Chapter Thirty
Lady Mary
“His Grace The Duke of Montague paid a call, milady.” Mr. Stavers’s hands shook slightly as he took her light walking cape. “He waited for nigh on an hour before a previous engagement called him away.”
I removed my cap and tossed it on the entry table. “Was he annoyed with my note telling him he was co-hosting my party?” Marcus was a dear boy, but even I knew I had been pushing the limits using his name without his express permission.
“I cannot say, milady.” The butler gave the door to the entry closet a shove, fighting against the bulge of outerwear that stuffed it full.
He finally won the battle, and the latch clicked shut.
“His Grace did say he’d learned who wrote that rubbish about you in The Times.
He asked that you call on him when you have the time. ”
Blast the man. Why couldn’t he have told Stavers who the blackguard was? Or left me a note? I shoved my walking stick into the bucket by the door that held its brethren and turned for my library, knowing a fire would already be waiting for me there.
I knew why. He wanted to see me face to face, delve into why I and my club were being attacked, before deciding whether he should step in to help me. Whether I wanted his assistance or not.
I dropped into the chair next to my sideboard, reaching for the crystal decanter that rested there.
And I didn’t fully understand why I would be so against his aid.
“A late tea, milady?” Stavers hovered in the doorway, his watery gaze taking in the brandy I was pouring, the slump in my shoulders. “Or it will take but an hour for cook to put out a nice supper.”
“I’ll wait for supper.” I didn’t take a sip, just held the glass between my two palms and stared at the ceiling. A spider had taken up residence in the corner near me. It wasn’t moving, just sat there. Watching. Waiting. Perhaps it was dead.
Fabric rustled. Light footsteps drew near. “A tiring day?”
“Did Stavers send you?” I lifted my head and glared at Jane. Officially, she was my lady’s maid, but the woman had been with me so long the lines between friend, family, and servant had long since blurred.
Jane poured her own glass of brandy. “He’s worried about you. We all are. If you root around like a pig for truffles, you’re bound to come up dirty.”
A bark of laughter burst through my lips, surprising myself as well as Jane. “How very poetical of you. I’m afraid mud has already been brought to my doorstep.” To my club’s, at least. “You and Stavers need not concern yourselves.”
Jane eased into the chair opposite. The skin on her face looked sallow, the flickering light of the fire casting shadows in the deep grooves of her forehead. “When will you go see his Grace?”
My household had been gossiping together. “Tomorrow,” I snapped.
“He can help.” Jane stretched out her legs, pointing her toes toward the heat of the fire.
“He has his own troubles to sort.” Jane and I had never spoken of it, but she must know a bit of the secret life my nephew lived.
She’d been around me too long not to. And while Marcus’s history of assisting the Crown with delicate problems most likely did mean he would be an asset to my investigation, I was loath to include him.
He had his own life.
He had two young children and a wife he wanted to spend every free moment with.
I wanted to do this myself.
The truth of that hooked beneath my ribcage.
I’d been a daughter, a wife, an aunt. Always an accessory of a man.
It made no matter that I loved all those men in my life.
In this society, they were the ones who made the decisions.
Who were useful. It wasn’t until I’d created my club that I’d ever created something that was just mine.
And it was pure selfishness that made me want to keep it, and even its problems, my own.
Mr. Rollins’s involvement didn’t count. We didn’t have a history, and he was merely doing his job.
Frankly, I couldn’t believe it had been as easy as it had been to convince him to accept my and Eleanor’s involvement.
But if Marcus became involved, then his friends would become involved, too, and I would be on the outside looking in on my own life.
No, when I went to see him to discover the identity of my accuser, I would need to convince the boy to stay out of it.
Except when I needed him to provide me with information about anonymous authors.
Or lend me his name on my invitation.
I blew out a breath. I was a hypocrite of the worst kind. I did want his help, but only on my terms.
“If you won’t let him investigate, then you should have more protection when you do so,” Jane said stoutly. “I can go around with you until the matter is resolved.”
Jane was twenty years older than me if she was a day, and the drink she’d poured herself wasn’t just to be companionable.
Her bones ached, especially in the cold, and a nip now and then eased the pain.
Making Jane trail after me all day, out in the elements, would be cruel.
“Ernest is with me when I ‘go around’, as you say, and otherwise I’m at the club with several burly footmen. ”
“Ernest stays with the carriage when he drives you, and most of your footmen are no longer strapping young bucks.” Jane patted the white lace cap over her hair.
“Do you make a habit of checking the physique of the men who work for me?” I couldn’t hide my amusement. I suppose I also noticed when a young man was of good form, even though I was no longer attracted to men so much my junior. Aging didn’t make one blind to male beauty.
Jane huffed, then lapsed into silence. We sat sipping our brandies, relaxing our bones.
“That poor man,” Jane finally said. “Can you imagine losing both your wife and only child? To murder? How can he ever recover?”
I didn’t think Lord Richford would recover.
I hoped I was wrong. That his friends and faith would bear him through, or that in a couple of years he might meet someone who would revive the life in him.
But his wife’s death had nearly broken him, and the news of his son was most likely the quelling blow.
I ran my thumb along the rim of my glass.
“Do you ever regret it?” I asked softly.
“Staying with me all these years instead of making a family of your own?” Jane had been with me ever since I was a child.
She’d helped me arrange my hair to the latest fashions the day Cavindish had asked for my hand.
She’d moved to Cavindish House when I’d married, then come here when I’d become a widow.
I’d never known her to show an interest in a man, not even a casual flirtation.
Shame burned in my chest. I knew what it was like to live with regrets, to feel the pain of never creating a family of my own. Had my narcissism sentenced my friend to the same pain?
Jane dipped her chin, the firelight shimmering through the lace of her cap. “You are quite dear to me, madam, but if I had met a man to love, I would have left you in an instant.”
I grimaced. Well, there was me put in my place.
“I would have been at Gretna Green before you’d even had your first cup of tea, without one thought as to who would help you dress or style your hair.”
I held up a hand. “All right, I understand your point. No need to relish just how little your service to me means.”
Jane smirked, pulling a shawl from the ottoman near her and draping it over her lap.
A log popped in the fireplace, drawing our gazes. The mood turned somber once more as we stared into the flames.
“No one gets everything they want in this life,” Jane said, “but we can’t survive with regrets.”
I swallowed. She wasn’t just talking about herself. She knew the struggles Cavindish and I had to have children. Knew the emptiness I’d felt.
“It’s best we focus on the gifts we did receive.” She raised her half-empty glass to me as though in a toast. “And there are many.”
I saluted her back. I didn’t know if it were her words or the brandy, but my spirit revived.
Self-pity was for the weak. It did no one any good to look back.
Eyes forward, as Father used to say, though he had been talking about my and my brother’s tendency to stare out the window instead of paying attention to our lessons, not metaphorically.
Still, it was a good reminder. Once we learned who’d killed Lady Richford and her son, I could refocus my attention on saving my club.
Which reminded me. “Jane, will you tell the rest of the household to prepare to host a dinner party? Not large. Twelve at most.”
“Twelve is still a lot to clean and cook for,” she said grumpily. “When is this party to be?”
“In four days’ time.” I lifted my glass to my lips, ignoring her muttered oaths. It might be short notice, but it was moving forward.
In four days’ time, I just might know the identity of the killer.