To Lure a Proper Lady Read online

  Breathe. He had to maintain a cool head. Had to.

  To that end, a change in subject might be wise, if only to unbalance his opponent. “Tell me, where did you go to school?”

  “What?”

  “I asked where you went to school.” Dysart enunciated each syllable in his best public school accent.

  “I had private tutors, but what that has to do with anything…”

  “Ah. That’s why I don’t remember you. I think you’ll agree education is important. Do you know where I got mine?”

  “No?”

  “Harrow, but no matter. My second education was far more important. I acquired that one in the rookeries. Do you know what that means?”

  “No.” Snowley’s inflection rose on the response, practically turning it into a question.

  Quick as a cat, Dysart lunged, gathering two fistfuls of Snowley’s lapels. “It means you don’t want to do anything that might make me lose my temper.” He kept his tone low and lethal. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Behind him, the door snapped open. He did not need to see Lady Elizabeth to gauge her mood. Her upset took concrete form, tightly coiled as a serpent and ready to strike without warning. Snowley must have caught her expression, though. His eyes widened.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on here?” She stepped forward in a clear if futile attempt to insinuate herself between Snowley and Dysart. “What has come over you? Release him.”

  Reluctantly, Dysart unknotted his fingers. Snowley brushed the front of his topcoat and took a step back.

  Lady Elizabeth turned the full force of her glare on Dysart. “First Pendleton and now I catch you fighting with my cousin. In front of his grace’s rooms, no less, when you know he’s unwell.”

  She paused for breath, her bosom expanding. Snowley’s gaze drifted south, and Dysart repressed the urge to launch himself at him once again.

  “If I might ask you something,” Snowley began tentatively. “I’ve been trying to determine your relationship with…with…with this Dysart fellow.”

  “That is none of your affair, as I’ve told you more than once.” Though Elizabeth was easily the smallest of the three, her presence made her appear taller than the other two. “The duke condones his presence, and that is all you need to know.”

  “But Pendleton…” Snowley squared his shoulders and drew himself up. The bloody idiot had clearly never learned when to stand down. “I demand to know what is going on under my nose.”

  “There is no need to take that tone with me. I owe you no explanations. You may be the duke’s heir, but you are not the duke yet. And until that time, I do not have to answer to you.”

  Something subtle shifted in Snowley’s expression—a mere hardening, a flattening of the lips—but it was enough to cause a warning tingle to run down the back of Dysart’s neck.

  What if he only wanted to make your puh-pa ill? Perhaps make you accept him out of panic? His words to Lady Elizabeth mere days ago echoed through his mind. The harebrained scheme, as she’d termed it, but suddenly it didn’t feel quite so off. Mad, certainly, but instinct told Dysart Snowley was quite capable of that sort of madness.

  —

  Lizzie should have insisted on a different Runner that day on Bow Street. Someone more levelheaded. Someone older, who would certainly have more experience. Someone far less attractive.

  Concentrate.

  She forced her mind back to the task at hand—rereading her manuscript. She’d retreated to one of the smaller parlors, not hiding, exactly, although Lady Whitby had cast several speculative glances in her direction over breakfast. Lizzie had only gone off to find a few moments of peace, and to lose herself in the pleasure of creating something all her own, only to have Dysart continually invade her thoughts.

  He’d somehow invaded her story, as well, in the form of a rusty-haired stranger with a mysterious past. Good heavens, it was too much, especially when his literary self had taken to jumping into ponds to rescue the heroine’s lost kitten. Said heroine had derived far too much delight in noting the way his sodden garments clung to his muscular body.

  No, no, and no.

  Lizzie picked up her quill, dipped it in ink, and crossed out the offending paragraphs with decisive strokes.

  The rasp of a throat clearing sounded louder than the scratching of her pen. Blast. Dysart himself stood in the doorway, his clothes thankfully dry, but that didn’t erase the memory of the way his body had felt pressed against hers.

  She resisted the urge to duck behind her sheaf of papers. Instead, she coerced her voice into the officious crispness she used to direct the servants. “I thought you said it would be better if we meet only in public spaces.”

  A glint in his eye, followed by an odd darkening, told her he was recalling the exact same moment in the duke’s sitting room. Their tongues dancing, their bodies entwined, his hand on her breast.

  “I’ll take my chances for now.” His reply came as a low rumble that warmed her through as much as her wayward thoughts. “I owe you an apology for the unforgivably unprofessional manner in which I’ve been conducting myself.”

  “I see.” Although she didn’t. Not really. Not when his unprofessional manner encompassed so many possibilities. Was he referring to his fights or the liberties he’d taken—liberties she’d permitted and reveled in?

  She wasn’t exactly sure she wanted him to apologize for kissing her when she’d fully enjoyed those encounters. When she wished for further exploration.

  “I shall make every effort to do better in the future. I give you my word.” As a gentleman. He left that part unvoiced, and why shouldn’t he? He’d walked away from that particular role over a decade ago. And yet, she trusted him to keep his word more than several so-called gentlemen she could think of.

  “Apology accepted, then.” What else could she give but the expected reply?

  He seemed to hover on the balls of his feet, as if torn between taking his leave and risking closer contact. Or perhaps he was simply curious about her scribblings. Heaven help her if he actually learned of their contents.

  She spread protective fingers across her words. “Was there anything else?”

  “If I’m to conduct myself in a professional manner, I ought to get to work. And to that end, I find myself in need of some paper.”

  “Over in the writing desk.” With her chin, she pointed to the far corner.

  He stepped into the room. Closer. “You’ve got some paper right there.”

  She spread her fingers and pulled the sheets toward her lap. “I’m using it.”

  He craned his neck. “What are you using it for?”

  “Is this an example of your interrogation technique? I’m hardly impressed.”

  He leaned one hip on the edge of her table, his body angled toward her, and she recalled his penchant for sitting atop his Bow Street desk. “Do you really want me to demonstrate my technique? I’ve a trick or two I reserve for the ladies.”

  “And would that constitute professional conduct?”

  One forefinger snaked out to snatch a page. Just in time she yanked it back.

  “If it got me the answers I seek, what does it matter?” His intonation had dropped to something low and honeyed. A flighty chit like the heroine of Lizzie’s novel might think it seductive. She could even allow herself to be taken in. “If you refuse to tell me, I shall have to guess. The way you’re guarding those bits of paper, one would think you’re carrying on a torrid correspondence with a secret lover.”

  Her face flamed. “You…you think I…that I’m capable…”

  A ray of morning sun caught the reddish hints in his hair. “I imagine you possess any number of secrets.”

  Lord, the way he was looking at her. She felt like he could see straight through the layers of muslin that hid her bare skin. “This is hardly anything so scandalous.”

  “Pity, that.” His tone implied that he’d love for her to engage in great amounts of scandalous behavior. Preferably with
him.

  Oh, but this was dangerous for their resolve to stay away from each other. “If you must know, I’m writing a novel.”

  With an expression the very definition of smug, he settled his weight back and crossed his arms. I knew I’d have it out of you. She read the rejoinder in his features.

  “What do you think of my technique now?” he asked.

  “Infuriating.”

  “But effective. Can I read your novel?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t finished, for one thing.” For another, she would simply curl up and die if he recognized himself on these pages.

  “Then tell me why you’re doing it.”

  What a probing request, but something compelling in him prodded her to reply. “I suppose I’d like to discover if I’ve any kind of talent, the way my sisters do. Caro rides. Pippa paints. But—”

  Dysart went rigid, any hint of teasing or seduction replaced with utter focus. “Pippa paints?”

  “What of it? It’s a perfectly respectable occupation for a young lady of breeding to dabble in watercolors or charcoals.” Although Pippa’s creations went beyond mere dabbling. If she’d been born male, she might have asked Papa to send her to the continent to study with the masters.

  Dysart turned his penetrating stare on Lizzie. “Just now you said she paints, not that she produces watercolors or sketches.”

  Good Lord, what had he honed in on? “What does it matter?”

  “Paints”—he pushed himself off the table and moved to the window—“can serve as a source of poison. Arsenic, to be exact.”

  Lizzie jumped to her feet. “If you mean to imply my sister—”

  He held up a hand. “I mean nothing of the kind…necessarily. Although I’ve already told you we cannot rule anyone out. But we very much do need to take into account that there is a handy source of poison in this house. And that knocks the outside suspects further down the list.”

  Chapter 14

  Damn it to hell. Dysart should have known better. He did know better. The first lesson he’d learned when he joined Bow Street was never to let emotion rule over cool reason.

  But he’d done just that. He’d let his hatred of Pendleton cloud his judgment and now Elizabeth’s father might well pay the price.

  “But…” Elizabeth approached, one hand extended. He watched those perfectly manicured fingers grow nearer, and his body ached for their touch. There was another emotional entanglement he could ill afford. If his blundering led to the duke’s untimely demise, he’d cause this woman a world of pain. “Didn’t you say we cannot discount outsiders, as they may be paying someone in the house? One of the servants?”

  Somehow he found his voice. “I did, but we also have to consider what makes the most sense. Have you ever heard of Occam’s razor?”

  “Lex parsimoniae.” He had to admire the fact that someone had taught her the rudiments of Latin and rhetoric. So many young ladies of her standing were allowed to wither in ignorance. “The simplest explanation is the most likely. But what’s simplest here?”

  Certainly not the notion that Snowley was making the duke ill to push Elizabeth toward the altar. No, the simplest explanation was Pendleton and that business with Lady Caroline’s horse. Nothing was more straightforward than revenge. But his gut told him he’d overlooked something important.

  “That all depends,” he replied. “How widely known is it that your sister paints?”

  “It isn’t a talent she puts on display, if that’s what you mean.” Lady Elizabeth stilled next to him at the window, her arms crossed, her shoulder nearly brushing his. “She doesn’t much like calling attention to it.”

  “So the chances of Pendleton knowing?”

  “Are not very high. As far as I know, he’s more interested in gadding about the countryside than contemplating fine arts. But how do you even know the source of the poison is the paints?”

  He joined her in considering the scene outside. This window overlooked one of the side gardens, beyond which a dark fringe of trees rose. The woodlands. Atop her mare, Lady Caroline galloped across the scene and disappeared into the trees. Several of the gentlemen followed, urging their mounts to keep up, in vain most likely. Closer to the house, a few of the ladies strolled among the vibrant blooms. From all appearances, the other guests hadn’t missed either him or Lady Elizabeth.

  “I don’t, for certain,” he said. “Only I find it rather convenient. Downright diabolical, as well. Not too many people realize so innocent a pastime carries a potential danger.”

  “How did you learn about it?”

  “It’s my job.” He allowed himself a grin. Part of him wished they could go back to the light banter of a few moments ago. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this. One of my first cases involved an artist who was found dead in his flat. They called the Runners in on suspicion of foul play. It turns out he poisoned himself completely by accident.”

  Elizabeth gasped. “Good heavens. Pippa!”

  “Steady on.” He turned to her, and his fingers circled about her upper arms, lightly but insistently until she meet his gaze. “Here’s the thing about arsenic. People use it as a poison because when given in small doses, the reaction looks like an upset stomach. Your sister—Lady Philippa—has she had any complaints? Any ailments like your Papa?”

  “No, not that I’m aware.” A cautious hope infused her tone.

  “She’ll be all right.” He tightened his grip for an instant before letting his hands slide toward her wrists. “It’s only certain pigments.” His hands swept up again in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “That artist we investigated, he was fond of bright colors, green in particular.”

  Bright poisonous green. Dysart conjured a picture in his mind’s eye of the duke’s sickroom. All his grace’s medicines stood in glass vials, a row of bright colors on his bedside table. Had any of them been that particular shade of green? Dysart could no longer recall with any precision. He would have to verify that particular detail before the day was out.

  “Is there a way to determine if poisoning has occurred before it gets to the point of stomach pains?”

  “None that I know.” Unfortunately. If they could test the duke, he’d have a better bloody idea what was happening than he did now. He’d been running on instinct and conjecture far too long. “The doctors can tell after death, but that won’t do you any good. At any rate, your sister isn’t likely ingesting her paints, now, is she?”

  “Can you test her pigments, then? Is there a way to learn if she’s using the dangerous ones?”

  “I can see about that, yes.” Or he could if he were in London. A chemist with the proper knowledge might be harder to come by in this godforsaken corner of Suffolk. For now, though, he needed a distraction. A thousand pleasurable means of accomplishing that end flooded his mind, but he couldn’t allow himself to act on any of them. No, he would have to settle for giving Elizabeth a job. “In the meantime, you can help me with something.”

  “What?”

  “I need a list of all your servants, but especially the ones who have direct access to your papa.”

  “You’re not mocking me anymore,” she pointed out.

  He had a good idea what she was referring to, yet it felt more comfortable to prod for clarification. “I’m not?”

  A tiny grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Puh-pa.”

  Just as he’d thought. The back of his neck heated, and he placed his palm over the spot as if that would hide the sudden flush. “I can be an irreverent ass along with the best of them.”

  “Have I stamped my foot and demanded an apology?” She pressed the tips of her fingers to his shoulder. “Now that I know your history, I rather understand why you’d make sport of someone like me.”

  “I didn’t know you as well then.” In fact, she’d just shone a candle on another small hidden corner of herself. His hands found her waist.

  She emitted a sharp little gasp that sent h
is mind straight to the bedchamber and his blood rushing south. What he wouldn’t give for a few hours, an entire night, to explore her delicious body and discover all the spots that would produce such sounds. The dip of her waist would only be the beginning.

  No.

  He made himself let go. He couldn’t act on this deuced attraction again. He might have wanted to distract Elizabeth, but he couldn’t afford to let his own mind wander off the matter at hand. “The servants,” he prompted.

  A furrow formed between her brows, giving him the impression that she hadn’t been put out so much over his making fun of her, but she was now. “The servants. There’s Papa’s valet, of course. And Caruthers. He usually sees to Papa when he has his episodes.”

  Dysart had already spoken to both men at length. Another round of questions might be in order, though, in case their stories changed. “What about his meals? Does the same footman always deliver them?”

  For that matter, the cook might be doctoring the duke’s food, but would a cook know about the paints as a source of poison?

  “Caruthers would have a better notion.” Her voice sounded much stronger than it had several moments ago.

  Good. At least he’d accomplished that much. “Ring for him, then, but I need you for this.”

  “Why me?”

  He might have answered her question in so many ways, but part of him wasn’t prepared to pick apart those reasons himself. So he glanced past her at the pages scattered on the table, at the neat lines of writing—the novel she claimed to be working on. Even the places where she’d struck out words were lined through with an almost military precision. “Have you seen my scrawl? Half the time, I can’t even read my notes later. But this is too important.”

  She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowed. “I don’t seem to recall you having any difficulty when I first contacted you on Bow Street. You took notes yourself then.”

  Damn her perception. “They turned out to be useless.” Could he possibly think of a more pathetic reason? “I had to rely on my memory, but your staff here is too large. If I’m to get through this, I’ll need your help.”