Page 22 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

“G ood morning, Noah,” Isabelle called from the door of Noah’s laboratory.

He glanced up and saw her arms full of boxes, nearly giving him an apoplexy. He hurried over. “Tell me you did not come down those stairs so burdened,” he demanded crossly, relieving her of the load.

“I didn’t realize you were working. I thought you were to Chaston for Miss Wimbley.” She followed him to the far corner he’d allotted her for her entomology studies.

“I sent your parents after them.”

“Them?”

Noah bit back an oath. Isabelle’s curiosity could drive a man to a lunatic asylum. The news that the former viscount’s body had been discovered in the caves had not yet reached his young cousin and he hoped to keep the information from her a bit longer. “How many times have I told you not to carry things down those stairs? One misstep and you’ll break that stubborn skull of yours.”

She clasped her hands in front of her, the perfection of a Michelangelo angelic pictorial—a false pictorial for anyone who knew the true Isabelle. “Apologies, Noah.” Her contriteness wouldn’t fool a flea. But berating her after the fact… well, if anything did happen to Isabelle, Verda would drag Noah to a makeshift guillotine and cut loose the blade herself. With Sander’s blessing and help, of course.

“Will Docia be accompanying Miss Wimbley, then?”

“You are the epitome of the terrier with a rat. You being the terrier.”

She turned that impish grin on him. The one that no one could resist. “I suppose that makes you the rat.”

“I suppose it does,” he grunted out. “What’s in the box—”

“Why?”

He let out a sigh and set the boxes in a clearing on the table, keeping his back to her. “Why what?”

“Why is Docia coming? You aren’t going to marry her, are you? She’s not right for you. I think you should marry—”

No . This is not the conversation he would have with his fourteen-year-old, romantic-minded cousin. Still, memories of heat and fire of Miss Wimbley’s— Geneva’s , though she’d yet to give him leave in using her Christian name—lips the night before hitting him with the force of combining potassium permanganate and glycerin. It was a combination that mimicked his insides: a vigorous exothermic reaction that typically resulted in flames and smoke. Spontaneous ignition in which it was referred in the scientific community. Flames and smoke? Yes. That aptly described the portents surging through him.

“Noah?” Isabelle’s voice jarred him.

A rush of blazing heat raced up his neck. “What’s in these boxes, poppet?”

“Oh, insects for my board. I picked them up in various locales on the Continent.”

Noah lifted the top of one and peered in—with great caution, of course.

“They’re dead.” Her amusement poured over him.

He pulled off the lid and retrieved a paper written in her neat hand, and read: Euscorpius italicus, Valle Maggia, Tico, Switz . “Good God, Belle. Where on earth…”

“It says right there.”

Noah shivered. The scorpion was large, a good inch or two from tail to pinchers. The bluish tinge was unique. “I pray you don’t name another chamber after this monster. It’s enough to instill nightmares.”

She let out a giggle that did injustice to her youth and intelligence. “I could rename the Brimstone for Docia,” she said slyly.

He shot her a warning glance. “Just don’t show this… this”—he indicated the scorpion, feeling a little green—“to her first.”

“Did Miss Wimbley say she wouldn’t return without Docia? I think you hurt Miss Wimbley’s feelings when you accused her of trying to kill Julius.”

“I did not accuse her of trying to kill Julius.” He had no intention of informing the little matchmaker he suspected Miss Wimbley of having an accomplice.

“Yes, you did. And it hurt her feelings. I like her.”

So do I. “I didn’t intend to hurt her feelings. In any event, I told her you were hosting a musicale.”

“What?!”

He masked a grin and selected another box, carefully opening that one as well.

“There’s nothing to fear, Noah,” she said. “They’re all dead.”

He shot her a scowl. He couldn’t think of another thing he despised more than bugs. Perhaps adders. Yes, he despised adders more.

She laughed. “Papa refused to allow me to bring home live species. He thought the captain might succumb to a bout of hysteria and sink the ship. When?”

“When what?”

Her growl of frustration was most satisfying. “ When is my musicale?”

“Ah. Rather soon, I suppose. But that’s up to you, of course,” he said.

“Goodness,” she said on a breathless huff, dragging her foot in her haste to the door. “I must practice. I wish Lady Abra had been able to remain. Sadly, I think that mean old stepmother of hers would not have departed if Lady Abra had stayed, though.” She disappeared, her uneven steps echoing up the stairs.

Chuckling, Noah looked down at that blue scorpion and, shuddering again, replaced the top on its current home before its final destination of immortalization with a pin stuck thick through its ugly body upon its soon-to-be permanent home. Isabelle’s Bug Board.

*

“I told Miss Wimbley I prefer my blue chamber,” Docia announced once they were on the road bound for Stonemare.

“It’s the Morpho,” Geneva murmured. She glanced at her ‘lady’s’ maid. “I thought it might be nice for Pasha.”

Pasha’s eyes widened and flew about the carriage.

“Just for a change,” Geneva went on. “She’s worked really hard over the past few days.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing. From the corner of her eye, Geneva caught the mirth in sparkling in Mrs. Oshea’s green eyes.

The maid’s eyes blinked furiously and Geneva took pity on her. “I’m teasing, of course.” She looked at Docia. “You are certainly welcome to share our suite,” she said sweetly.

Docia’s irritation erupted in a huff of air.

“Docia, Miss Wimbley and her maid are already installed,” Mrs. Oshea said, her eyes still glinting with humor. More impressively, she spoke without an ounce of censure or guile. Geneva envied such composure. While she could hold her temper, it was the boldly blurting out her thoughts at will with which she struggled.

She studied Mrs. Oshea from her corner in the carriage. The woman’s hair was bright enough to light the interior. There might have been a streak or two of silver. But her green eyes were sharp and Geneva doubted she missed much.

“And, you are quite right, Miss Wimbley. Isabelle is forever assigning fanciful names to the chambers.”

“There are certainly enough of them,” Sander Oshea said. “She began talking at the age of three and she still hasn’t named all of them.”

“You shall stay in the Yellow room, Docia, until Miss Wimbley’s departure. I refuse to hear another word about it,” Mrs. Oshea said.

Docia’s head dropped. “Brimstone.”

Again, Geneva had to bite her lips.

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten that,” Mrs. Oshea returned, her green eyes twinkling like brilliant twin emeralds.

Silence ensued for a moment before Geneva could no longer stand it. “How is Julius?”

A speculative contemplation from Mr. Oshea speared Geneva and she lifted her chin. “He was downing a hearty breakfast upon our departure,” he finally said.

His wife’s hand lightly squeezed the hand resting on his thigh. The sight sent a touch of bittersweetness through Geneva. Mrs. Oshea turned a genuine smile on her. “I think he shall live to plague us all.”

From the corner of her eye—something she seemed to be doing quite often of late—Geneva watched Docia study her fashionable kid-leather-gloved hands. “Why would someone wish to kill him? He was just an infant when all this business of offing everyone came about.”

Mr. Oshea’s mouth tightened, but it was fear clouding Mrs. Oshea’s eyes.

Geneva slid her gaze to the gently blowing grasses out the carriage window. Did they, like Noah Oshea, blame her for Julius’s near demise too? Despair as heavy as a leaded pipe seeped into her veins. Could she have been the one who’d brought violence to Stonemare? For the life of her, she couldn’t see how. No one but Abra knew she was even in Northumberland—she swallowed a groan, suddenly realizing the inaccuracy of that thought. All of Mayfair and beyond Christendom had to know she was in Northumberland by now. Perhaps not why she was there. Lud. Nothing made the least bit of sense.

Mr. Oshea let out a short oof that startled Geneva. She whipped her head around. He cleared his throat. “I believe I owe you, not only my—our—apologies, but our thanks for your quick reaction in saving Julius yesterday, Miss Wimbley.”

To Geneva’s shock and mortification, tears misted her vision. Quickly turning her gaze back to the window and willing the tears back, she said, “Thank you, sir.” Someone—Docia’s, she suspected—hand tightened on hers, but she feared facing that person would be her undoing. Instead, she returned the gesture. This had to be the longest drive of her entire life.

“Miss Wimbley.” Mrs. Oshea’s voice had gentled and Geneva tried to blot it out—without success. “Geneva. I hope you don’t mind if I call you ‘Geneva.’”

Geneva shook her head and— blast it , the tears fell after all.

“Oh, my dear, I didn’t wish to drive you to tears.” She reached across and squeezed Geneva’s hand as she’d seen her do her husband’s. And you shall call us ‘Verda’ and ‘Sander.’ We are far less stuck on propriety in these parts. So, I’ll hear no more about it.”

“Take this,” Docia demanded, shoving a lace handkerchief into her own gloved hand.

“Thank you,” Geneva hiccupped to Docia, to Verda, to Mr. Sander Oshea, though she knew she could never envision addressing Mr. Oshea as ‘Sander.’

“We don’t know the circumstances surrounding Julius’s birth,” Verda went on. “So, you can imagine our surprise when Julius informed us you believed him your brother.”

“I truly did not come here to upset anyone. I…” Geneva shook her head again, knocking more tears loose. “It was as I said”— mostly— “I came to speak with the previous Lord Pender about a dream or… or recollection that refused to allow me peace. I’d no notion, hadn’t realized he’d… he’d…”

“Don’t think about it,” Verda told her. “You are most welcome at Stonemare. It’s just that the news that Julius…” Her voice fell away.

Mr. Oshea grew thoughtful. “You know, looking back—” He turned to his wife. “Remember how insistent Noah had been about having to take care of Julius?”

“Yes.” Verda looked at Geneva. “That was the year my husband and I met.”

“My brother, Damien, er, Pender had been in London.” His eyes squinted toward the ceiling of the carriage. “Damien said he had an issue to deal with before returning to Stonemare.”

The hair at the base of Geneva’s scalp lifted and a ghostly whisper brushed her skin. “And you believe that Julius may have been that ‘issue’?”

“It’s possible,” he allowed. “What strikes me most, if my memories are not failing me, is how Noah kept saying Damien had given Julius to him.”

Geneva gasped. She thought Docia did too.

“There was also the fact that Noah was the one who’d named Julius. It hadn’t sounded all that odd at the time. Lady Pender had indeed died in childbirth. But I do believe we are missing a large piece of this intrigue.”

The shock that flitted across Verda’s face was quickly masked. “You believe there was another child?”

“Why else would there have been a wet nurse in house?” Mr. Oshea said.

“There had to have been a midwife as well,” Geneva said softly. “Would Mrs. Knagg know anything?”

“We had few servants at the time,” Mr. Oshea told her. “But it wouldn’t hurt to ask. It was certainly during her bout of employment.”

“Do you think there was another child who… didn’t…” She couldn’t complete the sentence.

Mr. Oshea’s eyes narrowed, and tension deepened around his mouth. “How else could my brother have pulled off this nearly-twenty-year fabrication?”

“Do you think Noah knew all of this?” Docia asked.

Mr. Oshea turned his gaze out the window. “I’ll be putting that very question to him.”

As would Geneva. Right now, she didn’t trust anyone in Stonemare for the truth but Pasha.