The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (15 page)

The gardens had looked in desperate need of tending when William had seen them last, and of course nothing was growing in February, but he said, "Why, they're lovely. The roses are quite beautiful."

Mrs. Lungren nodded as if satisfied. "How are the girls? Has Rosalyn married Lord Carlton yet?"

"Is she affianced to him, then?"

Mrs. Lungren looked confused. "Isn't she? He keeps asking her to marry him. I don't know why she refuses. Silly notions that girl has, both her and Jocelyn."

"Mrs. Lungren, do you know of any reason someone would want to kill your son?" Randleton asked gently.

She laughed, and there was a hysterical edge to it. "They tell me I can't say my sons were murdered. It is a delusion of madness."

"One of your sons was murdered, madam," said Randleton.

Her face crumpled, and she seemed to fold in on herself. Her narrow shoulders slumped, and her head fell forward. "No, it is quite comforting to be insane and know that these thoughts of murders are delusions. I should not be able to bear it if I knew all my sons and my husband had been murdered." She stood suddenly and curtsied. "I thank you gentlemen for your call. It has been quite lovely."

Mrs. Lungren reseated herself to look out the window, staring into the gaping darkness. The pause, as they waited for the guard, escalated into an awkward hush.

William stepped forward. "Mrs. Lungren, if your thoughts aren't delusions and someone really did murder your sons and husband, whom do you suspect?"

She turned around, and for the first time, William saw the glassy stare of madness in her eyes. He backed away even before she answered.

"Tell them to send money for my keep, or they shall put me in a ward. Although I suppose that shan't be so bad." She cackled gleefully. "No worse than going home."

Chapter Nine

Felicity didn't sleep well. She spent the night tossing and turning and thinking of what Tony had said...and hadn't said. She knew his abrupt volte-face on marriage had much to do with realizing Charles was his son and little to do with his feelings toward her. And perhaps something to do with his injury.

The only thing that he clearly wanted from her was to be her lover. That was the part that kept her tossing and turning and punching her pillow and alternately kicking off her sheets and pulling them back over her again. His claim that there were methods he could use to prevent pregnancy had fired her curiosity—fired more than curiosity—and had her questioning her convictions.

She'd barely been able to gather enough resolve to withdraw from his arms before she gave in to the temptation to pull him along to her room. Wanting to feel Tony's arms around her, his kisses, his joining with her wasn't enough to risk marriage and giving a man control of her life, especially not a man like Tony who would ride roughshod over her if ever their wants and needs were ever in opposition.

She'd spent too many years under Layton's thumb to ever willingly enter into that kind of devil's bargain again.

So she was already in a foul mood when she awoke late and entered the breakfast room only to be greeted with her father's spleen.

"Felicity, your niece has burned this morning's issue of
The Post."
Her father's words contained an appropriate amount indignation for Diana having tossed a Bible or racing scores on the fire.

Diana sat across the breakfast table, looking down at her plate, her shoulders hunched about her ears, which was not a very good posture given her apparel. What had gotten into her?

"Then purchase another," said Felicity dismissively as she studied her niece's clothes.

"You know your father likes to read
The Morning Post
as he breaks his fast," said her mother, ignoring Diana.

Yes, but at home his copy was nearly a week old by the time it arrived. He had grown awfully used to having a fresh newspaper. Felicity sent a footman out to buy a new copy and filled her plate from the sideboard.

She made a point of sitting down next to her niece, although she hesitated to say anything about what Diana wore, Felicity knew she would have to broach the subject sooner or later. "Good morning, Diana."

"Good morning, ma'am," mumbled her niece. In a sprigged muslin gown that was much too tight through the chest, and without a fichu to properly cover her in the daytime, Diana looked blowsy. Felicity had to get her niece properly outfitted. Although it wasn't the gown itself that was inappropriate—just the fit and the lack of a neckerchief. However, that amount of exposure wouldn't have been given a second thought in a ballroom.

Lady Greyston took that moment to glance meaningfully at Diana's uncovered bosom and then lift her eyebrows as if to point out that someone with less breeding couldn't be expected to dress appropriately.

Her niece looked nervous, her winged eyebrows arched higher than normal, and her dark eyes wide. She twisted her bare hands together as she stood, making her décolletage more apparent.

"Really, Miss Fielding, you should have on gloves and something covering your chest during the daytime," said Lady Greyston. All right, so now that her mother had torn into the subject like a wild boar, Felicity wouldn't have to open the conversation, but she preferred to address the issue alone with her niece.

Felicity's father, who probably was feeling the lack of his morning's paper, narrowed his gaze and looked at Diana's nearly exposed breasts.

Diana put her hand against the spill of flesh. "Oh, I'm sorry."

Surprised that the expensive Swiss school hadn't taught Diana the basics of how a lady dressed, Felicity shook her head. But the only diversion she could think of was to return to Diana's original transgression. "Did you burn
The Morning Post?"

Diana's lips trembled. "It was cold in the breakfast room."

Sir Edmund Greyston seemed to be trying to determine the veracity of that statement by examining Diana's bodily responses. Since it appeared her niece wasn't wearing the appropriate undergarments either, Felicity hoped the straining seams of the bodice wouldn't split and make obvious whether the chill of the room affected her niece unduly.

She had probably been cold because she was inadequately dressed. "Then it would be appropriate to fetch a shawl or wrapper, or ask a servant to stoke up the fire. Please don't burn the newspaper anymore."

"Yes, Aunt."

"Had the fire gone out? Do I need to speak with the housekeeper?"

Diana shook her head.

Charles darted into the room and dashed to the sideboard and snatched a bun. Felicity made a grab for him as he headed back toward the door. She shook her head. Speaking of being inappropriately dressed, her son's long pants were every bit as egregious as Diana's immodest gown.

"Well, then I have hired a lady's maid for you. Her name is Molly." Felicity wished now that she had put more effort into making sure the maid would know the niceties of dress. But if she had acted in the capacity for three ladies, she could hardly have less knowledge than her niece. "She should be arriving this afternoon. The mantua maker will be here at one. Please be ready for her."

"Yes, thank you, Aunt Felicity." Diana bobbed another of her awkward, inappropriate curtsies.

Lady Greyston harrumphed.

Presenting her niece to society might prove a more daunting task than Felicity had expected. She doubted that Diana would be the least bit ready for the dinner they were scheduled to hold in less than a week. Still, the girl's sweetness would win out in the end. Or at least Felicity hoped it would. Besides, the invitations had already gone out. Too late to call them back.

"Mama, let me go," pleaded Charles.

"Why are you in such a hurry?"

Charles broke free of her grasp then. "Got to walk the dog!"

Felicity's morning hadn't gone above a quarter hour, and it was already out of control. She narrowed her eyes and looked at her father. Had he bought Charles a dog—against her wishes? But her father maintained his fascinated stare at Diana's charms, and her mother turned and said, "What dog?"

Surely, her mother would know if Lord Greyston had bought Charles a dog. Then Felicity had a horrible suspicion that she knew what dog.

* * *

Bedford woke with a jolt. "Damn it, Lungren, leave me alone," he shouted.

Then he felt quite foolish. Just because he was having nightmares didn't mean his old gambling companion was causing them. Up until recently his main fear was that he would permanently reside in Queer Street—that or worse: be cast in debtors' prison. Now he knew there was a murderer on the loose who might want the worthless deed he held. And he had suddenly grown fearful that someone might grow wise to his follies and toss him into Bedlam.

He tossed back the covers. He had business of his own to take care of before he joined Randleton today. He would have to visit a cent-per-center or two, and he needed a plan to get out of their clutches. A real plan this time—betting and gambling wasn't enough to keep him in the blunt. No help for it, but he must get back to the reason he came to London—to marry a woman with money.

After he dressed, he took out his notebook and studied the names he had listed crossing off the first one. Mary Frances Chandler had eloped with an earl last season. William hadn't really stood a chance with her. It had been clear from the beginning she was set on acquiring a title. Which was all well and good—she had seemed a bit shrill for William's taste, anyway.

He looked at the next name and grimaced, but he made himself note that the horse-faced Catherine Moulter was quite enamored of her bay named Apollo. The path to her hand would be through the stable. He would have to spend a goodly amount of his loan on decent horseflesh.

After reviewing the meager cast of candidates, the latest a rich widow he'd yet to meet stood out. William tucked the notebook in his pocket and headed for the door. He opened it and found Randleton on the other side.

"Good, you're up and about." Randleton lowered the hand he'd undoubtedly had up to knock on the door. "Tony found your maid employment, and we'll have to go fetch her this afternoon."

"I..."

"Not to worry, I have a carriage we can transport her in. Thought you might want to take the opportunity to pay a call on Lord Carlton, while we're in the neighborhood and all that."

"Oh." William couldn't very well admit that he'd meant to spend the morning in search of a moneylender. "Who did Major Sheridan find to employ Molly?"

"A Mrs. Merriwether. Don't know her myself."

William did. Well, he didn't exactly
know
her, but her name was the last one he'd added to his notebook. Mrs. Merriwether, daughter of Sir Edmund Greyston, widow of the late, very wealthy Layton Merriwether of Moore Merriwether and Turner Shipping, Merriwether Mill, and who knew how many other lucrative endeavors.

"Tony says he knew her before he got his colors. Don't suppose she's the woman he's been in a flap over?"

William certainly hoped not. How could he compete with Major Sheridan for a woman's interest? "Should we go by and inquire when we should deliver Molly?"

Randleton blinked. "I suppose we could. I understand her London house is not far from my family's home."

William had the address, a rather impressive square in Mayfair. "What of Major Sheridan? Is he to accompany us, too?"

"Don't know. When I called at his lodgings, he'd just left to walk his dog. Thought we might head for Hyde Park, for I'm sure that is where he has gone."

The last thing William wanted to do was seek out Major Sheridan when he had that monstrosity he called a hound with him. "We should definitely go by Mrs. Merriwether's first."

So the two of them set out by way of Piccadilly. Just as they had started discussing their impressions of the night before, William saw a woman in a green dress with a patched elbow duck into one of the shops lining the busy thoroughfare. He stopped in his tracks and grabbed Randleton's arm. "Upon my honor, was that Mrs. Lungren?"

Randleton looked up the street and, of course, saw nothing. "Where?"

William took another step back. "In that apothecary shop."

"Hardly think it could be." Randleton took a step forward.

William would have preferred to go around another block. "No, you're right. It couldn't have been her."

"Come on, then," said Randleton.

William swallowed hard. How many women could own a loose green gown with a patch of the wrong shade on the elbow? Reluctantly William let loose of Randleton's arm and fell in step beside his new friend. He didn't dare look in the apothecary shop as they neared it. It cannot be her. It isn't her; he told himself.

"It is her!" Randleton drew to a halt in front of the shop window. "How the devil did she get out of Bedlam?"

"I suppose we should ask her," said William, although his voice took on an alarming adolescent squeak. Better yet, they could just run.

"Or find out just what exactly she is doing in an apothecary's shop?"

"Buying poison, most like," said William weakly, and for once he was glad to have missed his breakfast, because quite likely he would have cast up his accounts right then and there.

Randleton yanked open the shop door, and William closed his eyes as the bell above the door jangled. He did not want to enter the shop with her in there. He debated staying outside, but he supposed it could have been worse. They could have run into the madwoman at Manton's gun shop.

* * *

Meg was ready to crumble as the footman brought in the replacement newspaper. Her knees knocked together under Diana's apparently inappropriate dress. Or perhaps it was only inappropriate on Meg. Of course Diana had been less endowed, and Meg had been forced to leave off her shift and stays to avoid bursting the seams.

She hadn't realized how many blunders she could make without knowing. Already she had dressed wrong, erred in thinking that a newspaper wouldn't be missed, and had Felicity's mother's jaw dropping when she'd used her spoon with her buttered eggs.

None of it would matter at all if anyone connected the lurid story of the body in the Thames to her and the real Diana. Sir Edmund Greyston glanced briefly at the front page and then opened the paper to another section.