The Suspect's Daughter (2 page)

“You look so pretty, princess.” He put an arm around her and gave her a sideways hug. His scent of bay rum enfolded her along with the tang of mint his valet put in his clothes press to keep away moths.

She smiled, casting off the memory. “And you look handsome as ever.”

He sobered as his gaze searched her face. “Does something trouble you?”

Calling on all her courage, she brightened her smile. Tonight she must be at her best. Later she’d decide what, if anything, to tell her father about the intruder. She pushed the last fragments of her fright into a room in her mind and locked the door.

She linked her arm through his. “A bit nervous, I suppose. I know how much this Season means to you.”

He kissed her forehead. “The weight of my future does not rest on you, princess.”

“I know. But I’m willing to do whatever I can. I am persuaded you would be a wise and strong prime minister.”

She glanced around for her brother, Jonathan. After all, the ball had been his purpose in coming home from college for a visit.

“Where is Jonathan?” she asked.

“I haven’t seen him in hours.” A mild frown wrinkled her father’s brow, but the first guests arrived, and he smoothed his expression.

The majordomo announced the Earl and Countess Tarrington. Emitting understated elegance, and so darkly handsome that her sight of him used to turn Jocelyn into a tongue-tied ninny, the earl arrived with his lovely wife.

The Earl of Tarrington gripped her father’s hand. “Fairley, I fear we are unfashionably early.”

“Nonsense,” Papa said heartily. “You aren’t early, only prompt. We rely on your presence to begin the evening.” He bowed to the countess. “Lady Tarrington, a pleasure as always.”

“The fault for our ‘promptness’ is ours,” the countess replied. “I wanted to see the chalk drawing before dancers mussed it.” She gestured to the wood floor where a chalk artist had been hard at work for two days recreating an enormous Fairley coat of arms.

Papa put a hand on Jocelyn’s back. “I believe you know my daughter, Jocelyn.”

Jocelyn sank into a practiced curtsy. “My lord, my lady.”

The countess bathed her in the warmth of her smile. Though she’d recently delivered a baby, her figure had already returned to its former slender grace. “How lovely you look, my dear. I hope there will be an opportunity for you to perform the pianoforte this season. You do play so beautifully.”

“It would be my honor, Countess. And how is your baby? I understand you were delivered of a son.”

Equal pride shone from both faces. The earl spoke. “Indeed. Nicholas Richard Amesbury the Fourth. Lots of dark hair and a lusty cry.”

“Lusty indeed,” the countess said wryly. “Especially in the wee hours of the morning.”

Interesting that a countess would care for her own son at night rather than simply turn his care over to the wet nurse. Jocelyn found the idea admirably maternal.

The countess and earl exchanged loving glances. A pain smote Jocelyn’s heart. Though she’d had a few suitors during her past four Seasons, none had gazed at her with such open affection. Most only viewed her as a mildly interesting diversion—or as the bearer of a healthy dowry.

Perhaps if she were prettier, or smarter, or more accomplished...but no. She would throw herself into making this a Season for her father and enjoy the adventure of helping him reach his heart’s desire. And perhaps she could match him with a respectable lady to help him in his career as well as ease the lingering grief she’d glimpsed in him when he thought her unaware.

Next Season she would apply more effort into seeking a husband. She did want a family of her own someday. The worst part of remaining unwed was the loneliness. None of her married friends resided near any of the Fairley’s country houses, nor had further need to attend the London Season. But Jocelyn had her father and Aunt Ruby. That would be enough for now.

“…my support as always,” the earl was saying.

“I appreciate that, my lord.” Her father bowed.

Jocelyn flushed that she’d been woolgathering when she was supposed to be greeting her guests.

As others arrived, a line formed behind the earl and his countess, so they moved on. Jocelyn focused on each guest she greeted, calling them by name, and asking after their families.

At Lady Everett’s arrival, Jocelyn brightened. The titled widow, a brunette about ten years her father’s junior, curtsied to her father with just the right amount of respect and grace but with a friendly smile. Attractive enough to be admired, but not so beautiful as to inspire petty envy, Lady Everett bore herself with all the dignity of a queen. She wore a tastefully simple, elegant ball gown of lilac with blond lace that enhanced her creamy skin.

“Lady Everett, I’m so pleased you are here,” Papa said.

Jocelyn watched her father carefully, searching for any indication that he viewed Lady Everett with any interest as a man rather than merely a host. But his features only revealed friendly pleasure.

Lady Everett held out both hands to him. “Mr. Fairley. It’s been far too long.”

Papa smiled gently. “It has only been since last Season, my lady.”

“Yes, as I said; far too long. And I’m sorry you were unable to attend my house party last summer.”

“As was I. But it took place at a bad time.”

Jocelyn winced at the reminder that Lady Everett’s house party had fallen on the anniversary of Mama’s death.

“Of course.” Lady Everett put a hand on his arm briefly but her expression remained devoid of any coquettishness, only compassion and affection. “How thoughtless of me to have scheduled it at that time. Just know that you were both missed.” Her gaze included Jocelyn.

“I hope we will have opportunity to visit in the near future,” Jocelyn put in.

“Indeed.” Lady Everett inclined her head. “I would be delighted if you both joined me for tea tomorrow.”

Papa offered a slight bow. “Tea it is. Thank you.”

As Lady Everett stepped away, Jocelyn smiled up at Papa. “She’s lovely, don’t you agree?”

“Indeed.” His impassive voice and expression revealed nothing of his inner thoughts.

She put a hand on his arm. “Am I meddling?”

His face softened. “No, princess. I know your heart is in the right place. We’ll speak of this later.”

Papa’s much younger sister, Aunt Ruby, came next. Though it’d been over a year since Ruby’s husband had died, it still surprised Jocelyn to see her aunt without Uncle Arthur at her side. Her aunt, only ten years her senior, often got mistaken for Jocelyn’s sister due to her youthful face and figure.

“You’ve done a lovely job with the decorations, sweeting,” Aunt Ruby said with an approving smile and twinkling blue eyes. “I couldn’t have done it better. And I am persuaded your guests are enjoying themselves.”

Jocelyn basked in the glow of her dear aunt’s encouragement even after she moved down the line. Lady Hennessey, sister of the Earl of Tarrington, greeted them. Though she stood next to her husband with her hand resting on his arm, they seemed to stand miles apart.

Lord Hennessey greeted Papa. “Moving speech today, Fairley.”

“Oh?” Papa raised a brow. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I found it entertaining, at the least. I wonder at your radical ideals, Fairley. Next you’ll have the poor leading the country.”

Though Papa stiffened, he kept his voice and expression mild. “I hope, at least, to help the poor find the opportunity to pull themselves out of starvation and obscurity while still observing time-honored traditions.”

“Your dangerous views will pull us into a revolution as bloody as the French’s.”

Lady Marguerite sniffed. “I doubt very much a public educational system will throw us into the embrace of Madame Guillotine.”

Her husband turned a sneer on her. “Exactly why women aren’t in politics.”

“Exactly why they ought to be,” she shot back with a lift to her chin. Without missing a beat, she focused her piercing gaze on Jocelyn. “Lovely as always, Miss Fairley. That shade of ivory favors your complexion much better than the unflattering yellow you wore at the Jenison’s musical week. I’d wager blue would bring out the color of your eyes.”

Jocelyn managed not to recoil at the backhanded compliment and dredged up a pained smiled. “Blue is my favorite color.”

“Follow your instincts, Miss Fairley. I always regret it when I don’t.” She cast a weighted glance at her husband.

Jocelyn wanted to cringe at the obvious disharmony between the Hennesseys and the perfect foil to the love Lord Tarrington bore for his countess—all the more reason for Jocelyn not to rush into marriage simply to assuage her loneliness and feed her thirst for the great adventure of love. She must take her time to ensure her best chances at a union like Lord and Lady Tarrington.

But the closest she’d been to a man in over a year was the one who’d attacked her in her father’s study. A shiver raced down her backbone, and her mouth and neck burned where the intruder had touched her.

Again, she pushed away the memory. Papa. Guests. The evening.

Once she saw her father firmly placed as prime minister, she’d give a thought to her own future. But an edge of loneliness sliced through her consciousness, reminding of her lack of prospects. Never mind that gentlemen didn’t fight for her favor. If wedded bliss remained out of reach, even after another Season or two, she’d embrace spinsterhood and focus her energies on helping manage her father’s estates and caring for his tenants. Surely that would suffice.

Grant Amesbury landed lightly on the sidewalk and flattened his body against the brick building. Keeping to the shadows, he crept away. At the end of the block, he trained his gaze on the window through which he’d made his escape. No face appeared and no cry of alarm sounded. He must have effectively threatened the girl to prevent her from alerting anyone to his presence for the time being.

He swore. He’d committed enough deplorable acts in his life to earn him a place of honor at the right hand of the devil, but he’d never in all his seven and twenty years threatened an innocent woman. Not that any female was entirely innocent. Feminine wiles automatically earned a black mark next to their names from their first coquettish smile to their final act of betrayal.

He ran a hand down the scar along the side of his face but refused to indulge in memory.

However, to his knowledge, the one he’d attacked wasn’t guilty of any crime. She might have been a maid, of course, but servants seldom smelled as good as the girl he’d briefly captured. Besides, she’d been wearing silk and pearls. A lady. He’d assaulted a lady. He swore again. He pictured her lying in a swoon on the floor. Guilt twisted his gut. He shook it off. A servant would likely attend to the wench and she could raise all the theatrics she desired. As a member of the shallow, spoiled
beau monde
, she’d probably revel in her drama for days, taking to her bed and demanding smelling salts and a bevy of mourners.

He tugged his coat more tightly around him against the penetrating London fog and strolled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He’d have to return to Fairley’s house again later to make a more thorough search if he hoped to discover any real proof—beyond informants’ words—that Fairley truly was involved in a conspiracy.

Several carriages clattered past him to the Fairley’s house. Their occupants got out wearing dancing shoes, and ascended the steps for the party Grant had counted on guaranteeing no one would be in the study. A serious miscalculation. Tack jingled and hooves clopped on the cobbled streets. The scent of horses mingled with the stench of the Thames and the overruling odor of burning coal in a uniquely London blend.

“Evenin’, Mr. Smith.” Maggie’s smooth alto greeted him in an accent he placed somewhere just outside of London.

Maggie struck a provocative pose on the sidewalk next to her friend and fellow light-skirt. A nearby street lamp illuminated their tattered clothing, exposed cleavages, and legs thrust suggestively out slits in their skirts.

“Evening, girls,” he said with a nod. “Business slow tonight?”

“Oh, the night is young,” Maggie said, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear and eyeing him hungrily. “Are ye lookin’ fer womanly company?”

Briefly, the memory of pressing his body against the soft, voluptuous curves of the girl in Mr. Fairley’s study flashed into his mind. She been soft and had smelled of violets and something comforting like vanilla. And she’d trembled in fear. His right hand burned where he’d silenced her mouth, and the texture of her soft throat created an accusing imprint on his left where he’d threatened her. Regret wormed through him. But he hadn’t hurt her, nor would he have even if she had raised an alarm. So why did that annoying guilt remain?

“Come now, it’s a cold night,” Maggie persisted in a teasing tone. “Let me warm ye tonight.” She smiled, revealing remarkably good teeth. She must have bathed recently—she smelled better than usual and none of the usual street grime marred her pretty face.

Grant gave her his customary answer. “The reform house would be warm. Come on, girls, I’ll give you a ride to Goodfellow’s.”

The strumpets giggled and shook their heads. Maggie’s companion, a girl barely out of childhood with ginger hair said, “Not warm ’nuff fer us.”

With a shrug, Grant strode away. Disreputable they might be, at least they weren’t fainting females that flirted in drawing rooms or mysterious beauties who told pretty lies designed to ensnare.

Behind him, Maggie called, “One of these nights, Mr. Smith, you’ll show me what you keep all wrapped up inside that coat of yours.”

Grant couldn’t imagine being desperate enough to share even a few minutes in the intimate embrace of a prostitute. Although, if he did, he wouldn’t have to guard his battered, neglected heart.

As he strode in the direction of Bow Street, a carriage clattered past him and pulled to a stop. He glanced back. Maggie stood next to the carriage, speaking to the rider, her seductive laugh ringing out in the stillness. The door swung open and she stepped inside.

Grant gritted his teeth and kept moving. At the rate they were going, those girls would be dead of some awful disease that ate them up from the inside before they saw another year—probably before they were old enough to be “out” had they been born to genteel families. A few months ago, he’d physically picked up Maggie, thrown her over his shoulder and carried her bodily to Mrs. Goodfellow’s Institution for the Reformed to learn skills for an honest vocation, but Maggie wouldn’t stay there. She’d returned to the streets in two days. He didn’t care. Not his problem.