Page 10 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

G eneva huddled in her bedchamber, mulling over the past hour when Miss Isabelle had given Geneva and Abra their own private concert. Miss Isabelle may have struggled to a degree with walking, but it certainly had not affected her talent and skill with the pianoforte.

The girl was fanciful in the most feminine and dainty way possible. On the diametric end of the scale of Geneva. Heavens. Naming Mr. Oshea’s bedchamber with the word “cock” in it! She was still laughing. Notably, with an edge of hysteria. Geneva was no green girl, having grown up in Soho. One could not walk down the street without some drunken sot offering his endowed manly parts by whatever name. Geneva could name at least five off the top of her head. Penis, cock, prick, staff, rod. The labels were endless.

She took a sip of a most excellent oolong tea, set it down, and paced her bedchamber. With each pass of an English mantel clock over the hearth, the slow-moving hands appeared stuck. Abra’s and her entire strategy was based on timing. Suppers were notoriously long, and country dinners, Abra had said, were no different than those held in town. The plan required Geneva to enter the late earl’s chamber at the second course. Because no one dared leaving the table at a second course and as such would give Geneva plenty of time to search with a minimal chance of being caught. Their strategy set, Geneva and Abra feigned megrims. Abra would remain in the sitting room and wait for the promised tray to be sent up.

On her fifth or twentieth pass—she’d lost count, though she did not care—impatience finally got the better of her and she hurried to the sitting room. Sheer determination surged through her. She stalked to the door and peered out, then cast a last glance over her shoulder at her friend.

“Be careful,” Abra whispered, worry creasing her forehead.

“I will,” she promised. Geneva slipped into the corridor devoid of servants and guests alike.

Thankfully, the master suite was nearby. Just down the hall, closer to the stairs, running the length of the windows to the west in the direction of the stables, she surmised. On stealthy steps, she rounded the corner to elaborate double doors and a raised threshold that marked its importance for master and mistress of the castle. Doors of heavy oak with black, decorative hinges brought to mind something out of Historia Regum Britanniae .

Rather than the current style of an actual doorknob or even a lever, to enter, she clasped a thick, iron, circular handle and turned. The stout door was heavy and took concerted effort, but she took comfort in the well-oiled hinges for their lack of creaking. It was easy convincing herself she wasn’t trespassing, as no one was occupying the suite since the old earl’s death. She pushed inside and stopped—

“What are you doing here?” Miss Hale demanded. She came to her feet and shook out her skirts, attempting to hide the bag she’d been rifling through.

Geneva glanced behind her then stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and smirked. “I could ask you the same. Whose bag is that?”

Miss Hale scowled. “The Duke of Rathbourne’s.”

Geneva gasped.

“I see you’ve heard of him.”

You’ve no idea , Geneva didn’t say. “Yes.” She surveyed the bedchamber, taking in the rich, velvet curtains in forest green over the windows that matched the bedcurtains. Dark-paneled walls lacked artwork. This was a man’s room and Rathbourne, Meredith’s father, had been handed the honor of lodging in it. She willed her heart to slow its pounding and brought her gaze back to Miss Hale. “Why aren’t you at dinner?”

“Why aren’t you ?”

Geneva indicated her frock. “I’ve nothing to wear and I am untitled. I shan’t be missed. You, however…” She let her voice trail.

“Being untitled has nothing to do with anything as you well know.” Her eyes flickered over Geneva’s unflattering dark blue muslin then rose to her face. “I must concede regarding the dress, but all right.” Miss Hale’s sputter spelled out her frustration. “I thought to… to. Oh, what does it matter? You are correct. I must go, as I will certainly be missed.” She stalked around Geneva to the door. “This isn’t over.”

“No. It’s not over,” Geneva said evenly.

Miss Hale opened the door and glanced out, then indicated Geneva precede her, and with no other option, she did. In fact, Miss Hale walked Geneva to the “Morpho” Suite then followed her inside and again, Geneva stopped so suddenly, Miss Hale bumped into her.

Abra stood near the hearth, and Pasha sat at a table near the windows, as unobtrusive as ever. “There you are. Oh, dear,” she ended on a whisper when her gaze landed just beyond Geneva’s shoulder.

Mr. Oshea, Noah Oshea, turned from his place near the window.

Miss Hale stepped around Geneva and strolled to the hearth. “Well, isn’t this an interesting tête-à-tête.”

“What are you about, Docia?” Mr. Oshea knew her quite well it seemed.

“It’s Miss Hale ,” she hissed back.

Geneva’s lips twitched and she bit the bottom one upon catching Abra’s mirth. There was certainly no love lost between Miss Hale and Mr. Oshea.

“I’ve been visiting with Miss Wimbley. She’s agreed to accompany me to Chaston tonight,” Miss Hale said with a sly smile.

Geneva drew in a sharp inhale as apparently she had lost the ability to forge any other response when it came to any comment the woman deigned to make.

Miss Hale turned to her. “Isn’t that right, Miss Wimbley?”

Geneva gathered her wits and narrowed her eyes on the woman, attempting to fathom this unexpected action. The motive was vastly clear. Miss Hale wished to silence her and knew that Geneva could out her just as quickly. “Yes. Yes. That’s right.”

“What?” Abra’s shock, of course, was not a surprise, but with Mr. Oshea’s piercing, gray eyes trained on Geneva, she couldn’t even send her friend a pleading glance. Could only look in her direction and give her an innocent blink and hope.

It was enough. Abra’s lips tightened and she remained quiet.

“Yes,” Miss Hale went on. “Miss Wimbley has confessed she didn’t have the wherewithal to bring an appropriate wardrobe with her.” Her nonchalance grated.

Suspicion fleeted Mr. Oshea’s face. “And, you, uh, so kindly offered to assist her.” He raked a gaze over Geneva. “Hmm.”

Her face burned. She lifted her chin. All she had was her pride, but, blast it, it was hers.

“That’s enough, Noah,” Miss Hale snapped. “Miss Wimbley cannot help her circumstances.”

“You know nothing of my circumstances, Miss Hale .” Geneva’s jaw ached. It was clenched so tightly, she barely managed coherent words.

But the woman was an expert in redirection and acted as if Geneva hadn’t spoken. “Pack an overnight bag—” She stopped, eyeing Geneva’s frock so critically, it was all Geneva could do to not storm to her chamber and slam the door. “I retract that. Don’t bother packing, Miss Wimbley. You shan’t need a thing.” She turned to Mr. Oshea. “We shall leave for Chaston and return in the morning.”

“Meaning two in the afternoon?” Mr. Oshea retorted.

Miss Hale shrugged.

“No. You’ll stay for supper and I shall drive you to Chaston tonight and return for you in the morning by nine as we discussed.” He spoke pointedly.

Her eyes went over Geneva’s day gown again. “Fine.”

This time, Geneva did send Abra a pleading glance regardless of who witnessed it.

And, of course, Abra came to Geneva’s humiliating rescue. “I’m certain I have a fitting garment Geneva can don for supper.”

Mr. Oshea inclined his head in a sharp nod. “We meet in the library at seven.” His gaze swept over the three of them. “I’m thrilled to see no one is upon their deathbed.”

With that, he took Miss Hale’s arm in a firm grip and they departed.

“But I don’t wish to go to dinner,” Geneva wailed before pulling herself up. “Did you know the Duke of Rathbourne has arrived?”

Abra groaned. “Are you sure?”

“When I snuck into the earl’s suite, Miss Hale was in there going through his belongings,” she said, nodding.

“What the devil was she doing going through his belongings? Why does she want you to stay the night with her?”

“An excellent question. And I don’t know.”

“You take my word for it, Gen, Miss Hale is trouble and does nothing if there is no benefit in it for her.”

“I take your point.” Geneva tapped her chin, seeing Miss Hale’s smugness and Mr. Oshea’s near-to-fraying temper. “I expect I’ll learn something from this idiotic turn of events.”

“Perhaps. Don’t dawdle.” Abra went to her bedchamber door and opened it. “I’ve been dying to rid you of those ill-fitting frocks you seem to favor. We must hurry. You too, Pasha. We require your expertise.”

A grin split the maid’s face and Geneva decided it was a conspiracy. “Yes, milady.”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten,” she muttered.

Abra pierced her with a smug look over her shoulder. “Unless you want to make an entrance.”

Geneva hurried after them. “My worst nightmare.”

*

Orchestrating a successful supper was completely out of Noah’s repertoire. Even Aunt Verda, who’d once lived in London, professed her own inefficiency at such matters. Docia, of course, would excel at such a task even without experience, but Mrs. Knagg, thankfully, had been cognizant enough to add staff—and he used the term loosely—from Alnmouth. Winfield could be counted on to keep things in order.

The parlor held his father’s body, so pre-dinner drinks were served in the library, where Mrs. Knagg and Hicks—Stonemare’s other longtime footman—moved unobtrusively about. So far, no one had dropped any trays of sherry, madeira, ratafia, or brandy.

The conversation was a low hum due to the solemnness of the occasion and the crowd being relatively small. Curiously, Aunt Verda and Uncle Sander maintained a large distance between themselves and Rathbourne, and despite that gap, the air between them shimmered with hostility.

Noah had forgotten Aunt Verda’s father, Baron Krupt, had wanted her to marry— snag was the term she’d used—when referring to Rathbourne. The duke had desired her as a mother to his only child. A child who was now tied to Lucius. The families were intertwined in a most inconvenient way. Lucius stood with Sander and for the moment was resigned to glaring daggers at Rathbourne’s back.

Those of the ton who hadn’t made it to Northumberland would be sorely disappointed, as supper should prove worthy of an “event of the season” marque. And not in a gracious way.

Impatience rippled through Noah. He tugged the fob from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it open. Ten past seven.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Docia taunted him in a low voice. “The little bird will fly from her nest and arrive before you know it and dressed to the nines. One minute detail regarding Lady Abra Washington is her resourcefulness. Astonishing, given—”

Noah snapped the fob shut and slipped it back in its pocket, piercing her with a sudden hatred that surpassed all the resentment through the years. “Just what are you getting at?” he hissed. The sense of having been there before made him dizzy. As if he and Docia were back to their ten- and eleven-year-old selves, prepared to tear one another’s throats out. A blazing fire of fury tore through him. “Say more about Abra’s character and I shall haul you out of here by the delicate lace of your fichu for all the guests to witness.”

Eyes flashing, she turned her back on him and sauntered to the duke. Perhaps they could claw one another’s eyes out. “Good evening, Your Grace. I thought perhaps Lady Pender would have accompanied you,” Docia said, loud enough to fill the chamber.

Noah chanced a glance at his brother, whose white-knuckled grip threatened the heavy glass he held.

“She’s unwell of late,” His Grace returned smoothly. “An unfortunate side effect of being with child, I suppose.”

The sudden stillness that crowded the room didn’t do justice to Docia’s gasp and her face draining of color. Glass shattered behind Noah and he turned to see the same shock on Lucius’s expression, and his hand now bloodied with shards of glass amid brandy dripping on the toes of his Hessians.

The door to the library swung wide with Winfield entering and announcing, “Lady Abra Washington and Miss Geneva Wimbley.”

Rathbourne’s entire body jolted as if prodded with a blacksmith’s iron.

Abra entered, and while her dark skin glowed against her burgundy gown and the draping shawl that looped her arms, his gaze was riveted to the woman behind her in deep bronze. She was a vision with her almost-black hair swept up but for a few wispy curls that framed her face, giving an ethereal halo effect. Her full lips had more color than he recalled. Unsurprising, the gown was a tad too long but appeared to fit across her nicely shaped bosom.

His Grace let out a gasped curse worthy of a rookery gaming hell.

Neither young woman flinched. So, they knew the duke, it appeared.

“What the hell are they doing here?” Rathbourne demanded. Truly, there was not a subtle bone in the man’s body.

Noah quickly took two glasses of sherry from Hicks and hurried forward. “They are here for the same reason you are, Your Grace. To pay their respects.” The little white lie would serve its purpose—he shot Miss Wimbley a telling look—if she didn’t argue outright with the statement.

Miss Wimbley skirted Lady Abra and strolled right up to the duke. She was as foolhardy as Docia.

It was his urge to shield her from Rathbourne that had Noah starting in her direction.

Miss Wimbley tilted her head just so and a small smile curved her lovely lips as she fell into a deep and perfect curtsey. “Your Grace. How nice to see you… again.”

She obviously didn’t realize the havoc such a man could wreak on those who mocked him. And, mock him, she did. It was right there in her tone.

A snicker from Docia, who’d appeared to recover from her previous shock, sounded under her breath.

Noah shot her a glare and started toward Miss Wimbley, but Winfield’s timely manner announced dinner, thankfully, staying any further fireworks. Noah wouldn’t have been surprised had a second turret on the property collapsed.

Rathbourne’s reputation preceded him and no one was fond of the pompous ass. For a minute, no one moved.

“Did I misunderstand the man?” the duke barked, spurring the sudden clink of glasses being set aside in various parts of the room. With Lucius’s wife not in attendance, Abra was the highest-ranking lady, but the Duke of Rathbourne pointedly ignored her. Instead, he offered his arm to Docia and escorted her out. It was a direct cut, but Lucius’s brooding went on hiatus as he stepped forward without hesitation and approached Lady Abra. Other parties moved out of the library. And, as inappropriate as it was, Noah slowed Miss Wimbley with a hold on her arm, forcing them both to lag behind the others. “You are either the boldest person I’ve ever met or the reckless.”

She bristled. “Your point?”

He let out a harsh breath. “Rathbourne does not make a favorable enemy, Miss Wimbley.”

She had the audacity to laugh. A high, tinkling sound that ran over his skin like a babbling brook. “No. He doesn’t.”

There was something so unique about the color of her eyes—he couldn’t pull his gaze from her. The fire’s light indeed reflected the night sky dotted with stars within their navy hue. That afternoon, they’d taken on a mix of the crashing sea and the muted sun, lending a tint toward sapphire. He was no artist, but sapphire seemed exactly right. A deep, rich blue jewel with a starburst in their center.

Christ , he was a poet now? “What makes you believe you can escape the duke’s wrath?” He truly was interested.

“I went to school with his daughter.” She grinned and the effect momentarily stunned him. Her hair was dressed in a similar style to Docia’s. The deep bronze of her gown matched the streaks of mahogany in her hair. Wispy tendrils caressed her nape and the tips of his fingers tingled. “I know all sorts of interesting things about the mighty duke.” She patted his arm. “Don’t worry over me.” Her brows wrinkled. “Are we going to eat?”

“Why haven’t you worn your hair like that before?” He lifted his hand, intending to touch. See if those curls were as soft as they appeared.

She put her fingers up as if she couldn’t believe it herself, her cheeks taking on an engaging blush. “It’s amazing what a skilled lady’s maid can accomplish with hair as unruly as mine.”

“I think it looks beautiful,” Isabelle said.

His whole body jolted as if struck by a bolt of lightning. He glanced at the door and found Julius appearing to restrain a grin.

“Come on, Belle. I’m famished,” Julius said.

A strangled sound caught in Noah’s throat and he squeezed his hand into a fist, dropping it back to his side.

Miss Wimbley turned her impish smile on Isabelle. “Thank you. Heavens. Do you know how many pins are in there? I’ll be lucky if my skull is not pricked for my brains to leak out overnight.”

His lips twitched.

“Perhaps you could donate your remnants to Noah,” Isabelle said. “He studies bones, you know. I should think the brain loads more interesting.”

“Er, after the fact, if you don’t mind,” Noah said. “Though I suspect, it’s Belle here who studies live beings.”

Miss Wimbley shrugged. “Certainly,” she said to Isabelle. “I give him full leave. I shall be dead, after all.” She tapped Isabelle’s hand. “But only if you supervise.”

She grinned back. “I shall indeed.”

Miss Wimbley’s gaze surveyed the library. “I’m hungry.”

As was he in that moment—but not for food, quite suddenly. “Right.” The familiar rush of embarrassment plundered him. “Shall we?”

Isabelle laughed. “You’re silly, Noah.” She looked up at Miss Wimbley.

“You’ll accompany us?”

“I’d be honored,” she returned in a voice that Noah would swear choked with emotion.

Noah held out his arm, anticipation rippling through him. “Shall we?”

Nodding, Miss Wimbley set her hand lightly atop his sleeve. He and Miss Wimbley followed Julius escorting his cousin to the main dining hall, where all eyes turned upon them.