Page 14 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

“I have to change.”

Geneva scowled and, with a quick glance over her shoulder, followed Abra into her bedchamber. The situation had turned perilous. More than just Abra finding out Mr. Oshea had entered her bedchamber—it wouldn’t matter that Geneva hadn’t invited him. No, it was that blasted kiss filling her head with impossible possibilities. Such proprieties would only lead to ruin. More importantly, she couldn’t bear the thought of losing the respect of her Clandestine Sapphire Society cohorts.

Abra stopped and skewered Geneva with one of her soul-searching, sees-too-much fixations. “What is it, dear? You seem out of sorts. That’s not like you.”

Panic prickled Geneva’s skin. But she could not confide in Abra. From the depths of her corrupted reasonings, she searched desperately for some topic that would not give her away. Abra just knew her too well. The subject should have hit her at once. Gads, she was addlepated. “Why did Lady Westbridge have to come?” A rhetorical question if ever there was one. “I know, I know. It’s an idiotic notion. Of course she would come.”

Abra shot her a quick smirk, confirming the idiocy that required no answer. “I thought to assist Mrs. Knagg. She seems a little overwhelmed with all the guests. I suspect not much in the way of entertainment goes on in Northumberland.”

Geneva laughed, for the absolute notion of Abra assisting with guests when she was a guest couldn’t be borne. “You are not a servant, my dear,” she returned. Still, her friend did have a way of trying to make herself smaller than she was. Something that drove Geneva to madness.

Abra grinned. “I’m only doing it to peeve Stepmother.”

Geneva’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, the horror!” She shrugged. “That’s all right, then. Should I order you about? She detests that.”

“Certainly.” But testament to the friends they were, she wisely added, “Only when she’s about.”

“You are the brilliant one of our little group,” Geneva acknowledged with an admiring nod. They fell into a companionable silence as she went to Abra and assisted her with the ties at her back. “Do you think I’m unmarriageable?” she asked slowly.

Abra spun around. “What on earth put that notion in your head?”

She shrugged. “Just something Miss Hale said last night… It’s nothing.”

“Of course it’s something. That woman .” Her exasperation bounded against the walls. “She is nothing but a bitter and jealous feline, Gen. I should have seen it years ago, but I was too young and intimidated. Why, she must be at least thirty.” She shook off her dress and let it pool around her feet.

“She told me when you ordered the bronze gown, the madame nearly gave you the direct cut, but she stepped in and told her you were Lord Westbridge’s daughter.”

“Oh. I’d forgotten that.” Abra stepped over the silk at her feet. “Still, don’t make the mistake of disabusing yourself that her actions were altruistic. The woman was known for more than one incident of that nature that season. I’m more interested in why you think you are unmarriageable. What exactly did she say to you?”

Geneva picked up the pretty dress and shook it out then went to the wardrobe and hung it inside. “She said she…” Tears blurred her vision. The second short burst of emotion astonished her. She never cried.

“Gen?” Abra had her by the shoulders, then turned her, jarring the tears loose. They dripped down her cheeks. “What did Docia Hale say? Tell me.”

The hurt shifted to fury and she swiped the tears away. “She said she told Mr. Oshea he should consider me.”

“A statement with which I happen to agree,” Abra said gently.

“As. His. Mistress.” Geneva’s entire body shook with outrage. “She said marriage between me and Mr. Oshea would be completely unacceptable.”

Instantly, Abra grew incensed. Her face flushed, her eyes flashed. “Well, she is wrong, my friend. Any man would be lucky to have you.”

“Ha! What do I have to offer? There are no prospects, no connections, no dowry.” Saying the words aloud should have lightened the load on her shoulders. Instead, it felt as if an iron manacle banded her chest and squeezed.

“Ah, but you have integrity, honor, passion. More so than Docia Hale has in her delicate little pinky finger!”

The kiss Mr. Oshea had leveled on her flashed through Geneva’s mind and set heat searing her cheeks. “Passion,” she squeaked.

“You’ve taken up a noble cause regardless of its popularity.”

“Oh.” How could she have forgotten? Blast it. Her post for Hannah lay on the escritoire for anyone—Mr. Oshea—to read. “I, um, need to run to my chamber.”

“In a moment. Can you assist me with this frock?”

“Of course.” Geneva eyed the dark dress Abra pulled from the wardrobe. “Goodness, I do believe you are truly determined to help Mrs. Knagg. I thought you didn’t wish to embroil yourself in a scandal. Did you forget your baron is here?” Geneva didn’t believe for a minute Abra was serious.

Abra froze. “Oh. I did forget… but… Blast it, I just need out of this macabre dwelling. I’ll go for a walk.”

Shaking her head, Geneva pointed at the frock. “It’s raining and that dress is velvet.” A thought hit her. “Perhaps we could do some exploring. Surely, there are unpopulated portions in a castle of this magnitude where no one would see us. We could search for my locket. Yes! That’s perfect.”

A second later, Abra’s shoulders fell. “I don’t have a more appropriate one for poking about in cobwebbed attics and chambers.”

“I do.” And sadly, she did. “Of course, but if we happen into Lady Westbridge… well, you know… anything I have will definitely ‘peeve’ Lady Westbridge.”

Abra grinned. “Sounds brilliant.”

“And might get back to Lord Ruskin, Abra. But if you absolutely insist—” She stopped and leveled the same contemplative gaze Abra had turned on her moments ago. “You’re doing this to avoid your father, aren’t you? Abra…”

Abra’s chin went up and she grabbed the velvet dress. “Fine. If you don’t want help finding your locket—”

Geneva strode to the door. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, blast it. I’ll just be a moment.” She pulled the door open and slipped through.

“Wait, I’ll come with you.”

Geneva spun. “No—” But it was too late. Much too late. Mr. Oshea stood frozen just outside Geneva’s bedchamber door and Abra outside hers.

“What the devil?” Abra whispered.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Geneva said weakly.

Mr. Oshea’s lips tilted on one end. “Perhaps you should don a wrap, Lady Abra.”

Geneva gasped, and Abra looked down. “Oh, for the love of heaven.” She dashed back into her chamber.

One disaster diverted until the outer chamber door opened and Lady Westbridge marched in as if fire were licking her heels.

Swallowing a groan that nearly choked her, Geneva donned the cloak that served her well in dealing with her editor at The Flying Intelligencer. She needn’t have bothered.

“Miss Wimbley, I was able to repair the latch on your window,” Mr. Oshea said.

Lady Westbridge’s eyes pinned him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Oshea. It’s quite obvious what’s going on.”

Mr. Oshea straightened to his full, imposing height. “And just what is it you believe is going on, my lady?” His composure was beyond admirable. It was enviable.

How did he manage to remain so calm? Just being in the same room with Lady Westbridge raised the boiling point of Geneva’s blood, and not in a fashionable way. She was ready to stalk to the woman and poke her in her overexposed bosom and tell her to mind her own affairs.

Lady Westbridge’s eyes narrowed.

The door behind Geneva creaked and she was tugged unceremoniously back inside Abra’s chamber. “Quick, help me with the ties,” Abra hissed.

“Where the devil is Pasha?” Geneva hissed back. She stared at the frock Abra had slipped on.

“I told her to get something to eat. She hasn’t returned,” she whispered. “Hurry.”

“Lady Westbridge will never let you out of her sight now.”

“Don’t you think I know that? What did she say?” Abra straightened her spine, but the buttons were a cumbersome bunch.

“Hush, I can’t concentrate.”

“Ha.” Abra’s feet shifted, knocking Geneva’s fingers loose from their rhythm. “Can’t you go any quicker?”

“I’m trying, blast it. Stay still.” Geneva kept steady progress on her task while weighing the words in her head. But she and Abra had shared everything since their days at Miss Greensley’s. If she couldn’t share this, then… She drew in a deep breath. “Your horrid stepmother accused me and Mr. Oshea of something nefarious, of course.”

“She’s the devil’s own, for certain. Which reminds me, what in heaven’s name was he doing in your bedchamber?” Abra shook out her skirts and spun around. “I’m waiting.”

“He offered to assist me…”

Abra’s brows rose.

“In locating my locket,” she huffed out in an overly defensive breath.

“That libertine. I just saw him sneaking from your chamber.” Abra clutched Geneva’s hands. “Don’t do it, darling. Men don’t offer to assist a woman from the good of their heart. He will expect something in return.”

That wasn’t anything Geneva had thought. He’d been so… so sincere. “What are you talking about?” Then again, there was that blasted kiss.

“Much as I hate offering Miss Hale any credit, I fear she’s right. He wishes to force you into becoming his mistress for his help. There’s no other explanation.”

Geneva scowled. “You just said any man would be lucky to have me.”

“He’s crossed a line. I take back everything nice I said about him.” Abra squeezed her hands. “Darling, it’s common knowledge that men from titled families are referred to as gentlemen, but many are definitely not.”

Geneva yanked her hands away, impatient, frightened, every insecurity she possessed assaulting her. “I never said that I went to him for help. He came to me.” She poked her thumb in her chest, then rubbed the spot. “He asked my reasons for coming to Stonemare and I decided to tell him the truth.” She scrunched her nose. “Most of it, anyway.” She hadn’t told anyone about the man in the greatcoat and her mother begging him to “take her too.” That would require too much explanation she couldn’t explain, even to herself.

That rendered her friend silent… For half a second. “Oh. I suppose that’s good. Are you finished? I’m stunned my stepmother hasn’t yet stormed my bedchamber.”

“Yes, yes. I’m finished.” Geneva stood back and looked her over. “Almost perfect. Straighten your hair.”

Unfortunately, their good fortune ran out. The door flew back.

Lady Westbridge’s willowy frame filled the arch. “What are you doing here?” she demanded of Geneva. Her gaze surveyed the lovely room with its bright blue hue and touches of pink. “I insist you locate to another chamber immediately.”

Abra’s mouth dropped and Geneva was sure her own expression mirrored her friend’s. “That is quite impossible, Mother,” Abra said through a clenched jaw.

Geneva took her hand and squeezed a warning.

“She had a man in her chamber, Abra. You have a reputation to maintain. If we are to secure a match with Martinda—your baron— ” she quickly corrected. “Then make no mistake Lord Ruskin will not tolerate scandal.”

Abra’s face paled. “If you are angling for a match between me and Lord Martindale—” She sucked in a harsh breath. “You are sadly off course, Mother. I will never marry that degenerate.”

The marchioness lifted her hand, an open palm prepared to strike, but Geneva pushed Abra back and stepped in her place.

The sting went deep, the slap wringing her ears through.

Shocked silence blared against the wall before Lady Westbridge donned her cloak of haughty superiority. She aimed a particularly scathing sneer at Geneva, then lifted her chin, addressing Abra. “This is what comes from mingling with your lessors.” She turned on her heel and stalked out.

Geneva covered her hot cheek with her hand and slowly faced Abra. “How often does she hit you?” she demanded softly.

Tears filled Abra’s hazel eyes. “I’m so sorry you had to witness that.”

She lowered her hand. “How often?”

“Not often. Not any longer.”

“I take it Lord Westbridge is unaware of this—of her … mistreatment?” Allowing Abra to suffer Lady Westbridge’s abuse was unconscionable. “Perhaps she’s right, Abra,” Geneva said gently. “This is a castle. There must be an available chamber somewhere in this monstrosity.” Her impulsive nature was bad enough, but her pride was her downfall. Her temper as well, but she managed to hold on to that.

Unable to bear the hurt in her friend’s eye, Geneva turned and stole through the sitting room of their shared suite, where no sign of Mr. Oshea remained and into the corridor.

Lady Westbridge was a reprehensible woman, but Geneva had promised Abra she wouldn’t cause a scandal. If Abra’s stepmother was attempting to usurp Lord Ruskin for the Marquess of Martindale, then it was imperative Geneva honor her word. Under no circumstance should Abra be forced into a union with a man who had never shown her friend the respect she deserved. And, if push came to shove, Geneva would go to Lord Westbridge, whatever the cost, to save her friend from a fate no better than residing in Newgate for the rest of her days.

*

Geneva found a stairwell close to the Morpho Suite and climbed the stairs to an upper level. She didn’t stop there, continuing up another two flights. There were no lit sconces, but the windows near the stairs let in enough natural light to expose dusty, unbeaten rugs. All the doors were closed and the first two she opened turned out to be storage. Odd pieces of furniture covered with tarps. Trunks, paintings against the walls and such.

The third would suffice, she decided, but it was quite chilly. It appeared to be an old servants’ room that included a washstand, a chamber pot beneath the bed, and a pile of linens atop the mattress. There was even a bedside table with an oil lamp. Unlit, of course, but Geneva could manage. She’d suffered worse than Lady Westbridge’s attitude.

Geneva set about making the bed. There was no canopy or curtained area to stave off the cold. She would have to search out coal or fuel for later or, at the least, a few more blankets. The one advantage was its location to Abra. She hurried back down the stairs for her belongings and a candle to light the lamp.

Pasha had always been an ally for Abra and Geneva’s friendship, so Geneva didn’t anticipate any problems from that quarter.

Geneva entered the sitting room. “I located a small chamber—”

But Abra interrupted her, waving a note gripped between her fingers. She paced, her steps furious. “Papa has sent for us.”

Fear touched with a sense of wariness oozed through Geneva. “You mean you,” she said slowly. But she knew another bill had arrived, and this one would prove considerably more costly.

“No. Us. And I intend to inform him of the truth. My stepmother shall not get away with her actions. We’re to meet him in the morning room. He says it is more conducive to privacy. In other words, he’s arranged this little rendezvous with no chance of interruption.”

Geneva nodded, but she had no intention of allowing Abra to sacrifice her future over Geneva. Geneva could take care of herself. Her potential losses were not nearly as consequential as her friends’. Any one of her friends.

With no delicate way out of their predicament, hands clutching, they made their way down the hall and the stairs. Upon reaching the ground floor and with the butler’s direction, they soon found the designated ‘torture’ chamber.

Geneva and Abra entered a sanctuary of refined elegance.

The walls, painted a delicate cream and adorned with gilded moldings, provided a subtle backdrop to the room’s understated opulence. Above the marble fireplace was a portrait of a woman whom Geneva thought might be the Oshea brothers’ mother. It was in the fullness of her lips and the softness of her expression. She’d seen a similar expression on Noah Oshea’s face when he interacted with Miss Isabelle.

At the center of the room, a round table held a vase of freshly cut flowers from the estate gardens. Their fragrance mingled with the faint scent of a lemon polish. Geneva had the most absurd urge to curl up on a pillow in the corner near a small bookshelf overflowing with volumes of poetry and botanical studies. Despite its grandeur, the room exuded an inviting coziness where a fire crackled in the hearth and cast flickering shadows across the walls.

Beneath tall, arched windows, a cushioned seat upholstered in damask fabric offered a tranquil spot to gaze out at the rolling moors beyond. The windows were framed by sage-green velvet drapes and dominated one wall. Sheer, white linings allowed for little light to filter into the space due to the gloomy day that matched Geneva’s day thus far.

Lord Westbridge stood before the windows with his hands clasped at his lower back, looking out at the mist-shrouded gardens. The Persian rug had muted her and Abra’s footsteps.

“Papa?”

He didn’t turn from the view. “You lied to me, Abra. I’m very disappointed in you.”

His words broke Geneva’s heart. “It wasn’t her, my lord. The fault lies entirely with me.”

Abra gasped. “No! It’s not true.”

Geneva squeezed her hand and spoke over her. “It is true, Lord Westbridge. I found a letter from my mother addressed to the late Lord Pender. I was determined to confront him. I asked—begged—Abra to accompany me. But when we arrived, we learned… we learned he’d expired,” she finished on a cracked whisper as more tears welled. She blinked them back.

He turned then, peering down his hawkish nose, his gaze moving Geneva to Abra and back. “I see.” He let out a pained sigh, and Geneva knew grief from the depths of her soul.

“After the service, we shall be returning to London and you shall be returning with your mother and me, Abra.”

This was worse than losing Mama.

“But, Papa…” Abra whispered. “I couldn’t possibly allow Geneva—”

All the sternness Geneva imagined him leveling on his opponents in Parliament or any who dared treat Abra less than was her due showed in his face—brackets about his mouth, the creases in his forehead, the set of his shoulders. “That is all. And I’ll hear no further say on the matter.” He then turned that fierceness on Geneva. His countenance gentled. “I’m very sorry, my dear. But these are the consequences. I shall provide your fare back to London. As long as there is no more scandal, of course.”

Abra opened her mouth, but he put out a palm, staying any refute.

“Your mother is determined you marry Martindale, but you wish to marry Ruskin. Am I right on this?”

“Yes, Papa.” Her tone was barely audible.

“Ruskin has approached me, Abra. If you were to back out, I will have no other choice than to accept Martindale’s suit for you. Ruskin has yet to ask you for your hand, correct?”

She nodded, silent this time.

“Good. Then you see the predicament we face, my dear.”

Tears rolled down Abra’s cheeks with another, short, nod. Geneva squeezed her hand again, her own vision re-blurring.

Lord Westbridge abhorred making Abra cry, Geneva knew. He turned back to the windows. “That is all, then. You are excused.”

As so often, as one, they fled.

Once they’d reached their suite, Geneva shoved her tears aside. “I found a small chamber.”

“Absolutely not. I mean it, Geneva. I won’t hear of it.”

“But—”

The tracks of Abra’s tears had dried on her cheeks, but her fierceness matched her father’s. “I’ll not allow my stepmother to chase you out. You’re staying and that’s that.”

“All right,” she agreed, thinking of that shrew being able to walk in at will. “I’ll stay.” With Geneva about, Lady Westbridge would think twice of raising her hand against Abra.

Another thread rippled through Geneva. Finding those empty chambers had flooded her with ideas and renewed enthusiasm for locating her locket.

And also because Abra had made an excellent point—why should Mr. Oshea wish to help her? He didn’t even know her.

“I’m still going to tell Papa,” Abra promised softly.

Geneva hugged her. “Remember this, darling. If Ruskin doesn’t come through, you’ll always have No. 26 Berwick Street at your disposal.”

A short burst of unified tearful laughs spilled through the chamber.