Chapter 4
Colin could almost feel the termagant’s gaze burning a hole between his shoulder blades.
Not unlike how his thighs burned as he climbed the steep hill to the house.
The Elfin Menace would regret refusing his offer to assist her.
So be it. He had no desire to placate silly women.
He chuckled to himself as he pictured her struggling to ascend, tripping and rolling back down into the water. It would serve her right.
Once inside, he walked to a side window of the morning room, peered out, and waited. As expected, she stood there but a few moments longer before she began her ascent.
To her credit, she only stopped four times, stumbled to her knees twice, and avoided rolling down the hill into the water. Perhaps his little nuisance was made of sterner stuff than he imagined.
When the door opened, he grabbed a book lying on a side table—no doubt left by Honoria, as it was some silly romantic novel called Emma—leaned against the wall, and pretended to read.
“Stupid Lord Grumpy-Trousers,” the nymph muttered.
Stupid Lord Grumpy-Trousers? Grumpy he might grant her, but stupid? He couldn’t resist.
“I’ll have you know I’m actually quite intelligent.”
She spun around, strands of her red hair straggling down her neck from her strenuous climb. One errant lock fell into her eyes, and she blew it away. “You should have made your presence known, sir!”
“I believe I just did.” He pointed the book at her skirts. “Trouble climbing? Those look like grass stains on your gown.”
Her attention jerked down, and pink splashes of color appeared on her cheeks. “I . . . simply knelt down to examine a . . . a . . . flower.”
The lie was pathetic, but he’d play along. “What kind?”
Blue eyes wide, her mouth fell open. “What?”
“What kind of flower?”
She squared her shoulders and gave a defiant lift of her chin. “A rose. A pink one, if you must know.”
“Hmm. Odd. I thought the rose garden was on the side of the house next to the terrace.” He pointed the book in the direction of the garden.
“It was by itself. Someone must have plucked it and dropped it.”
Requiring every ounce of his self-control, he bit back the laugh. “Of course.” He opened the book, realized he held it upside-down, and pretended to resume reading.
Seconds later, and much to his relief, she gave a final huff and, in a rustle of skirts, exited the room.
He began to give honest thought to feigning an illness and leaving the house party before it had begun.
One of the twins—Indira?—ran into the room and held a finger to her lips, whispering, “Don’t tell.” She ducked behind the heavy draperies.
Moments later, Cassie poked her head around the door, and upon seeing him, asked, “Is Indira in here?”
He simply shrugged at his daughter, who sighed and left.
“Did she leave?” The girl’s muffled voice came from behind the drapes. Brown half-boots peeked out from the green brocade hem.
“Yes. But if she hadn’t, you would have given yourself away. You’re lucky Cassie isn’t a particularly observant girl.”
Indira emerged from her hiding spot. “I hate this game.”
“Then why do you play it?”
She moved closer, her blue eyes trained on the book in his hand. “Mother told me to be agreeable with what the other girls wanted to do.”
“I assure you, Cassie and Ellie would not take offense if you didn’t want to play. And if they do, come and tell me.”
She shook her head, her strawberry-blond curls swishing against her pale-blue frock. “I’m not a tattletale.” Regardless of the girl’s aunt’s opinion, Indira stepped closer, obviously unafraid of the so-called grump. “What are you reading?”
“The title is Emma.”
“You’re reading a book about a girl? You do realize you’re holding it upside-down?” Her little mouth quirked up.
Impudent imp. He chuckled inwardly at the implication—ha!—of his alliterative play on words.
He schooled his expression into all seriousness. “I find it’s the best way to read a book about a frivolous female.”
“But how can you read it if . . . oh!” Blue eyes so like her aunt’s stared up at him, studying, assessing. “You’re bamming me!” She placed her hands on her hips and gave her chin a defiant jerk. “Do you know what I think?”
He crouched down toward her. “No. I’m not one of those people who travel around telling fortunes. I don’t read minds.”
The imp shook her finger at him. “They’re called Romani. And they don’t read minds, either. They’re people just like you and me.”
“And you know many of these Romani, do you?”
“I know Dr. Somersby and his mother.”
Of course. Colin remembered the gossip in The Muckraker about the uprising in which the good doctor nearly lost his life. “I stand corrected.” By a child, no less!
“Anyway, I think Aunt Anne is wrong.”
Oh, this was wonderful! “Do tell.”
“She called you an ogre. But you’re not. You’re just a sad, lonely man.”
A child’s words shouldn’t sting so much. And yet . . .
“You best go hide somewhere before one of the other girls comes looking for you.”
The girl skipped off, calling over her shoulder, “I’m sorry about your wife.”
Colin turned the book over in his hand, then tossed it back onto the table where he’d found it.
Indira’s words pinged in his mind.
He stood in the quiet room for a few more minutes, realizing that being alone and being lonely were two very different things; you could be one and not the other.
But at the moment, he was both.
Anne had the good fortune of avoiding Lord Grumpy-Trousers the rest of the afternoon and early evening.
At least until dinner. She’d dressed in one of her nicer gowns, a pale-green silk with ecru lace trim.
More guests had arrived, including Miranda and Lord and Lady Montgomery.
When Anne hurried downstairs, a footman stopped her. “Miss Weatherby, Her Grace requested you join her.” He pointed down the hall.
Voices rose from the direction of the library, and Anne hurried toward them, eager to hear if there had been any new reports from The Muckraker.
The horrible scandal sheet had mysteriously vanished for almost a year after poor Victor Pratt had been shot behind The Knave of Hearts. Many had speculated the culprit had either died or someone had discovered their identity and silenced them through threat or bribery.
Anne still had her suspicions that Lydia Whyte was more directly involved than the League gave her credit for, although her argument that Lydia’s absence from London directly coincided with The Muckraker’s unnerving cessation fell on deaf ears. Why would no one take her seriously?
When reports from the gossip rag finally did recommence—the same time Lydia returned to London, Anne was quick to point out—it was as if someone else was writing the paper.
It had taken on a softer, gentler tone, mimicking The Town Tattler’s use of initials and brandishing less vitriolic accusations.
The League continued its investigation, but attempts to ferret out the perpetrator had so far come to naught.
Charlotte’s voice rose above the din as Anne entered the room. “I don’t believe it’s Edgerton, Miranda.”
Gathered in a circle around a desk where Bea sat, Honoria, Charlotte, and Miranda peered down at a paper.
“Are we having a meeting?” Anne asked.
All turned their attention toward Anne.
Honoria stepped forward and took Anne’s arm. “Not to worry, dear. Now that Bea has arrived, we were just starting. Miranda has some news about Edgerton.”
Miranda nodded. “And Charlotte is in denial. But that juicy bit of gossip she dangled before Edgerton has borne fruit.”
Anne searched her memory. “You mean about Lord Nash receiving a windfall from his investment in the railway?” She turned toward Charlotte. “Didn’t you mention that to Edgerton almost a year ago?”
“Exactly,” Charlotte said. “And he told me he couldn’t care less about Nash’s success. Plus”—she held up a finger—“there were no reports from The Muckraker about it.”
“Good arguments, but flawed, I’m afraid,” Bea said.
Charlotte placed her hands on her hips. “How so?”
Anne bit back the evil satisfaction of knowing she was about to see Charlotte brought to task by Bea, a woman as petite as she was.
Bea pushed her spectacles up her nose with an index finger.
“The Muckraker’s lack of reporting about Lord Nash’s success makes perfect sense.
First, because being in America, not many here in England care about what happens in the colonies.
Secondly, you said yourself Edgerton couldn’t care less—which is precisely why he wouldn’t include it in The Muckraker’s reports.
It would shine a light on him if that particular on dit did show up.
Which brings me to my last point to counter your argument about the length of time that has transpired. ”
Bea, just get to the point!
Bea shot her a glance and hitched an eyebrow. In addition to her scientific brilliance, did the woman also read minds?
Or had she inadvertently expressed her frustration aloud? Every now and then, words would slip out unbidden. She forced a smile at Bea. “Please continue.”
“Investments take time, and Laurence mentioned that he overheard Edgerton speaking to Lord Felix a week ago about an investment in the railway that was reaping tremendous dividends.”
“My source reported the same information they overheard from Lord Felix,” Miranda said. “Which was my point earlier about Edgerton when Charlotte objected.”
Hands still firmly planted on her hips, Charlotte glared at Miranda. “Just who is this mysterious source of yours? Why won’t you give us a name? I think it’s all a fabrication so you feel you’re contributing.”
“Identifying them might put them in jeopardy!”
Charlotte made a rude sound of disbelief.
Ever the diplomat, Honoria stepped between them. “Charlotte, Miranda, please. Drake told me Mr. Grey has also stated he overheard Davies bragging about a lucrative investment.”
Not one to be left out, Anne voiced her idea. “Does your source know Mr. Grey, Miranda?”