Bryce was in the breakfast parlor by nine, and so was surprised when Miss Wellesley joined him only a few minutes after he’d drawn his chair up to the table. In spite of her limp, she looked bright-eyed and chipper, which he attributed to the fact that she knew none of what had transpired last night with Lady Jemima and her brother. She offered him a pleasant “Good morning,” asked after Lady Jemima’s health, and then busied herself at the sideboard.
Troy appeared soon after, looking less chipper; his eyes were bloodshot and bore heavy shadows beneath them. Bryce had asked his own valet to look after the new guest, and Quigley had done wonders with the man’s appearance, almost disguising the aftereffects of a night of carousing.
After a nod of greeting to Bryce, Troy made up a plate for himself, and then sat down opposite the breakfast parlor window. In the sunlight his thick hair gleamed a rich, pale gold, and his eyes shone a pure sapphire blue, in spite of their somewhat inflamed condition. Since Troy had seated himself beside Miss Wellesley, who was herself not an inconsiderable beauty, Bryce was almost overwhelmed by the shimmering splendor that arose from the table opposite him. It made a man long to take up a paintbrush.
“I am Terence Vale,” Troy said, holding out one hand to the girl beside him. “Jemima’s brother.”
Bryce winced—he’d been too distracted by gilded youth to perform the proper introductions.
“And I am Lovelace Wellesley,” the girl replied.
“Wonderful name,” Troy remarked, still holding her hand.
“Wellesley?” she said. “Yes, I do adore it.”
“No,” Troy said with a grin. “Lovelace. I assume you were named after Richard Lovelace.”
Her face went blank. “Oh! Is he someone you know?”
Troy laughed. “No, he’s been dead for over a hundred years.”
She frowned. “That’s very disagreeable. Why would I be called after someone who is dead?”
“He was a poet,” Bryce interjected gently. “A very renowned poet.”
“Lud!” said Lovelace with a toss of her curls. “What do I care for horrid old dead poets. Now playwrights, that’s a different matter altogether.” She gave Troy a wide smile and said with great portent, “I am an actress. I was on my way to London with my family to perform in a new play. We’ve been traveling the provinces, you see. And to great adulation, I must confess, though I do not like to sing my own praises. Why, only last month, a critic in Wiltshire said that my Ludmilla—that was in The Valiant Maiden of Wurtenburg—sent him home in tears.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Bryce muttered to himself.
“What was that?” She turned to him with a wide-eyed expression of inquiry.
“Nothing, Miss Wellesley.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “I think I’ll go up and see how Lady Jemima is faring.” Bryce stood watching Troy expectantly, as though he was waiting for some response.
The young man looked up and said with an easy smile, “She’s still asleep—I checked before I came clown. But you’re welcome to look in on her. It’s not like Jemima to sleep in, she’s usually up with the birds. I…don’t recall much of last night, but I do remember she was dreadfully overset by the notion that I had been murdered.”
Bryce nodded. He’d only allowed Lady Jemima enough time with her brother to see for herself that he was not yet a corpse, and then had whisked him away to his room before she could detect how truly pickled he was. She’d had enough shocks for one night, he reckoned.
Lovelace had been following their conversation with an expression of charming confusion on her face. “You aren’t the man who was murdered!” she declared hotly to Troy.
He bit his lip. “Oh, and why do you say that?”
“Because I saw it happen,” she said, tapping one finger against her lace-frilled bodice.
“You’re sure it wasn’t me?”
She narrowed one eye. “Do I look like a lackwit to you? The man who was murdered had light brown hair. Yours is quite blond.” She folded her arms triumphantly.
Troy looked up at Bryce, who was lounging in the doorway, trying not to laugh. “Then I guess I am not dead,” he pronounced. “If Miss Wellesley says it is so.”
“Well, that relieves my mind,” Bryce drawled. “Hate sharing my breakfast table with corpses. Now if you two will excuse me…”
Still chuckling, he made his way up the stairs. It was a pity Jemima had missed Lovelace’s latest start. It would have entertained her no end.
* * *
Jemima awoke slowly, aware only of a feeling of great relief. Troy was not dead. The words sang in her heart. Somehow, by some miracle, he had been returned to her. She recalled how Bryce had roused her gently from her stupor and then urged her brother down beside the library couch. She had wrapped her arms around Terry and wept with joy. He had seemed befuddled by her outpouring of emotion, but then he was particularly unsympathetic to a woman’s tears. Dear, peevish Troy.
Jemima got up and held one hand to her head. Bryce had plied her with brandy once Troy had gone off to his bed, and she wasn’t used to such strong spirits. Or to having her life turned upside down in the space of one day. First, Lovelace’s brush with murder, then Bryce’s high-handed manipulation, capped off by the erroneous report of Troy’s death. She devoutly hoped today offered her nothing more taxing than a peaceful stroll in the garden.
She moved to the dressing table and began to comb the tangles from her hair. She had long ago gotten used to doing without a lady’s maid, since it was Troy’s habit to go jaunting off to out-of-the-way places at the drop of a hat, which made servants an encumbrance. Their visit to the Iron Duke was a case in point. Two days earlier Troy had come striding into the drawing room of their London town house, insisting that she accompany him to a mill in Kent. She knew he didn’t expect her to actually attend the prizefight, he merely wanted her company on the journey.
He had a wide circle of male friends who were always delighted to travel with him, so it was flattering that he frequently asked her to go along in their stead. Not that her presence didn’t offer him compensations other than her companionship. She knew precisely how to wangle the best rooms from an innkeeper, and how to ensure that her brother would get the finest cuts of meat from the kitchen. She smoothed things for him on every stage of a journey, kept him soothed and untroubled, so that he had nothing to focus on but his poetry and his amusing pursuits.
She had been looking after him for so many years—ever since their parents died—that it never occurred to her that he was taking advantage of her good nature. He was generally so amiable himself that she didn’t mind performing those little offices that made his life run without a hitch.
There was a knock at the door. Jemima spun on the bench. “Yes?”
“Are you stirring yet?”
Oh, Lord, it’s Bryce. “Yes,” she called quickly, “I’ll be down in—”
The door opened.
He at least had the courtesy not to enter the room, preferring instead to lean against one side of the door frame. “I wanted to see how you were faring this morning. You…had a rough time of it last night.”
“I am not dressed,” she said icily, disregarding his solicitous remark. She felt a small stirring of guilt—Bryce had been noticeably selfless last night and she owed him some gratitude for that, but that didn’t mean he could come wandering into her bedroom at will.
He eyed her voluminous night rail, and the roomy dressing gown she wore over it. His brows rose. ‘Rather overdressed, if you ask me. Not what I would have chosen for you.”
“They belong to your housekeeper,” she muttered between her teeth. “In case you have forgotten, my things are still at the inn.”
Her fingers itched to draw the lapels of the robe over her chest, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cringe under his overt scrutiny. It infuriated her that he thought she could own such unflattering garments. Just because he was a maiden lady didn’t mean she dressed like a dowd. She had a mind to appear at dinner wearing her most revealing gown, if only to put him in his place.
“That is why I am here,” Bryce said, shifting to the other side of the doorway. “I’m off to see the magistrate this morning—to let him know he still has an unidentified body on his hands. On the way back, I can take you to the Tattie and Snip to fetch your things. And your brother’s. He was a bit…indisposed last night. It must have slipped his mind.”
“He was roaring drunk,” she retorted sharply. “Though I suppose I should thank you for trying to keep it from me. He’s gotten like that a time or two in the past, so it doesn’t shock me. And furthermore, I am only his sister, Mr. Bryce, not his watchdog.”
Bryce shrugged. “He apparently gives you the same freedom.”
She looked perplexed, and so he added, “Most men who sobered up to find their sister staying in the home of a well-known libertine would have at least taken me aside and warned me off. Troy is at present sitting in my breakfast parlor, blithe as you please, making inroads on the kippers. And he didn’t bat an eye when I mentioned looking in on you. A less fraternal performance I have yet to see.”
“You sound almost disappointed,” she observed. “Would you rather he challenged you to a duel over ‘my honor’? I should warn you, Troy is a crack shot.”
Bryce’s eyes darkened. “Shooting wafers at Manton’s isn’t quite the same as looking down a pistol barrel and staring perdition in the face.” He stepped back from the door. “I’m leaving for the magistrate’s in fifteen minutes. Meet me on the front steps if you want to join me.” He turned and disappeared.
Jemima swung back to her mirror and was dismayed to see that a noticeable pink flush had risen to her cheeks. Drat the man, for having such an effect on her. Making her feel giddy and outraged at the same time. It occurred to her that going for a carriage ride with him might not be the wisest course she could follow, but then she chided herself for being missish. Even in the propriety-conscious ton, unwed ladies were allowed to drive out with their gentlemen callers. Not that Beecham Bryce would ever have had a reason, gentlemanly or otherwise, to call on Lady Jemima Vale.
More’s the pity, that tiresome inner voice lamented. “Oh, hush,” she said aloud.
She twisted her hair into a knot, coaxing a few strands to curl about her face, and then quickly drew on her chemise and gown. Both were freshly laundered and ironed, and she silently saluted her host for the efficiency of his staff, as she caught up her bonnet by its ribbons and went hurrying from the room.
She made a sidetrip to the breakfast parlor, where Lovelace and her brother were deep in conversation. Or more accurately, Lovelace was deep in conversation—Terry looked to be in deep shock.
“…and then in Basingstoke, the mayor presented me with an honorary wreath, to commemorate my performance of… Oh, hello, Lady J. I’ve been telling your brother a bit about myself.”
Troy craned around to grin up at his sister. “Jemima.”
“Morning, Troy,” she said, as she bent over and kissed him on one cheek. “How’s your head?”
“Still attached to my shoulders, more’s the pity,” he said with a rueful wince.
She patted him on the shoulder. “I gather you backed the winner yesterday—”
“Troy?” Lovelace interjected. “Lady J, did you just call him Troy?”
Jemima looked down at her brother. “Are we incognito this morning?”
He turned to Lovelace with an apologetic smile. “I am known to some as Lord Troy.”
Lovelace scrambled up from the table as if there were a serpent on her plate instead of a coddled egg, “You are Lord Troy? The poet Lord Troy?”
As he nodded, she raised both hands to her mouth. “Oh…this is infamous. And so unfair! I was going to meet you in London, when I performed in our new play. You wrote it, you see…well, the poem. And now you have ruined everything! That you should first see me hobbling about on a stick, wearing this wretched old gown, with my hair in positive knots…it is beyond mortifying. Oh, how…how could you sit here, eating your breakfast, knowing the whole time that you were Lord Troy?”
“Even poets have to eat,” he said gently, clearly trying to untangle the source of her distemper.
“I have never felt so dispirited in my whole life. First murderers, then rabbit holes, now poets who pretend to be ordinary people. M-my life has surely become a wretched thing.” She raised one hand to her brow and wilted back against the draperies, staggering a little on her bad ankle.
Jemima leaned down to her brother’s ear. “She’s an actress.”
“So the rumor goes,” he muttered as he continued to regard Lovelace’s theatrics with a dubious eye.
The girl had begun to sob softly, the tears running down her face in tiny rivulets.
“You’d better deal with this, Jem,” Troy said as he threw his napkin down and got to his feet. He drew his sister away from the table. “You know I can’t stomach weepy women.”
“Oh, no,” she said, waving away the suggestion. “Bryce is waiting for me—I am already late. Use some of that famous Vale charm on her,” she whispered intently. “Tell her about our trip to Greece. Tell her you saw her in Othello and thought she was the best Moor ever… Oh, I don’t care what you tell her.”
She snatched a honey bun from the side table and went hurrying off toward the front of the house.
Bryce was waiting in the drive, in a black high-perch phaeton drawn by four exquisite chestnut horses.
“This is a surprise,” she said, as a groom assisted her onto the elevated seat. “Rather bang-up for the provinces, don’t you think?”
His cheeks narrowed. “I can always have the hay wagon brought around, if you’d prefer.”
“No, this is very nice. As long as you don’t overturn us in a ditch.”
He made no comment, merely dropped the reins and sent his team out of the courtyard at a brisk trot.
Jemima held on to her bonnet as they rounded the corner of the drive onto the main road. “You needn’t show off on my account,” she said. “I am sadly unimpressed by driving.”
“I see,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on the road. “So you are not one of those sporting ladies who longs to take the ribbons from her gentlemen friends. I, on the other hand, live to take the ribbons from my female acquaintances.”
She couldn’t keep from laughing. “I wonder you can be so full of sauce this early in the morning.”
Bryce shot her a wicked look. “I am particularly full of sauce in the morning.”
Jemima was spared a reply when an inattentive goose boy let his charges wander into the path of the oncoming carriage. Bryce sent his horses onto the grassy verge and neatly avoided the potential decimation of the local poultry population. Jemima was impressed by his skill, in spite of herself.
“I do enjoy riding, however,” she remarked once they were back on the road. “Troy and I grew up in the country and we rode every day. Now we only ride in Hyde Park, which is rather tame.”
“If you stay on at Bryce Prospect, I insist that you let me mount you.”
Jemima turned to stare at his rugged profile. His face was relaxed and without any guile. She couldn’t see the devils that danced in his eyes. “Thank you for the offer,” she said. “But I doubt we will remain past today. Lovelace’s family should turn up by noon at the latest.”
“You have engagements back in London, then?”
She shrugged. “Nothing pressing, now that the Season is winding down. But you will surely want us out of your hair. Speaking of London,” she added. “I am surprised I have never seen you driving in the park. This carriage would be hard to miss.”
“I don’t drive in the park,” he said as he guided his horses past a slow-moving farm cart.
“What?” she said with a chuckle. “Afraid everyone will give you the cut direct?”
He turned to her and she saw his mouth had tightened. “Yes, Lady Jemima. That is exactly the reason.”
She started to apologize, and then stopped herself. Bryce had made his own bed, so why should she be sorry he had to lie in it? Still, the expression on his face troubled her for the rest of their short journey.
They soon came to Withershins, a small village whose shops and houses were clustered around a charming green with a duck pond at its center. Bryce slowed his team as they made their way along the high street, pointing out the local livery, the bake shop, and a tavern called the Bosun’s Mate.
“You’re quite near the sea here,” Jemima said. “I’d forgotten that. The countryside looks so pastoral, not maritime in the least.”
“We’re only five miles from Romney Marsh. Best place to land smuggled goods on the entire coast.”
“Have you ever been involved with smugglers, Mr. Bryce?”
He gave her a wry look. “And would I tell you, if I had?”
She laughed. “No, I suppose not. It’s just that in London we think smugglers a very romantic lot.”
“Well, then,” he pronounced musingly, as he drew up in the stableyard of a small manor house. “I might just have to take it up…if that’s what it requires to impress ladies from London.”
A young groom ran out from the stable to hold his horses. “Thanks, Smitty,” he called down. He turned to Jemima. “Want to come in and meet Sir Walter?”
“Perhaps not, if you don’t mind. I believe you’ll be able to sort things out better without a female hovering nearby.”
“As you like. This shouldn’t take long. You can always go for a walk—there’s a pretty meadow beyond the stable.” He added with a grin, “It’s a pity you left your sketchbook at home.”
“I know I am not talented, Mr. Bryce,” she said with some starch. “I draw only for my own pleasure.”
His eyes widened. “I didn’t mean to imply anything uncomplimentary. You could…come up with a few sketches, and we could make a parlor game of it later, guessing what they were supposed to be.”
He swung down from his seat before she could hit him and went around to her side of the carriage. “You can’t blame me, Lady J. I only provoke you because it makes your pretty blue eyes light up.”
“They’re green,” she said between her teeth.
He lifted her from the seat and held her a little bit above him, his hands tight at her waist. Then he slowly lowered her, until their noses were nearly touching. “So they are,” he whispered. “I don’t know how I keep forgetting.” He set her on her feet and went striding off toward the front of the house. He stopped before turning the corner. “And don’t go wandering near any groves of trees, if you please.”
Grumbling to herself about irritating, high-handed, overly confident men, Jemima stalked off behind the stable, to a wide field where acres of wildflowers were just starting to blossom. She settled down on a thatchy spot and took off her bonnet, tipping her face to the sky. The sun felt very pleasant on her cheeks and on her shoulders, where it warmed the thin muslin of her gown.
All around her bees hummed, busy at their nectar gathering. In her girlhood, when she lived in the country, her family had kept honeybees. There was a groundsman, Tom Paulie, who watched over the hives, and he had given her a skep of her own to care for. She had learned bee lore from him. And the one thing she recalled above everything else was that the hive was for the worker bees and the queen. The drones, the male bees that mated with the queen, eventually died, cast out from their hive.
She thought about Beecham Bryce and the empty, licentious life he lived. And how he avoided the park during the prime social hours to save his pride. If he performed any service in the ton, it was after hours, in the dark. By daylight he was not welcomed by his peers.
Jemima wondered if she should tell him about the bees.
No, she sighed, he’d probably end up making some ribald comment about the birds and the bees.
* * *
Bryce found her sitting in a field of glorious color—pinks and lavenders and soft, shimmering purples. In her pale yellow gown she looked like an overgrown buttercup. He stood at the edge of the meadow letting his eyes drink in the sight of her. She was leaning back, propped up on her elbows, her head tilted up. It put her body in very pleasing relief—her gown clung to her full breasts and the rise of her hips, the fabric molding to the flatness of waist and stomach. He had a hunger to lay her back on those burgeoning blossoms and run his hands over the slim, beguiling length of her.
He was still trying to figure her out. More so now that he’d learned she was Troy’s sister. The boy ran with a fast crowd, he knew that much. Sporting gentlemen and gamesters. High-flyers and opera dancers. Troy was even a member of Bacchus, though Bryce himself had wearied of the club by the time the poet had been invited to join. Their paths had never crossed before last night.
He wondered how Jemima had been able to preserve her virtue, in light of all the rascals she must have met through her brother. But the fact remained that she had—he of all men knew an untouched woman when he stumbled across one. And that only heightened her appeal. She was as ripe for plucking as an August peach.
Bryce moved toward her and when she saw him approaching she shifted up into a kneeling position. It took all his strength of will not to kneel himself and pull her up against him.
“That didn’t take long,” she said, shading her eyes from the sun with one hand.
He sprawled down beside her. “Sir Walter is not much for conversation. And he’s not pleased that we are back where we started—with an unknown corpse on our hands. He sent to Bow Street last night to call in the Runners, thinking he needed reinforcements to look into the murder of so famous a man. By now, unfortunately, the word will be all over London that your brother was killed.”
Jemima sat back on her heels. “That’s dreadful news. All his friends and admirers will be devastated.”
“Sir Walter is sending a messenger to London, posthaste, to recant the story. It will become just one more chapter in your brother’s not inconsiderable legend.”
His legend. Jemima looked amused at his choice of words. “Sometimes it’s hard to credit that the headstrong boy who wouldn’t wash behind his ears is now elevated to the pantheon of great men.”
Bryce broke off a stalk of burdock and began plucking the purple chaff from its head. “What’s it like then, being sister to a legend?”
Jemima shrugged. “He’s changed very little from the younger brother I looked after. Perhaps he’s a bit more full of himself than before. He has money now, which we didn’t have when we were children in Sussex. We weren’t dreadfully poor, but we had to practice economy every day. Now he has taken London by storm, and I am glad for him. Sometimes dreamers should see their dreams come to pass.”
“And what of your dreams? What would Lady J dream if she stepped out from her brother’s shadow?”
She frowned slightly. “That’s not where I am, is it? In his shadow?”
“Where then?”
“I’m not sure. I have my own life. Through Troy I’ve met many clever people, men and women both. I have a salon once a month, for aspiring poets and painters.” She tipped her chin up. “Just because I am not talented, doesn’t mean I cannot recognize ability in others.”
“So you are a patron of the arts.” He leaned back and grinned. “Is that your dream—to set some young talent on the road to greatness? It must be very ennobling to have such lofty, selfless aspirations.”
Jemima swung her gaze away from him. “You mistake the matter. I am not selfless in the least.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bait you. If it’s any consolation, I myself have a rather selfish dream.”
“Oh,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I can just imagine a libertine’s dream. Let me guess—orgies in the seraglio? Primitive revels on a South Sea island?”
“Tame stuff,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But until I am with aim’s ace of achieving my dream, it’s going to remain a secret.”
“I doubt I will achieve mine,” she said with only a tiny trace of wistfulness. “Which is often the way with dreams. I… I think we should be going back now.”
She climbed to her feet but Bryce stayed where he was, stretched out on the carpet of flowers. Jemima wished he didn’t look so…healthy, reclining there at her feet. The breeze was playing with his unruly forelock and the bright sun had turned his eyes the color of platinum. And his mouth, relaxed now into a lazy curl, was beckoning her. She wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by such a man as Beecham Bryce. To have that lazy mouth curve around her own…slightly open, tasting her, coaxing her to respond. Not that she would require much coaxing, she thought.
Jemima felt the throbbing start up again, deep, deep inside her, due south of her belly. She fought off the disturbing sensation with an audible sniff.
Bryce looked up. “Head cold coming on?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said evenly. “Just a bit of pollen. The bees you know. Well, are you coming along? The Wandering Minstrels might have wandered back to the Iron Duke by now.”
“There’s no hurry,” he said, shifting onto his side to face her. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Wellesley’s troupe passed through here late yesterday afternoon. One of the squire’s sons saw them drive past the green. They looked to be heading toward Grantley, which is about ten miles south of here.”
Jemima cocked her head. “But Lovelace said they were heading to London. Grantley would be in the opposite direction.”
Bryce nodded. “It makes no sense to me. But then if the rest of Lovelace’s family are as bubble-headed as she is, it’s a wonder they can find their way out of a privy, let alone all the way to London.”
“Well, that’s washed it,” she said softly. “Poor Lovelace, fallen out of her nest, just like a baby bird. And her parents clearly haven’t spared a thought for her. If they started out for London, and then did an about-face to head for Grantley, that means they had to go right past the Iron Duke. What would make them drive past the inn and not stop to pick up their daughter?”
He sucked in his cheek. “Good sense?” She gave him a furious glower. “No, no. I’ll stop belaboring the point. The child needs looking after…and she’s welcome to slay on at Bryce Prospect until they return from their quest, whatever it may be.”
“Troy and I can take her back to London with us,” she said. “She could stay on at our house until her family returns to the city.”
Bryce made no comment, but his eyes had lost all their mirth.
“Well, you certainly don’t want us overstaying our welcome,” she pointed out reasonably. “Troy will eat you out of house and home for one thing. And Lovelace will talk you to death.”
“And what will you do to me, Jemima?” he asked softly. He was gazing up at her with those quicksilver eyes, making her stomach go all wobbly.
“I’ll—” She looked frantic for an instant. “I’ll hang indecipherable drawings over all your walls.”
“Surely an undeserved fate,” he said as he climbed to his feet and dusted off the back of his driving coat. “But London is not a good option. Our murderer knows she was heading there and he’s seen her face, don’t forget. Even in a city of that size—full of beautiful women—Lovelace Wellesley is bound to attract notice. I take leave to doubt her acting talent, but her looks are unassailable. Your only recourse would be to keep her with you, inside your home. Day and night.”
He waited a moment for the full impact of his statement to sink in. “Yes, I see the look of horror dawning in your eyes, Jem. Prisoners of war have cracked under less strain.”
“I could send Lovelace to my Aunt Sophie in Richmond—she’s nearly stone deaf, poor dear. But unfortunately, Sophie is in the Lake Country at present, caring for an ailing cousin.”
“It looks like you’re stuck here,” he said as he turned for the stable. “That is, unless you are willing to admit I have no interest in the chit; then your services as chaperone would be unnecessary.”
Jemima mulled this over while they walked across the field. She owed nothing to Lovelace Wellesley and wondered that she should feel compelled to look after her.
“Oh, I don’t know what to do,” she grumbled as she trudged along behind him.
Bryce waited at the edge of the field. “Stay,” he said quietly as she came up even with him.
Her head darted up. He was looking away from her over the slate roof of Sir Walter’s tidy manor house. “What was that?”
“Stay,” he repeated. “Here with me. For now.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said as he took her arm and led her to his waiting carriage. “You might be in nearly as much danger as Miss Wellesley.”
“That’s preposterous,” she said as he lifted her onto the seat.
“Not at all.” Bryce walked around the carriage and climbed up beside her. “The dead man had Troy’s things on him. A most strange circumstance, don’t you think? It’s possible the murderer was after the real Troy, which places both you and your brother at risk.”
“If you are trying to frighten me,” she said heatedly, “it’s not working. I have very little sensibility in that direction. Lovelace is the one in danger, not me or Troy.”
“Still, I think it’s best if you all remain at Bryce Prospect, at least until things get sorted out. The man from Bow Street will be here tomorrow. We’ll see what he has to say.”
Jemima was frowning as they bowled along the main street. She chewed on his words for a time and then asked, “Tell me again, what was the dead man carrying that made Sir Walter think he was Troy?”
“Ah,” Bryce said as he fished in the pocket of his driving coat. “I nearly forgot. Sir Walter gave me these to return to their rightful owner.”
Jemima took the gold watch and the signet ring from him, and then shook her head. “My brother is so careless sometimes. He leaves his valuables lying about at every inn we visit. I’ve warned him it’s an invitation to theft.”
“A man rarely goes out without his watch or his signet.” Bryce glanced down at his own unadorned fingers—he had left off wearing his own signet ring for a variety of complex reasons he still hadn’t fully come to terms with. “Do you have any idea why he wasn’t wearing them yesterday?”
“Oh, he never takes his valuables with him when he goes off to prizefights—too many pickpockets.”
“There’s some sense to that, though he’d have done better yesterday to have kept them with him. By the way, that’s a rather florid inscription in his watch.”
She flicked it open and read aloud, “ ‘My dearest Troy, time only increases my love for you.’ ”
Bryce made a face. “Obviously a gift from a besotted admirer.”
Jemima chuckled as she closed the watch and tucked it into her reticule. “You could say that. Our grandmother gave it to him. Terry is her only grandson, and she lavishes all sorts of gifts on him.”
“Your grandmother calls him Troy?”
“I’m the only one in the family who still calls him Terry. He’s been Lord Troy since he was seven.” Her voice lowered. “Bryce, do you think the murdered man broke into my brother’s room yesterday?”
He sighed. “It would seem the obvious conclusion. Tolliver’s servants have been with him for years, so I doubt we can look for the thief in that quarter.”
“But it makes no sense. There were several well-to-do gentlemen staying at the inn yesterday. Why would Troy have been a target?”
“He might not have been the only one. Maybe there was a rash of robberies at the Tattie and Snip.”
“The Iron Duke,” she stated, correcting him with a grin.
Once they were at the inn, Bryce went off to discover if Tolliver had heard of any other thefts, or if he’ d seen any suspicious looking characters loitering about the previous morning. Jemima went to her brother’s room to see if anything else had been stolen. She checked the top of the bureau and the nightstand and looked through the tall wardrobe that sat in one corner.
“Is anything else missing?” Bryce was leaning against the doorpost, his arms folded over his chest.
“Not one thing,” she replied with a sigh.
“How can you tell?” He motioned around the room. Troy’s possessions were scattered throughout the small space—random piles of books, heaps of discarded clothing, and a hazard of writing implements and inkpots. “Your brother is a veritable pack rat.” A naval officer’s bicorn had been tossed onto the window seat. Bryce crossed the room, took up the hat, and gave her a sweeping, theatrical bow.
Jemima grinned. “That hat is rumored to have belonged to Nelson,” she explained. “One of Troy’s idols.” She began stacking her brother’s books into neat piles. “So, did Tolliver shed any light on things?”
Bryce had moved to the bed and now sat, idly swinging one crossed leg. “There have been no other complaints of theft. And he thinks everyone here yesterday morning was on the up and up. But since there was so much traffic from the prizefight, he can’t swear that no one was creeping about up here.”
Jemima set the books on the bed beside Bryce, trying to disregard her heightened awareness of him. Here in this small chamber his presence was overwhelming. And she had a feeling he had placed himself on the bed just to be provoking.
As she turned to lift Troy’s valise down from the tall wardrobe, Bryce sprang up, and elbowed her gently aside. “Here, let me.” He looked down at her as he lifted the case from its high perch. “Why don’t you take care of things in your room, Jem. I’ll see that the gilded poet gets packed up.”
Jemima went across the hall and began to remove the numerous gowns from her wardrobe. Even though she and Troy had expected to be away from London for only a few days, experience had taught her to pack more than she needed. Her gregarious brother often met up with friends while traveling, which, of course, necessitated a prolonged visit. This wasn’t the first time she and Terry had started out booked at an inn and ended up overnighting in an elegant home. Fortunately she had brought several dinner gowns with her, in addition to her day dresses and her riding habit.
When she was finished, she went out to the hall to call for the porter and nearly bumped up against an elderly man in a tight black coat. He was tall, cadaverously thin, with unkempt white eyebrows that thrust out from his brow. He gave her a narrow-eyed look and then his face brightened in recognition.
“Lady Jemima Vale,” he said as he bowed.
“Sir?” Her face remained blank. “I believe you have the advantage of me.”
“Sir Richard Hastings, ma’am, late of His Majesty’s Navy. We met at Lady Hammersmith’s rout in May.”
“Oh,” she said in her best society voice. “Are you staying here at the Iron Duke?”
He pointed to the room beside her brother’s. “Came over from Canterbury for the mill. Pleasant little inn, what? And Tolliver does stock a fine cellar. Though it’s likely smuggled goods, being we’re so close to the coast. But my excise days are behind me, thank heavens. Now I get to drink the stuff, instead of chasing after it up and down the Channel.” He chuckled softly. “Well, good day to you, ma’am. I’m heading home this afternoon.”
He glanced over her shoulder through the open door of her room. “Ah, I see you are also packing up for home. Which is just as well…there are unpleasant things afoot in this place, Lady Jemima.”
“What?” A shiver of apprehension sketched over her spine at his tone. “Do you mean the murder?”
He shook his head. “That’s nothing you need trouble yourself over, ma’am. Still, you’d do best to return to London.”
Bryce had come out into the hallway at the sound of voices. The older man gave him a curt nod, shot Jemima a meaningful look, and then went off in the direction of the stairwell.
“Who was that?” Bryce asked gruffly.
Jemima was still staring after the old gentleman. “I’m not sure. He says he’s called Sir Richard Hastings and that he met me in London at a ton party. It’s just…odd.”
“Odd that you don’t remember him? You can’t expect to remember every man you meet, Jemima.”
“It’s not that… He said there were unpleasant things afoot here. And that I should return to London. Why would he say such a thing to me? Do you think he knows something about the murder?”
Bryce tapped his finger over his lower lip. He was sorry now he had tried to frighten Jemima into staying on at Bryce Prospect. She hadn’t shown any fear then, but now there was something very like it in her eyes. He drew her into her brother’s room and shut the door.
“Listen to me, pet.” He set his hands on her shoulders. “If I’m not mistaken, Sir Richard Hastings is a retired admiral. I’ve never met him, but he’s an acquaintance of my father’s. He probably heard about the murder from Tolliver, and was merely cautioning you out of gentlemanly concern.”
“But he gave me such a start, Bryce.”
“You’re just feeling edgy because of what I said back there in the field…but that was nothing more than a lot of gammon. Of course the killer isn’t after you or Troy. I was only suggesting it to prevent you from going back to London.”
“But why?” Jemima immediately discounted the obvious, but highly unlikely, reason that he might have wanted to keep her near him.
Bryce sighed. “Because I feel responsible for what happened in the woods; it occurred on my family’s property, after all. And I can’t keep Lovelace safe if you whisk her off to London. But I didn’t mean to make you start flying at shadows, Jemima. So stop looking so frightened.”
“I’m not frightened,” she said. He gave her a shake. “Well maybe just a bit.” She laid both hands over her face and lowered her head. “You must think me a total loss. There’s Lovelace, who witnessed a bloody murder, completely composed by dinnertime. And here I am, totally undone by a bit of petty thievery and a doddering old gentleman.”
“Lovelace has the resilience of youth on her side,” he said with a grin.
“Oh, and what have I got? The decrepitude of old age?”
“Give yourself a little credit,” he said stoutly. “Middle age, at least.”
She drew back from him with a chuckle. “You are a wretch, you know.”
He was delighted to see that her eyes were now dancing up at him.
“If I had any pretensions to anything,” she said, “you would quickly shoot them down. I only wonder that with such a barbed tongue, you are able to attract any women at all.”
He gave her a long, intent, and very speaking look. “Oh, I have my moments.”
They both returned to packing up her brother’s scattered belongings—Bryce realized it would never have occurred to Troy to stir himself to look after his own things. He lifted a slim leather diary from the desktop and was about to place it in the valise on the bed when Jemima backed into him, carrying a stack of shirts. Since he’d much rather have caught her about the waist than hold on to her perishing brother’s book, he let the diary go flying and danced her back against the bedframe.
“Thank you,” she said politely, trying to tug out of his arms. “I was in no danger of falling.”
“Maybe I was,” he said and gave her an exaggerated leer.
She looked up at him and shook her head in exasperation. “Do your paramours find this sort of childish behavior at all entertaining?”
“My paramours?” he echoed, his brows raised teasingly. “You shock me, Lady Jemima. And no, I don’t know if they do—they’re usually too busy with…um, other things to sit in judgment on my manners.”
“Insufferable man,” she muttered as he released her and bent to pick up the book.
He smoothed one of the blank pages, which had become creased, and was about to lay it in the valise, when Jemima caught his wrist. “No, wait!” she cried softly. “Open it again.”
He did as she bid and saw that four or five pages had been torn from the stitched binding.
“Troy uses this for the poems he’s currently working on,” Jemima said, running her fingers over the rough, deckled tears. “It’s a new notebook—I purchased it for him only last week—and it looks as though everything he’s written since then has been torn out.” She looked up at Bryce in disbelief. “Why would a thief steal Terry’s poems?”
Bryce shook his head. “I couldn’t imagine. No one would dare to publish Troy’s work under their own name—your brother has too distinct a style.”
Jemima sighed. “This is very troubling. I hope that if Sir Walter found Troy’s poems on the murdered man, he hasn’t disposed of them.”
Bryce grinned. “I doubt if Sir Walter knows a poem from a pork pie. He’s one of those hearty, hunting mad types. Probably illiterate, for all that he’s a magistrate. Don’t fret, sweetheart. I’m sure that if the dead man was carrying Troy’s papers, they will be returned to you. And speaking of murder, let’s get back to the Prospect and see whether your brother has done bodily harm to the Portia of the Provinces.”