A Lady of Letters (5 page)

"Are you really so sure it is someone who lives nearby, and that he is... one of us? I mean, couldn't it have been the work of a band of ruffians merely passing through. I have read of such things—"

She shook her head. "It is unlikely. I have had Jamison make inquiries in all the neighboring towns and there are no other reports of children gone missing, plus the time between each occurrence makes the chance of it being a random act quite slim." She took something from her drawer and began to twist it between fingers. " Furthermore, the last child to disappear was Tommy Atkins. He was a big lad for his age and there were signs of a struggle near where he had been working in the field. This was found at the scene."

Marianne craned her neck to see what it was. "A scrap of material? What possible clue is that?"

Augusta held it up for closer inspection. "A scrap of expensive brocaded silk, with an intricate pattern of stitching. It's from too fancy a piece of clothing for anyone but a fine gentleman to have been wearing."

"It could be a coincidence," answered Marianne, though her voiced lacked real conviction. "In any case, it's hardly definitive evidence. I mean, you can hardly begin searching the closets of every gentleman in London for a torn waistcoat."

Augusta's eyes took on a speculative gleam for a moment, then she gave a curt laugh. "I suppose that is out of the question. But nevertheless, it is the only clue I have, so I must begin somewhere." She turned her journal around and pushed it toward her sister. "You are more aware than I of all the gentlemen in our area," she said with a touch of humor. "Am I missing anyone?"

Marianne took several minutes to study the pages. "Lord Jeffries, though he's over seventy if he's a day."

"The let us rule him out for the moment."

"And the new tenant of Chilton Hall. Baron Blatchford, I think, though I've not met him. No one has."

Augusta added his name to the list.

"How many are there?"

Her lips pursed as she added up the entries. "Eleven—no, twelve."

Her sister was tactfully silent.

"I know it is no easy task, but there is nothing to do for it. I shall begin making some discreet inquiries into the character of each of our suspects and see what I turn up."

"Oh dear, you must promise to be extremely careful, Gus. If you are right about what is going on, you after a very dangerous man."

"If I am right, it is he who had better watch out."

Augusta hardly noticed the break in the music. She was enjoying a comfortable coze with Baron Ashford, one of her oldest friends from home and a name she hadn't bothered to put on her list. He had already been most helpful, chattering on with only the slightest urging about several of their neighbors, but she dared not push too hard. Still, she had decided she could eliminate two of her suspects, while a third looked to merit closer scrutiny.

"Forgive me, Gus, but I must excuse myself and find my next partner. Shall I escort you back to your Mama or your sister?"

"Thank you Jamie, but I am quite happy to sit here for a spell."

He bent over her hand. "Can't imagine why you choose to act like a turbaned matron and refuse to set foot on the floor."

"I never dance. My bones are too creaky to climb down from the shelf, you know."

They both smiled. It had become a joke between them, her unmarried state. He had offered for her once, at the end of her first Season, though she had always felt it was more from loyalty than any deeper emotion. When she had gently but firmly refused, he had seemed rather relieved. Now he was more like the older brother she no longer had, and she much preferred it that way, since she would never have any more than sisterly feelings for him.

"I shall see you later, then."

He withdrew into the crowd and Augusta took a moment to survey the room. Marianne was surrounded by a bevy of admirers, but there were no cause for concern. All were perfectly acceptable young men, so she felt free to turn her attention to the crush of people gathered in the soaring space. In the flickering light of the myriad candles, it was difficult to discern whether any of the other gentlemen she was interested in were present. Perhaps she could ask Jamie later—

"Miss Hadley." The rise in tone indicated it was not the first time the gentleman had spoken her name.

Her head jerked around.

"I asked if I might be allowed the pleasure of this dance."

She stared at Sheffield in disbelief. "You are asking me to dance? Aren't you afraid I might tread on your toes or cause you to trip and split your pantaloons?"

He gave a low chuckle and her insides gave a small lurch. It was the first real smile she had seen on his face, and its effect was rather... devastating. "Ah, but this time I shall be on guard against any havoc you might wreak on my person."

She forced her eyes away. "You needn't bother. I never dance."

Ignoring her assertion, he reached for her hand.

"G... go away."

"Come now," he murmured "I have come to know you are capable of a more scathing set down than that. Perhaps something that includes ‘pompous ass' and ‘foul-mouthed twit'?"

Why, the man actually had a sense of humor! Her lips twitched in spite of her resolve to ignore him.

Suddenly, before Augusta quite knew how it had happened, she was on her feet, his hand firmly around her elbow.

"Now why does a pompous ass wish to dance with an idiot?" she asked softly as he guided her out onto the crowded floor.

He didn't answer her. The first notes of a lilting melody drifted through the air, along with the faint scent of cut lilac and tuber roses. There was a rustle of silk as ladies turned to their partners and Augusta realized it was a waltz that was starting. She opened her mouth to demur, but the Earl's hand had already come to rest at the small of her back, drawing her close enough that she could feel the heat from his muscular thighs.

"Relax," he murmured close to her ear. "Follow me and we shall manage to navigate these treacherous waters without sinking another couple or running aground on the platter of lobster patties."

That he was an excellent dancer came as no surprise to her, for she had already noticed how he moved with a lithe grace, entirely masculine, that exuded an undercurrent of coiled strength. That she matched his steps without effort was a bit more of a shock. Though accorded to have a natural rhythm herself, she expected that nerves would deaden her limbs into awkward stiffness. But after the first few halting movements, she forget all about being self-conscious, letting the music and his subtle touch sweep her along. It was several moments before he spoke again.

"What?" Her eyes flew open in some embarrassment. She hadn't even realized they had been shut.

The corners of his mouth curled upward. "I said, for someone who never dances, you are doing quite well."

"Actually, what you mean is, you are relieved that I haven't capsized you into the fountain, ruining yet another waistcoat."

"Ah, but this one is watered silk." There was a decided twinkle in his blue eyes.

A burble of laughter escaped her lips, then she quickly caught herself and composed her features into a more serious mien. Other ladies might find him irresistible, but she did not intend to be seduced by the Earl of Sheffield's charm. "Now, why was it you forced me out her, sir?" she demanded, a bit sharper than she intended.

"Force? I never force ladies to do anything," he said softly.

"No? Do they simply fall on their knees begging...." She broke off in some confusion, not exactly sure what she meant to say, and the color rose to her cheeks. To her vast relief, he merely regarded her intently for a moment, then addressed her original question.

"I feel beholden, as a gentleman, to offer you an apology. Two of them, that is. My language during our past... run-ins was inexcusable."

She looked up at him. "It was. But I suppose it was greatly provoked. A gentleman of your stature does not take kindly to being knocked on his rump."

It was his turn to laugh, though he make no attempt to stifle the rich baritone sound. "You should know, you have accomplished what no other man, not even Gentleman Jackson, has managed to do."

"Set you down a peg? Someone should do it," she muttered under her breath. "Seeing as you have a high enough opinion of yourself."

He cocked his head to one side. "What was that?"

"Oh, never mind," she said in a louder tone. "You may consider yourself forgiven, though I can't fathom why it makes a whit of difference to you."

His arm suddenly tightened around her waist and he quickened their steps, turning her in a series of intricate figures that left her a little breathless.

"It doesn't," he finally replied. "I care very little for what other people think. However, regardless of what you choose to believe, Miss Hadley, I wish you know that I regret my earlier rudeness. We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot with each other, but it appears we are making some strides to reaching a common ground of civility."

He was subtly clever in his choice of words, she had to give him that. It only made her feel more awkward and unpolished. "How is it you know my name?"

"Ah, that is right, we have not been introduced. Not formally." He inclined his head a fraction. "Allow me to correct that. I am Alexander Phelps—"

"I know very well who you are, Lord Sheffield," she muttered, more aware than she wished to be of the pressure of his gloved hand on small of her back, and the faint, woodsy aroma of his cologne.

"Do you?" His smile was half mocking.

Augusta felt a rush of anger. Was this his intention, to fluster her with his smooth spins of speech so that she became a stammering fool again, at the mercy of his so-called wit? Perhaps he thought it a suitable revenge to embarrass and humiliate her, just as she had done to him, however unwittingly. Well, she refused to be cowed so easily. "Indeed sir—you are a rake and a wastrel that Society looks up to because of your title and your fortune. As for doing anything good or useful, I doubt you have ever lifted a finger to do aught but satisfy your own selfish desires."

For a moment there was a flicker of some emotion in his eyes, then his face became very stony. The smile remained carved on his lips but there was no humor in it. "How very perceptive of you, Miss Hadley. Allow me to congratulate you—your knowledge of all things, be they books or people, seems... unquestionable."

The rest of the dance proceeded in grim silence. He still moved with faultless precision, but Augusta could feel the rigid tension in his body. She should have felt pleased, she told herself. After all, she could tell she had managed to land a blow to his precious self-image. But somehow she didn't. It hadn't been anger or embarrassment that she had glimpsed in his eyes. It had been pain. For some odd reason, her angry retort had hurt him.

Her brow furrowed as she stared into the folds of his cravat. It didn't make any sense. He had just finished saying he didn't care what anyone thought, so why should her words have the least effect on him? She had imagined a man of his reputation to be lacking in all sensibilities, yet it seemed he was not without a certain vulnerability.