vial of whatever he meant for me. These.” She reached into a pocket and produced the two small bottles. “Then I escaped in his clothes.” She looked down at her attire and back at him.

  He glanced away from her, shook his head and chuckled.

  Lily jumped up, tears springing to her eyes. “How dare you laugh!”

  Suddenly as that, he sobered, unfolding his arms and resting his hands on his hips. “You may tell whatever jokester sent you that I am no fool. This has been a colossal waste of my time as well as yours.”

  “No one sent me!”

  “Then I cannot imagine why you are here concocting this elaborate ruse. I happen to know that Bradshaw died of heart failure two years ago. Now I’ll have the truth from you, or else.”

  Exasperated, Lily clenched her eyes, wrung her hands and heaved a sigh. “I am Jonathan’s widow. Mother to Beaumont, the current Lord Bradshaw.”

  “Ah,” Duquesne said with a scoff. “You must not be aware I once met the person John Bradshaw wed and she most assuredly is not you.”

  “You knew my father, Vicar Upchurch. Surely you recall his daughter marrying above her station eight years ago? It was the news of the county at the time. Even here in Town, tongues were wagging, I expect.”

  He bent, examining her features. Muttering an epithet, he shook his head, snatched up her right arm and roughly pushed up her sleeve. “We’ll see if that’s so,” he snapped, holding her arm to the light. The jagged scar in the middle of her forearm shone white in the glare of the flame.

  At once, his features clouded with confusion and his eyes met hers. “But…but the child I saw was—”

  “Skinny is the word you must be seeking,” Lily snapped. “Skinny and short for my age. I so regret I do not clearly recall our meeting, my lord. I’m certain we would have gotten on famously.”

  But she did remember that tall, gangly youth with the kind eyes and a frown of concern for her pain. A fellow more than willing to rescue a child. He had barked orders at her father, whom no one ever dared to command. Then he had lifted her in his strong arms and carried her, murmuring comforting things near her ear. She dearly hoped a vestige of that kindness and willingness to help remained.

  He grimaced, his gaze casting about as if searching for details of the incident. “The vicar interrupted my afternoon on the green and commandeered my phaeton to rush you to Dr. Ephriam. You had fallen from a tree and broken your arm. The bone was…never mind.” Again, he peered down at her scar. “A poor job he made of the repair. Did it heal without incident?”

  Lily jerked her arm away and tugged down the fabric to hide the scar. “So you believe me now?”

  He gently smoothed her sleeve with his palm and nodded, his lips pressed together as if pained at having sought proof of her identity. “Yes. I believe you are who you claim to be.”

  “Then will you help me? My son could be in danger. If you would but furnish me a mount to ride home, I would be most grateful.”

  “In danger? Why?”

  She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Because my child is the only thing standing between Jonathan’s brother and the title, of course.”

  “The boy is now at Sylvana Hall?”

  Lily pressed her fingers to her lips for a moment before answering. “In the care of his nurse…I hope.” She fought tears and managed to keep them from falling. God above, how frightened she was for Beau.

  Again, Duquesne raised his hand, this time giving her shoulder a bracing squeeze of reassurance. “I’ll make arrangements immediately. Have a spot of that brandy while you wait.”

  “I’ll come with you,” she declared.

  Duquesne shook his head and offered her a smile. “Please, trust me… I’m sorry, but I cannot recall your name.”

  For a long moment she studied his eyes. They were clear, a clear, gentle gray now, their expression beseeching and somewhat regretful. She also noted a lack of deceit. “I am Lillian,” she replied.

  His smile widened, perfectly open and guileless, the smile of a friend happily reunited with a friend. “Lily, of course. Your father called you Lily.”

  And just like that, he was gone. Out the door with all speed, bound for she knew not where. Perhaps to summon the Watch or to send word to Clive to come here and collect her. But Lily thought not.

  That was not quite true. She knew not. Duquesne would have said outright that that was what he intended if he’d meant to turn her over. Somehow, Lily felt she could afford to put her life in his hands. How strange for her to trust on such short acquaintance when she had been betrayed the way she had.

  But Lily saw something in Duquesne that touched her. He was so alone and yet not bitter about it. There was also a wariness about him with regard to her, and she realized it was due to instant attraction. Though she knew she was not a great beauty, Lily was no fool.

  He attracted her, too, in a very physical way. Allowed to progress, Lily knew that would seriously complicate matters. She would never trade her body for a man’s assistance.

  Or would she? No, that sort of dishonorable arrangement would never do.

  But she had no money left after hiring the hack to get here, and there did not appear to be any coin here in this poor place to steal. Walking to Sylvana Hall would take entirely too long to be of any use. Besides, that was precisely what Clive would expect her to do and he would surely catch her along the way.

  Her best chance now lay with Duquesne’s providing her means to arrive home quickly before Brinks awoke, raised a cry and notified Clive that she was missing.

  Lily spent some time deciding what she might do once she arrived at the Hall, how she would spirit Beau away from there to safety and where they might go. But where could they go? Sylvana Hall was their home. She had responsibilities there that she had no intention of turning over to Clive. Unless she could prove what she thought he had done, he would remain a threat. What she and Beau needed was a permanent guard. Then an outrageous plan occurred to her.

  A headache formed directly between her eyes, a me-grim she could not afford at present considering all she had to accomplish before morning.

  She took up the half-empty bottle of brandy from the desk and looked for a glass. Finding none, she upended the bottle to her lips and allowed herself two sips for courage.

  That was how he found her when he returned.

  Guy stifled a laugh at the picture she presented, one hand propped rakishly on the edge of his desk, her hips cocked to one side and her head leaning back to drink his liquor.

  The light caught on the ragged wisps of her red-gold curls, furnishing a halo effect. Gilding Lily, the rowdy angel, he thought with an inner smile.

  He felt damned glad she was not what he had first thought her to be, some charlatan’s whore sent round to ply a scam or worse. Or perhaps a spy. He was ever alert for those since he did a bit of work now and again for the war department and had accrued a few enemies due to that. Fortunately, with peace breaking out, those chores were mostly beh
ind him now and—profits aside—he was relieved.

  Lily’s story seemed too bizarre for a fiction. While Guy did not know Clive Bradshaw personally, he knew there were men who would do damn near anything to acquire a title and whatever went with it. She was right to worry about the boy. And, judging by what she had suffered at Bradshaw’s hands, she should be more worried than she was about herself. Damned if he didn’t admire her spirit.

  She lowered the bottle to the desk with a solid thunk and faced him as directly as a man might have done. “Is my mount ready?”

  Guy crossed to the desk, reached around her to snag the bottle and took a healthy swig himself. He offered it to her again and watched her shake her head impatiently.

  He set the decanter aside for the moment. “I’ve sent for someone reliable, a man I trust with my life. When he arrives, I shall have him go and fetch your son and his nurse. Safer if you wait here.”

  The blue eyes went wide. “I cannot stay here!”

  “Better than in the madhouse,” he quipped, looking around him, “though not by much, I’m afraid.”

  She began to pace, rubbing her arms with her palms in a gesture that betrayed more consternation than he had seen yet from her. “Mrs. Prine will likely die of apoplexy if a perfect stranger demands they leave the Hall and go with him to London. And besides, she doesn’t ride,” Lily said, flinging the words over her shoulder as she paused at the window.

  “By hook, crook or pony cart, she’ll arrive with her charge no later than midafternoon, I promise. And you need not worry for their safety.”

  Her hands flared helplessly. “I cannot simply sit and wait!”

  “Of course not. You must go upstairs and have a good sleep. Your son will be shocked enough at your appearance. If you look done-in, as well, he’ll be frightened out of his wits.”

  She scoffed. “You don’t know my Beau!”

  Guy smiled. “Has your grit, does he? How old is the scamp?”

  He proffered the bottle again and she took it, downed a delicate sip and handed it back, resuming her pacing as she did so.

  “He turned seven last month.”

  “Ah, well, I wager he’ll relish the adventure.”

  She collapsed into the chair and buried her face in her hands. Guy watched her sob twice, then go still. She sniffed heavily once and brushed the tears from her face with a determined swipe of both palms. “Botheration!” Then she shrugged and looked up at him. “Forgive me. I know how men despise tears.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he said gently, raking the disheveled curls off her brow with his finger.

  “I would like to avoid being treated as one,” she quipped with a self-conscious laugh and another sniff.

  Indeed. “Why don’t you begin from the beginning and tell me again how it happened in detail? No matter how insignificant you think something might be, include it. I might be able to use it.”

  “Use it? For what?”

  “I don’t know yet, but you may rest assured this is not over, Lily. Not by a long mark. Bradshaw made a bold move and has gone too far to simply let it lie. Now begin, and leave out nothing.”

  He watched her carefully as she related her story.

  “So you recognized Bradshaw’s voice?” he asked her when she’d finished.

  “No, but who else could it have been? I assumed it was Clive because he is the only one who would gain anything by such a deed. He would assume control of my widow’s portion—the usual third of the estate—and also the remainder that is being held in trust for Beau. Not to mention Beau himself.” She swallowed hard, fighting to maintain control of her emotions. “If he would imprison me the way he intended, I shudder to think what he might do to a defenseless child who stands between him and what he wants.”

  What had been done to Lily frightened her, Guy could see, but not nearly so much as what Bradshaw might be planning for her son. She was right about one thing. Being the nearest male relative, Bradshaw would acquire the title himself if the boy were out of his way.

  “Who might be assisting him in this plot aside from Brinks? That’s what worries me,” Guy admitted. “He would have to prove your insanity in order to obtain a paper of committal to an institution.”

  Guy watched her gaze slide away as she worried her lips with her teeth. “What is it? What are you not telling me, Lily?”

  She sighed and sat back in the chair, looking almost defeated. “I rarely go out in Society, but I did attend a small soiree the Dansons held at Livsby Grange a week ago. I attended at Clive’s insistence. Apparently, I…I caused something of a scene there.”

  Guy’s attention keened. “Of what sort?”

  She busily pleated the hem of her coat as she made the admission. “Well, we partook of the buffet provided. Clive brought me a small plate and a cup of punch. All went well at first. I knew most of the neighbors who attended and the conversation was pleasant enough. Soon after we finished our refreshment, we took seats for the entertainment.” She halted.

  “Go on. What happened?”

  “The lights were lowered. A short while later…everyone began swaying as if to a song I couldn’t hear. There was a loud buzzing in the chamber. The noises within it grew terribly keen. Frightening. Then…everyone changed into…”

  “Into what, Lily?” Guy asked, keeping his voice low and nonthreatening.

  She blinked rapidly and her breathing came in fits and starts. “Horrible…things,” she whispered, obviously lost in the memory. “I must have screamed. I can’t remember. Clive whisked me out and the last I recall was being tossed into his carriage.”

  “And later? What did you do?”

  She raised her hands, palms up, then let them collapse on the arms of the chair. “Nightmares. I dreamt for the longest time, thinking I would never wake. You see, I knew I was sleeping, that none of it was real. But still it terrified me. The next day I decided I must have consumed something wholly disagreeable to my digestion. I was ill all morning. Other than an occasional bout of palpitations and a lack of appetite, I seemed well over it by that evening.”

  “Nothing of a similar nature has occurred since then?” Guy asked.

  “No. He must have drugged me.” She looked up at him, her gaze extremely worried. “Suppose some of those present believed me mad? Could Clive employ their testimony against me, do you think?”

  No doubt in Guy’s mind that was precisely what was intended, but he held those thoughts to himself for the moment. She was upset enough as it was. Instead he said, “We must find a way to put you out of his reach for a while until we decide what must be done.”

  “Clive is the only one with the right to have me confined, is he not?”

  Guy nodded. “Since your husband is dead and your son too young to make that sort of determination, Bradshaw would be the one.”

  “Then God help me,” she whispered. “I should have left off mourning at half a year and married Jeremy Longchamps when he asked.”

  Guy laughed out loud, surprising both of them. “You can not be serious! He would give you about as much protection as a broken flyswatter. He fights like a girl.”

  She smiled at that. “You obviously know Jeremy.”

  “All too well,” Guy admitted, glad for the lighter topic. “We were at school together. How is it that you know him?”

  “He was a great friend of Jonathan’s. We entertained him often. I quite like the fellow, odd quirks and all.”

  “But not enough to marry him, obviously.” Thank heaven for that spot of good sense.

  “No, not enough for that. I would have felt more like a sister to him than a wife, though he entertains Beau and thinks the world of him.” She sighed. “But marrying Jeremy might have prevented this problem. However, I don’t regret my decision, really. He deserves someone who would really care for him in a way I never could.”

  “I shouldn’t think Jeremy would notice, he’s so full of himself,” Guy quipped. Though Longchamps had used to prove amusing at times, Guy had sel
dom encountered a fellow more feather-brained and oblivious to the goings-on around him.

  “You do not seem to be that way,” she said. When Guy looked at her, she narrowed her eyes and regarded him as a cat might do a mouse. “You have been very kind in your treatment of me tonight. Are you always so gentle with those weaker than you?”

  Guy smiled. “There is certainly no honor in throwing one’s strength around.”

  “Yes, you do seem accommodating and I appreciate that. Tell me, Lord Duquesne—”

  “It’s Guy, if you please.”

  “Very well. Guy. Tell me, how do you feel about a marriage of convenience?” her expression looked pensive and even a bit sly.

  “That depends. Whom do you have in mind?”

  “You, of course.” She gestured toward him with one hand.

  “Me? Ye gods and little fishes, I’m appalled at the very thought,” he answered with real conviction. “You don’t mean—”

  “But I do.” She looked around her as if assessing his study. “It appears you could use…an infusion of wealth. I could provide that.”

  “This is ridiculous!” But was it?

  Arrangements such as she proposed happened all the time. Only not to him. Never once had he entertained the idea of marrying for money.

  He frowned at her impudence. His paucity of funds had become a well-known fact in recent years. The upkeep and taxes on the estates at Marksdon, Perrins Close and Edgefield, as well as the town house here, were outrageous.

  When one added the expense of providing the best of care for his father, Guy had stretched even his improved resources near their limits. Though he had overcome the threat of ruin some time ago, he kept to his frugal ways.

  There were worse things than being regarded as poor. That state offered a certain freedom that being wealthy did not. It certainly whittled down his social obligations, which suited him just fine. Aside from the Kendales and the Hammersleys, damned few of his so-called peers bothered to give him so much as a nod.