Page 16 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

T he morning of the previous Earl of Pender’s service dawned with a bright sun. Surprising. It also followed a protocol that Geneva had never seen before. Certainly, not if one grew up on Berwick Street. Some of the nearby and more questionable neighborhoods to which she’d carried the Sapphire Society pamphlets had exposed her to scenes her friends would shudder at. One couldn’t avoid such things when it came to getting the necessary messages out. But even with her brush against the upper crust, this beat all. It began with a procession of the family—the new earl, all three Mr. Osheas—and a slew of servants and townspeople walking the mile to the church. Mrs. Verda Oshea and Miss Isabelle took a carriage, obviously due to Miss Isabelle’s inability make such an arduous trek.

In good conscience, Geneva couldn’t evade the event altogether and was forced, er, invited , to accompany Miss Hale in her rig.

“You looked quite fetching last night,” Miss Hale told her. She raked a critical eye over Geneva until Geneva shifted on her feet. “I don’t believe that gown ever did me the justice it does you. It even matches the circles beneath your eyes.”

The one reason Geneva could come up with was that it wasn’t some variation of yellow. “Thank you,” she murmured, proud of how she was managing to hold her tongue, if not her thoughts. She glanced down. Today, she wore the same gown, but with a dark shawl Abra had loaned her. “You chose not to walk with the family?”

“Of course not,” Miss Hale huffed. “I’m not family.” The “yet” was clearly implied.

The ride was tedious. Since Miss Hale’s carriage followed the family’s equipage, there was quite the wait at Alnmouth’s one church, St. John the Baptist. After a lengthy service, another ride ensued to the family’s chapel on Stonemare land.

The Pender family mausoleum loomed at the edge of the graveyard, a gray, weathered edifice with intricate carvings of the family crest and ancient symbols of mortality. Ivy clung to its sides, and an iron gate leading to its interior stood open, creaking faintly in the wind.

The mourners clustered close with their heads bowed. The late earl’s name seemed to echo among the tombstones, sending a shiver over her skin. From the back of the large crowd, Geneva found herself conflicted by all the praise lauded on the late earl. His reputation hadn’t seemed to be a worry for anyone, save his brother, Mr. Lysander Oshea. The London broadsheets had held innumerable counts of his exploits with women and at the most notorious gaming hells. So many, that Geneva had long ago quit reading them.

The wind kicked up as if agreeing with or disputing her musings—she couldn’t discern which—and she clamped her hand on the useless hat she wore. Still, the gusts whipped the pins from the loose chignon she wore at her nape. She couldn’t make herself care.

Being from Berwick Street offered advantages. One in particular, was that it rendered her practically invisible. Perhaps not around the duke, but outside that pompous ass, not many thought her important enough for a second look.

The crowd shifted, jolting Geneva to her surroundings. The clergyman had finished his ramblings and she took refuge behind a large oak as the throng made their way to the various carriages lining the graveled road. She had no desire to suffer the short distance to Stonemare while dodging Miss Hale’s lobbing insults.

“Geneva?”

Hearing her own name startled her—her given name, too, against all etiquette. Reminded her that she wasn’t actually unseen. “Oh, hello, Mr. Julius.”

“Docia is looking for you.”

“Is she? I would prefer she didn’t find me.”

He grinned and held out his arm. “Then allow me to escort you back to Stonemare.”

Unable to resist his infectiousness, she returned his grin, dipped a quick curtsey, and accepted his arm. “I’d be honored, sir. And grateful, truth be told. I vow, dinner last eve was more than enough ‘lord’ this and ‘lady’ that to last me a lifetime. That is, if you don’t mind risking your reputation. Is there an alternate path that will keep me from sight?”

“Indeed, there is.” Again, that quick, cheerful smile. Which seemed incongruous since he’d just lost his father. The vast, swirling greatcoat…

It was his smile… the smile reminded her of someone near and dear to her. Geneva came to a halt, put a hand to her forehead, and faced him, taking in the strong jaw, the dark eyes, blue like hers, though their shape was all Oshea. It was his mouth that struck her as different. Fuller lips, like hers.

Like… Mama’s .

His head tilted to one side, lines creasing his forehead. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” she whispered. She glanced about the path he’d guided her down. It followed the cliffs to the edge of a forest.

“You must sit. You’re as pale as chalk,” he said, leading her into the shade of the forest to a fallen log. “You should have taken Docia’s carriage.”

Geneva couldn’t breathe. The tightness of her corset manacled her ribs until spots blinded her. “No. No, I’ll be fine. Just… give me a moment.” Her usually emboldened voice came out wheezing.

Another gust of wind blew from the cliffs, bringing with it a whiff of dampness. Dark clouds moved across the sky, muting the brighter sun from earlier. It put a sudden chill in the air, punctuating it with an ominous foreboding.

Julius. If he was who she thought he was, they indeed deserved to use one another’s given names. He lowered beside her, and his brows furrowing in a concerned frown. “Tell me.”

“Who—” She cleared her throat, faced him fully, clutched her hands tightly in her lap, and tried again. “Who is your… mother?”

His frown smoothed away. “The previous Lady Pender, of course. She died giving birth to me. I-I never knew her.”

The vast, swirling greatcoat …

Geneva’s gaze fell to the ground. She unclenched her fists, wrinkling her borrowed dark skirts and flexed her fingers. She took his hand. “Julius…” She lifted her eyes. “I-I think you may—I think… It’s possible—” She swallowed.

“What?” The concern in his eyes had her faltering.

“Oh, Julius, I have this memory. I was only five. But I think… I think you may be my… my brother. ”

He jumped to his feet, his lips parted in disbelief, hurt or… or was it outrage searing his expression? “That’s impossible. I look like my brothers,” he bit out. “I’m an Oshea.”

“You have every right to be angry, but—” She held his gaze and refused to let go. “But you also look remarkably like my… my mother.”

The world seemed to stop. Frozen in a different reality. Julius had turned to marble. Not a single peep from a bird, nor chirp from a cricket touched her ear. The wind stilled, leaving the sky darkened by the hidden sun. No leaves rustled. No dust stirred. Only the waves of the ocean crashing against the rocks penetrated the thick, damp atmosphere.

“We shall see about that.” The thick fog of his anger was impenetrable. He spun on the path and darted through the trees.

“Wait…” Her voice trailed, watching helplessly as he disappeared in the foliage. She stumbled to her feet with tears blurring her vision, only to trip again, felled to her knees and coming face to face with one of Stonemare’s footmen whose name escaped her. Just the night before, he’d served drinks to the guests. Now, he lay on his back, staring up into the trees.

But it was the large, red stain over his heart that had her whispering, “Dear God.”

*

Noah knew he should be in the ballroom with guests. But to his irritation, Lucius had departed Stonemare straight from Father’s graveside. Noah had entered the vestibule, only to find the new Earl of Pender carrying his own bag down the stairs.

“I have something to take care of.”

Mirth rippled over Noah. “Cornwall?”

Grimacing, Lucius ground out, “Yes. Let Isabelle and Julius know, would you? ”

Lucius hadn’t waited for a response. Rathbourne’s news of his daughter’s condition had truly rattled his brother.

Noah was tired and conflicted and something else that he lay entirely at the dainty feet of Geneva Wimbley. He entered the study and went to the desk, plucked his spectacles from his pocket, and slipped them on. Looking up at the painting of his father staring down with that familiar smirk, Noah contemplated on the complication and complexities that had so troubled his father. A great sadness filled him at the waste, the loss that would remain forever out of reach, leaving behind questions that now would always linger as mysteries. He drew in a long, slow breath and, closing his eyes, murmured a wistful prayer for Father’s eternal peace.

Alas, his father had never been much of a father to Lucius, Julius, and him. It was Sander who’d filled that void for as long as Noah could remember.

Shaking off the morbid memories, Noah pulled the painting away from the wall, exposing the safe behind. As far as he knew, no one but Father had ever utilized it. Perhaps Sander had on occasion, but considering the dust and the difficulty of turning the key in the lock, it had been quite some time since anyone had thought to look inside. He juggled with it until the inner mechanisms caught and allowed the key to turn. He tugged at the opening until it creaked under the pressure he applied.

Inside, he found stacks of vowels and ledgers and coins and jewels. He pulled out the top ledger with one goal in mind: to see if Miss Wimbley happened to have been a beneficiary of Father’s rare generosity. Of which Noah had his doubts. Father had not been renowned for handing out gifts. In fact, the only gift Noah had ever received hadn’t been a puppy or a kitten, but an actual baby. Noah flipped through the pages, noting that most of the entries were applied to the massive gambling debts Father had accrued. There was nothing to indicate tuition for Julius, but then Uncle Sander took care of those matters as man of business of the titles and estates holdings.

It took ten minutes before Noah’s insides tightened with an apprehension he couldn’t explain. The notation was toward the back of the book. One entry scribbled almost ineligibly, Greensley Fucking School . Next to that was an exorbitant amount, which meant his father had likely paid the entire amount upfront.

From behind him, the study door burst wide, hitting the wall. Julius flew in, his hair disheveled and his eyes wild as a raging storm.

Noah tossed the ledger inside, slammed the safe shut, and pushed the painting in place. He pulled off his spectacles and tossed them on the desk before hurrying to the door. “Julius, what the devil?” He closed the door and locked it.

His younger brother’s hands squeezed into fists then flexed out his fingers. Over and over, he did this. He couldn’t seem to speak.

Noah shook him by the upper arms. “Damn it, Julius. ”

“Is it true?” he croaked out.

“Is what true?” But that was all Noah could get out of him before a scream threatened the stone walls with the same force as his failed experiment. “Dear God, now what?”

Both he and Julius dashed for the door, but Noah had locked it. He grappled with the key before getting it turned and yanked the door back. In the entry hall, numerous guests spilled from every direction. All witness to Miss Wimbley’s slight, violently trembling body. The dark gown she’d worn the night before and to today’s service for his father was covered in dirt and bits of grass and leaves. Most striking was her pasty-white face. Her black gloves were saturated and her lily-white chest…

Covered in blood.

Her horrified gaze met his.

Noah strode forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He surveyed the crowd and found the source of the scream based on Lady Westbridge being lifted from the floor by Baron Ruskin. The older woman’s eyes fluttered open. “You,” she hissed, pointing a finger at Miss Wimbley, “are a menace.” She turned to her husband. “We are departing, Westbridge. Right this instant. Come along, Abra.” The woman marched up the stairs like a general. The surrounding spectators stirred, as if troops preparing for battle, and fell into line.

Lord Westbridge, to his credit, sent Miss Wimbley a telling glance perhaps touched with sympathy. But with too many curious bystanders, he offered nothing more and followed his wife. Notably, Noah was mollified to see, the marquess growled something at his wife, who stiffened with obvious outrage.

Halfway up, Westbridge turned back. “Abra.” The stern control was unmistakable and marked with a dark undertone. Miss Wimbley made a concerted effort to brace her spine, but Noah refused to release her. The only thing holding her up seemed to be her pride. And his support.

Abra had dashed over. She kissed her friend on her pale cheek. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll find a way to leave Pasha behind for you,” she whispered. She glanced at Noah then back to Miss Wimbley. “So you won’t be alone.”

Miss Wimbley’s lips took on a blue hue. Noah worried she would expire on the spot. “What happened?” he asked her.

“The footman. I-I can’t remember… His name escapes me.” The brittle rod of her spine threatened to crumble beneath his hold as aftershocks began overtaking her resolve. As a scientist, he knew of the earthquake phenomenon. He’d even visited the sight of the Comrie quake in Scotland that had usurped a dam near Stirling to breach. He’d been twenty-one at the time.

“Come.” He led her to the study. “You, too, Julius,” he called over his shoulder.

Sander followed as well.

Noah led her to the settee and Sander brought her a glass with two fingers of brandy.

Miss Wimbley shook her head. “No.”

“Drink it.” Sander spoke gently but quite firmly. “I’m afraid you have a long day ahead of you, Miss Wimbley.”

She raised her hand to take the glass, but it shook too violently.

Noah wrapped his fingers around hers and set the glass to her lips.

She sputtered and coughed, but the color slowly returned to her face.

“Now, tell us why you’re covered in blood.” Again, it was Sander who kept things matter-of-fact and on point.

The door opened quietly and Verda entered. She took one look at the situation and barked at Uncle Sander to quit hovering over Miss Wimbley.

Miss Wimbley glanced at Julius, who met her gaze with his chin raised. “I was in the forest alone and something frightened me. I ran and t-tripped.” Once more, the color drained from her face. “I fell on the footman. He was already… already… gone.”

Verda gasped and, Noah knew, all but Julius were taken back to that moment nineteen years ago when the wandering lunatic, Cracked Calvin, had been found dead. Bashed on the head with a rock.

“What are you saying, Miss Wimbley?” Sander spoke softly but sharp as a knife’s point that slid silently into its unsuspecting quarry.

Her head moved back and forth. Clearly stunned. Her lips moved, but nothing emerged.

“Where?” Sander bit out.

“In the forest. Near where I w-was s-sitting.” The words burst out on a sob.

“At the far end, before you reach the cliffs,” Julius clarified.

“Dear God. I’ll inform Baldric.” Sander strode to the door, but the ancient stableman entered at that moment. A minute later, Baldric was gone, the door banging shut with Sander’s shove.

Miss Wimbley flinched.

Noah glared at his uncle before turning back to her. “Tell us what happened,” he said gently.

It was Julius who answered. “I accompanied Geneva back to Stonemare. I—” He shot her a helpless look. “I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t have deserted her,” he stuttered out.

Noah frowned at his brother. Frankly, he shouldn’t have been alone with her in the first place, but that was a scolding for a later time. “What the devil, Julius? I’ve never known you to abandon a lady before.”

A fiery light in Julius’s eyes met Miss Wimbley’s. “She asked who my mother was.” The belligerence distracted Noah from his actual words—

A chill weaved through Noah’s spine and spread to his fingertips. “Pardon?” This couldn’t be .

Miss Wimbley closed her eyes with her head thrown back. “I-I used to have this dream.” Her eyes opened and she focused on Julius. “I’ve since figured out it wasn’t a dream, but a memory. Until two weeks ago when I found a note from”—again, her gaze found Julius’s—“from my mother.” Her bloodless fingers gripped her empty glass.

Noah could feel his life spinning out of control. “A dream?”

“Not a dream,” she reiterated. “A huge man visited my mother. He wore a…” She took a deep breath, her gaze surveying the surrounding faces. “A black, swirling greatcoat.”

Noah was struck by Uncle Sander’s intensity and the fist clenched at his side. “Was there anything else significant about this memory?” Sander asked her.

“He just seemed so big.” Her shoulders hunched where she huddled in on herself. “I suppose it was because I was so small.”

“How small?”

“Five. I was five years old.”

“How old are you now, may I ask?”

“Twenty-four.”

Panic infused Noah. He had to stop this but had no idea how.

The tendons in Julius’s neck looked about to snap. “I-I was born when you were five.”

Sander leaned forward. “It wasn’t a dream, was it, Miss Wimbley?”

“No. I distinctly remember my mother being ill. I was staying with our neighbor below, Mrs. Cornett.” Tears spiked her lashes. “She said my mother was on her deathbed. I was so frightened, I had to see for myself. I ran into the hall and up the stairs, but the man in the greatcoat nearly ran me down. He barged into Mama’s and my flat and slammed the door in my face. She offered to give him—” She glanced at Julius. “Something. But I couldn’t make out what. Oh, it was all so long ago.”

Julius’s eyes flashed. “She said I look like her mother. But I don’t. It’s not possible, is it? I-I look like my brothers.” He sounded so desperate, Noah’s heart ached for him.

The study door opened again and Docia strode in. “Everyone is leaving—” She stopped, took in Miss Wimbley’s ruined frock, and her mouth gaped. “Good heavens, Miss Wimbley. What did you do to my gown?”

“Stow it, Docia,” Noah snapped. “Hicks is dead. Miss Wimbley stumbled over him in the forest.”

Her eyes flew to Verda. “Oh, no.” Her wail was just as it had been all those years ago. “It’s just like… like last time.”

Miss Wimbley, frowning, didn’t appear to hear. “I never knew someone could die with their eyes open,” she whispered. “It’s like the person’s life just ends and they turn to stone.” She shuddered and Noah wanted to take her hands. Reassure her all would be right. But for the audience present, he would have.

She shook her head, then tilted it, seemingly unaware one of her tears had escaped and trekked slowly down her cheek. “Last time?”

Docia collapsed in a dead faint.