Page 4 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

T he price was hell and Geneva was on her way to collect. With her dear friend Abra at her side, of course.

Geneva stared out at the passing landscape from the newly christened East Coast Main Line and let the anger roiling inside carry her determination to fruition. The Earl of Pender had stolen from her one too many times. The most important? Her mother.

The rail coach’s jerking motion left her feeling somewhat ill, but not enough to derail her mission. Besides, they’d been on this blasted train for ten hours. “I don’t see much hope for a future in passenger rail travel.”

“You need to calm down, Gen. This is the fastest mode of travel available, as you well know. Rail travel is here to stay, you mark my words. You’re just scared,” Abra added softly. “The earl you’re planning to confront is a very powerful man.” She pointed to Geneva’s tapping foot. “That hasn’t slowed once since we boarded. Did you even nap?”

Geneva’s foot stilled, knowing her friend was right—she was scared. She glanced to the corner, where Pasha dozed without stirring. “No.” She turned a glare at her friend. “I did try.”

Abra moved her attention back to her periodical. “Mmm.”

A tap sounded on the door and a stiff porter looked in. His glance went to Abra with a frown then turned to Geneva. “Ten minutes to Alnmouth Station, miss.”

“Thank you,” Abra said. At which point the door shut a little too hard.

The unexpected episode struck the perfect degree of lightness Geneva required in the moment. She grinned for what felt like the first time since discovering her mother’s half-written note. “They hate when you do that, you know.”

“What they hate is my Jamaican heritage,” Abra returned.

“Yes.” Geneva took her hand and squeezed. “I just wish you managed your peers with such aplomb,” she added, scowling.

Abra sighed. “I know and I love you for it.”

As promised, the train pulled into Alnmouth ten minutes later. The station bustled with activity, travelers hugging loved ones, children running in all directions on the concrete platform. Geneva stepped onto solid ground, her body still vibrating from the train’s rough rhythm.

The early morning air was fresh and damp with dew. She drew in a bracing breath as she, Abra, and Pasha made their way past the small ticket office, through the moderate-sized, brick building. It appeared to serve as a waiting area of sorts with large, mullioned windows that lined the ceiling, the walls, even the doors that let in loads of natural light. Benches lined both walls of the long, echoing building, but hardly anyone was sitting through the mass of chaos.

They carried their own portmanteaus and once out the doors on the front side of the station, Geneva located the livery stable instantly. “This way,” she said. Cloaking herself in sheer determination, she threw her shoulders back and marched right up to the stablemaster. “I’m in need of a carriage.”

He looked her up and down, frowning. “Where ye headed?”

Abra answered in her poshest Lady Abra voice. “Stonemare.”

Geneva nodded. “We have urgent business with the Earl of Pender.”

The grizzled man tugged at his old-fashioned pointed beard, reminiscent of the Guy Fawkes era. “Won’t be seein’ the old earl, I reckon’.” His eyes grew calculating. “Ye drivin’ yerself?” To his credit, he didn’t appear to find umbrage with Abra. A sign Geneva took as encouraging.

“If I must,” she returned, impatience prickling her. She was so close, she could taste it.

“Ye ever handled the ribbons?”

She flashed a quick glance at Abra, whose eyes widened. “Yes,” Geneva lied. How hard could it be ?

Harder than it seemed, she soon learned. The nag he’d let them was more inclined to graze alongside the road they traveled, based on the directions the stablemaster had provided, than remaining on the compacted, narrow dirt path. But Geneva was nothing if not persevering.

The hazy sun with which the morning had begun was disappearing behind darkening clouds. By the time Stonemare materialized, its turrets obscured in parts, exposing only battlements. The scene leaped from the pages of a Mrs. Radcliffe novel, complete with a pile of crumbled stone that may have actually been one of the turrets. The surprise was that the roof appeared intact atop tiles that should have withstood the elements. Even for Northumberland.

Though still early, even by country standards, a carriage was parked in the sweep.

She drew her dilapidated cart to a stop and hopped down.

An ancient man manifested from the gloom. His gnarled hand took up the reins. “Surprised ye didn’t end up walking with this old bag o’ bones.” His voice reminded her of a sack of rocks. That was all he said before ambling away with her horse and cart.

The motion startled her. “Wait! Our bags.”

He just lifted a hand, acknowledging she’d spoken, and kept going, the slight breeze stirring the gray-streaked, scraggly hair that hung down his back.

“This place is terrifying,” Abra whispered.

“We’ll see about that.” Geneva strode to the open doors and peered inside, startling another ancient man she assumed was the butler. “I’m here to see the earl.” Her voice echoed sharply in the vast foyer.

Before he could respond, a much younger man entered the hall from another door. He was large. Tall, as muscular as a Scot, but with black hair and eyes that were as gray as a storming sea. He was dressed to the nines, or at least he was to Geneva’s decided lack of knowledge of men’s fashion. “I’ll handle this, Winfield.”

Oddly, the butler melted away, leaving the younger man to pierce her with a gaze that made her skin tingle.

“And, who might you be?” His mildness took her aback.

“Miss Geneva Wimbley of London to see the Earl of Pender.”

His gaze flicked over her that appeared almost dismissive, but for the hard swallow given away by his bobbing Adam’s apple. “My brother is not due until the week’s end.” His voice, however, remained firmly in control.

She wasn’t certain how she felt about that… Wait… “I’m sorry, did you say… brother? ” That didn’t seem right. She tilted her head to one side with the wavering image of the man in the black greatcoat sweeping through her. She’d been five. That man would have been considerably older by now. Wouldn’t he? By some twenty years. “I’m speaking of the earl ,” she reiterated, slowly, enunciating clearly. Truly, was she not speaking English?

Amusement in the form of twitching lips met her eyes. “Yes, that would be my brother, Lucius, formerly Viscount Perlsea. He is the current Earl of Pender.”

“But…” Geneva shook her head, flabbergasted, and glanced at Abra, panic welling in her chest.

“We were made to understand the earl had returned home last week. To Stonemare,” Abra said pointedly.

The man’s eyes narrowed and his voice hardened. “That’s not possible.”

“Isn’t it?” The new voice came from behind.

Geneva spun, surprised, to face a man who was startlingly similar to the other.

“Blast it, Lucius,” the first man muttered. “You spoil all my fun.”

Fun? The word felt foreign to Geneva. It wasn’t fun that she’d lost her mother at the age of fifteen. It wasn’t fun that her father had threatened her life hours afterwards. And, that train ride—certainly hadn’t been fun.

Like molasses, the man’s words wove another thread of shock through her.

The Earl. Of Pender. Lucius? This was Meredith’s husband? Geneva hadn’t attended the wedding. The duke hadn’t allowed it. She glanced at Abra, who gave a barely discernable nod. She recognized him, then.

Geneva turned back to Meredith’s husband. His dark hair, almost black, was disheveled with the first sign of gray touching his temples. Sharp, angular features appeared prominent due to the high cheekbones. She met Abra’s widened eyes again, the two women reading one another’s thoughts as they so often did. Something had happened to the earl.

As one, Geneva and Meredith turned, their gazes out the huge, wooden door with its black, iron brackets, that stood open. But, no. Meredith wasn’t there. Their friend hadn’t accompanied her husband? And why should she have? According to Meredith, he’d deserted her three years ago and hadn’t once returned to Cornwall.

Geneva forced her attention back to the new earl.

He was looking at his brother, ignoring Geneva, Abra, and Pasha. “Yes, I’m home. And I have good news. Sander, Verda, and Julius are but a stone’s throw behind me.” A devilish smirk tipped his lips.

A young woman of considerable beauty—flaxen hair, navy eyes—peered around the first man’s shoulder. “What?” Her voice reminded Geneva of champagne bubbles floating from their delicate flute and blinking out before they reached the rafters. She wore a frock that was obviously of the latest fashion. French, perhaps. The lemon-yellow of her full-skirted silk dress looked soft as butter. Draping lace of cream, embroidered red flowers outlined the godet with touches of green leaves. It was a lovely contrast. The expression on her face, however, contradicted the overall impression. “What are you doing here, Lucius?” Her pretty face twisted into one of shock—her mouth hung open and tears shimmered before she quickly blinked them away. She stomped her foot like a small child.

Geneva took a step closer to Abra and Pasha out of the proverbial line of fire.

Again the smirk appeared from Meredith’s errant husband. “Apologies, my dear. I feel I’ve interrupted some interesting… incident.”

So did Geneva.

Man Number One winced, while the new earl’s eyes seemed to devour the woman in yellow.

Blood rushed Geneva’s ears at the daunting implications, obliterating any exchange between the two. How was she to find her locket now? The sickness she’d experienced toward the end of the train ride was nothing compared to the now sudden nausea. “But… the old earl…” she whispered.

With an elegant bow worthy of Prince Albert, “Lucius” rose back to his full, impressive height. Arrogance emitted from him like a fog. “Is no longer. As of two days ago.”

Her stomach cramped. “Two days…” She’d missed the earl, the answers she craved, by just two miserable days.

Loathing, hot and furious, curled through her, watching Meredith’s horrible husband wave out a hand toward his brother. “Where is Father’s body?” The stark, frigid demeanor of this new Earl of Pender struck Geneva anew. This… this unfeeling brute was whom her friend was tied to for life! Oh, to have her trusty knife—

Man Number One spoke. “The parlor, of course.”

More shock—or was it dread?—complete shock pumped through Geneva’s blood. Panic. Panic too. That sweltering greatcoat. Swallowing hard, she gripped Abra’s hand. “What am I to do?” she whispered.

Abra’s hand squeezed back. But her eyes were locked on the younger earl, seething venom. Outright fury, near hatred that was so unlike her friend. Even in their darkest days at Miss Greensley’s, Geneva had never witnessed such unbridled contempt from her. Geneva, yes, as she was unrefined. Not Abra. Never Abra.

A footman moved into the vestibule and held out a dark greatcoat to Man Number One, but he waved him off. “Never mind, Fletcher.” He glanced at the pretty woman in the yellow dress and winced again. “I’m afraid plans have changed. I’m sorry, Docia.”

The pretty woman drew herself up, donning her own cloak, albeit an invisible one. “Yes, I can see that.” She stormed past Geneva and Abra, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume on her way to the door. “And it’s Miss Hale to you.”

Within minutes, the sound of horse hooves pounded the ground. But they went on forever and seemed to grow closer rather than farther away.

But then there was the sound of carriage doors opening, followed by people chattering, then crowding the entry as they pushed their way inside. The butler reappeared and Geneva stepped farther into the shadows, pulling Abra along with her.

Now that the Earl of Pender she’d sought was dead, locket aside, it was clear the answers she desired with every fiber of her being were lost to her forever.