Page 6 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

“H ow do you expect to explain your presence, Geneva? Lord Pender is dead.”

Geneva watched as Pasha tugged out an array of colorful frocks from Abra’s portmanteau and hung them on the pegs, then stuffed the bag at the bottom of the wardrobe. “I’ll think of something,” she muttered, hoping that would be the case.

“You should unpack,” Abra told her.

Pasha walked to the door, obviously prepared to do just that for Geneva, but Geneva stopped her.

“Don’t bother, Pasha. I have my doubts on the length of our welcome. Go settle yourself in your chamber.” Geneva waved her hand in the direction of a discreet adjoining door.

The maid nodded and silently took her leave.

Geneva paced the plush carpet. “I cannot believe Meredith’s husband did not bring her!” She turned, facing Abra, planting tightened fists on her hips. “That cur. That libertine .” She couldn’t think of a term harsh enough for the viscount—no. He was earl now.

Abra’s expression took on that fiery fury it had had when she’d first laid eyes on the new earl. Her lips compressed and her hazel eyes flashed again with unadulterated contempt.

“What?” Geneva asked. “What is it you know that I don’t?”

“I was at St. George’s for their wedding,” Abra bit out. “The bishop had to remind him to speak his vows. It was a horrid act to pull on a young woman who had been forced into such a situation. None of which was Meredith’s fault.”

Geneva strode over to the settee that faced a low fire in the grate and dropped beside her friend, remorse suddenly gripping her. “We really should have gone to Cornwall.”

Abra clasped her hand. “No,” she said earnestly. “You have every right for answers. Mr. Oshea has handed us an opportunity we can’t possibly pass up. We’re here to find those answers. You deserve them. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“But your father,” Geneva said. “There’s still time. We could leave here today. Take the train straight to Cornwall, and he would never be any the wiser.”

“And what if we get there, and she’s on her way to Northumberland? Surely, word is out regarding Pender’s death. I expect a good many of the ton are headed here now.”

“Lud.” The palm of Geneva’s hand slapped her forehead. “I didn’t even think of—oh, no. Your father and stepmother could—” She swallowed hard. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. “Martindale.” The Beau Monde was full of scoundrels who were insensitive, and worse, deliberately cruel.

Despite the amber tone of Abra’s skin, it paled.

“Lord Martindale can’t hurt me. Not any longer. Lord Ruskin…” Her voice trailed off.

“Has he asked you yet?” Geneva spoke gently.

Abra’s eyes widened, but then welled with tears. “No,” she whispered. “How did you—”

“Hannah mentioned yesterday before you arrived. We were finishing up the Education Reform article. She said a date had been selected.”

Her eyes dropped to her lap, where her fingers interlocked so tightly, her knuckles lightened. “Perhaps he’s decided on another.” Her friend suffered from a belief of inadequacy in her social status. Completely invalid concerns in Geneva’s view. Abra never considered how her hazel eyes evoked her father’s heritage and how proudly he viewed his daughter, daring anyone to speak ill of her. The man was a crack shot with a musket and a pistol and swords.

Something Geneva’s own father would never have considered. Even sober. He’d just waved his emptied bottles of gin about then fallen over in the process.

Abra’s lips firmed again. The stubbornness unfamiliar to those who didn’t know her well, or chose not to know her well, set in. “We’re staying. Stepmother hates leaving London.” But she didn’t sound so sure and surveyed the chamber, effectively avoiding Geneva.

Geneva followed her gaze around the lovely room with its paper of pale blue, sprinkled about with posies of pink, that reminded one of a summer day in Hyde Park. The coverlet was snow white and covered with fluffy pillows.

Geneva hugged her. “All right, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” With a small smile, the tension faded from Abra’s shoulders. She speared Geneva with her usual pragmatism. “How shall we go about locating your medallion?”

Geneva stood and scowled. “I certainly can’t mention it.” She pursed her lips. “Mr. Oshea seems a reasonable enough man. Perhaps I can casually show him Mama’s half-written note and go from there.” She strolled over and looked inside Abra’s case. Then, testament to the friends they were, Geneva pulled out Abra’s jewelry box as well as her silver-handled brush, a wide-tooth comb, matching mirror, and arranged them atop the vanity.

Abra rose and went to the vanity. She straightened the already straightened hair instruments then turned to Geneva with an air of excitement shining from her eyes. “So what shall we do first to find your locket?”

“Don’t be daft, Lady Abra. There is no we , my dear. You know your stepmother is gnashing her teeth to acquire Martindale for you. Bah, I should just toss in the proverbial towel and crawl back to London. It’s just a shame I haven’t the temperament for it.”

“At least you admit it.” Abra grinned. “All right. Let’s enter the lion’s den. See what we are up against.”

“ Sooner rather than later is my usual adage,” Geneva agreed.

They moved to the sitting room and Abra leaned in Pasha’s chamber. “We’ll return shortly, Pasha. Mr. Oshea has promised hot water.”

Geneva waited for Abra then led the way through to the main corridor. “I wonder what’s down that hall.” She spoke in a low, barely audible tone.

Excitement shimmered between them reminiscent of their school days. Missing only were Hannah and Meredith.

“Let’s look,” Abra whispered back.

Curiosity drove Geneva and she nodded. Together, they followed the length of the hall to a set of double doors. Geneva set her ear against it, but all was silent. She glanced at Abra with a small smile, but her friend, even with a small shake of her head, knew Geneva’s largest failing was her obstinate way and curiosity that kept her in trouble more than out. Geneva clasped the latch and pushed down.

Abra gasped and Geneva shushed her.

For such an old castle that from the outside looked so dilapidated, it appeared ready to fall around their ears, the door didn’t squeak when she pushed it inward. Geneva peered inside. In the corner, a pianoforte of mahogany polished to perfection with graceful cabriole legs tied by brass casters sat on a raised platform. It’s awfully huge for a music room,” she whispered. The one at Miss Greensley’s wasn’t near this size.

Large, mullioned windows with triangular, metal strips covered the far wall from the ceiling down to hip level. Beneath them was a cushioned bench that stretched the full length of the wall. Enormous mirrors rather than artwork graced the other walls. Overhead, ornate moldings edged the ceiling and an old-fashioned chandelier held some fifty unlit candles. They were currently unneeded, as the rain had stopped and the sun reappeared in its hazy glow.

“Don’t—”

Ignoring her timid companion, Geneva stepped inside, awed by the chamber’s vastness. “This must be the music room.”

Abra’s muffled huff and light footsteps followed Geneva. “No. It’s a ballroom. Much larger than those I’ve attended in London,” she said in a hushed tone.

“How can you tell?”

Abra pointed to a raised recessed area. “That’s the musicians’ gallery—so they don’t interfere with the dancing.”

“Goodness. They host balls here?” Geneva’s voice seemed to echo and bound against all those mirrors.

She shrugged. “Doubtful. We’re in Northumberland. I suspect the ton rarely travels this far north and east much.” She strolled over to the pianoforte but clasped her hands at her lower back. Abra was quite the accomplished musician in her own right and was likely tempted to touch the keys. “Someone plays,” she said. “It’s dust free.”

“Interesting,” Geneva murmured. “Perhaps you’ll be allowed to exercise your skills while we’re here.”

Abra straightened and stalked back to her. “As I mentioned before, my dear, like you, I don’t anticipate a long stay.” Her annoyance was in full form. “Don’t you have some pamphlets to complete for Hannah?”

“When have I ever left anything unfinished?” she returned. “Surely, they have mail service from Northumberland to London.”

“You know how dangerous it is to put such information through the post. And to her home? That isn’t wise.” Her defensiveness was most telling. “If Ruskin—” But she stopped there.

Geneva studied her friend, reminded by Hannah’s words of a date being considered. “You’re frightened he’ll learn what we are about,” she said gently.

Abra’s eyes widened, revealing exactly that.

Geneva took a leveling breath. “I don’t believe the baron reads through his sister’s correspondence. If it makes you feel better, I shall just write and ready the articles for our return.” A relieved whoosh swept the air. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Geneva couldn’t pull her eyes from Abra. “You really care for him, don’t you?”

Her eyes shimmered and she quickly turned away. “I don’t wish to speak of it.” She mastered her emotion, went to the door and pulled it open. “Are you ready for the lion’s den?”

Noah Oshea appeared in the arch like a dark, avenging angel. “‘Lion’s den’?” He echoed as he moved inside. His younger brother and the niece whose name escaped Geneva came into view.

She wanted to sink through the floor. But she was not one to back away from awkward situations. She raised her chin. “I was curious.” She spoke a little too staunchly and caught Abra’s small flinch. “Apologies. I’m not nearly as refined as my friend.”

The young girl had bright-red hair, framing an elfin face with a stubborn chin of her own. She grinned.

“It’s, er, Miss…” Geneva floundered, mortified she hadn’t paid closer attention.

“Isabelle, my lady.” The girl didn’t appear to mind in the least. She dipped a curtsey and gave an infectious smile instead.

“It’s just Miss Wimbley,” Geneva told her. “The ‘lady’ is my friend. Lady Abra.”

Miss Isabelle’s mouth formed a perfect “O.”

Geneva rescued her. “Who is the musician?”

Miss Isabelle’s smile turned shy. “Me.”

“Ah, as is Lady Abra,” Geneva said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Miss Isabelle swung her gaze to Abra. “Truly?”

Abra nodded.

“Oh, may I hear you play?” Abra’s flinch this time was much more pronounced.

Mr. Oshea could have worn a cloak of feathers for all his bristling. “Perhaps after luncheon, poppet. Our guests are surely famished.”

“Oh, yes.” The child’s face turned an engaging shade of pink that clashed with that red hair. “Of course.”

The younger brother grinned, his gray eyes flashing with mischief. “I’m Julius Oshea,” he said. “We came to show you the way to the dining room.”

“All of you?” Geneva nearly moaned. “I, er, mean…”

Julius Oshea went to Abra and held out his arm and bailed Geneva out, saying, “It couldn’t be helped. We were curious.”

Abra shot her a helpless look, but Geneva pressed her lips together in an attempt to suppress a smile. The attempt failed and she basked in her friend’s perturbation. Such times were so rare, after all. She gave a little shrug.

Noah Oshea did not offer his arm to Geneva, instead taking Miss Isabelle’s, leaving Geneva to follow. Within seconds, the reason became ultimately clear as he walked with great patience due to a slight limp that exuded from Miss Isabelle’s left foot.

Something decidedly odd regarding the household touched Geneva. No one seemed particularly sad or disquieted with the passing of the previous Earl of Pender. But then, considering the content of the note Geneva had happened upon from her mother, she suspected that shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

*

Noah thought luncheon would never end and after the fifth course, he pushed back his chair. He’d never gone in for port and cigars. Lucius hadn’t even appeared for the meal. “Would you care for a tour of the grounds, Miss Wimbley, Lady Abra?” Noah asked.

Miss Wimbley’s expressive face lit up with curiosity, stirring something remotely odd and unfamiliar in Noah’s chest, and he caught the minutest wince in her friend’s expression. “I’d be delighted, sir,” Miss Wimbley breathed. A fiery warmth spread over his skin and felt as tangible as if that breath had breached the clothes he wore.

In the foyer, Hicks assisted the women with their cloaks. He swept his own about his shoulders and watched as she donned her straw bonnet and aging kid leather gloves. Whatever else Miss Wimbley was, she was not steeped in funds. Not like Lady Abra.

Miss Wimbley had been lively company throughout the meal. Much too forthright for polite society. After all the years around Docia, Noah found it quite refreshing. She had nothing of Docia’s dainty measure. Miss Wimbley’s steps were purposeful, her laugh just this side of boisterous, the look in her eyes bold and captivated by her surroundings.

But another thought took hold, raising Noah’s hackles. If she thought to go after Lucius, the woman was in for a shock. Surely, she knew Lucius was married to the Duke of Rathbourne’s only daughter. News of their nuptials had been in all the broadsheets, the clubs, the ballrooms—if his brother was to be believed. The notion of Miss Wimbley parading around London as Lucius’s mistress pricked Noah with biting discomfort. He’d only offered a tour of the grounds to learn the reason for her appearance. At least that was what he told himself.

The wind was gusty on this spring day. More times than not, low, dark clouds hid the sun. The weather along the coast this far north was predictably unpredictable. Downright dangerous if one didn’t know the moors well.

He escorted the ladies down the portico and he paused, trying to determine the direction he wished to take.

Miss Wimbley didn’t wait on them, however, turning toward his most monumental youthful lapse of judgement: the fallen turret.

Noah glanced at Lady Abra, who just shook her head as if reining in Miss Wimbley were an impossible task, her eyes saying, Much luck to you, sir. With their roll toward the heavens, Lady Abra took a seat on a bench within watching distance, leaving Noah to sprint after her fleeing friend.

Miss Wimbley stopped before his failed experiment, her head cocked to one side. “What happened here?”

Lucius strolled up from around the pile. “One of Noah’s disastrous experiments.” Noah did not like the smile on his face. More surprising was her reaction to Lucius. As if he were infected with a contagion, she stepped away from him, the smile on her face so razor-thin, her lips went bloodless.

She turned her back on him, cutting her gaze to Noah. “What sort of experiment?”

Red crawled up Noah’s neck. He rubbed a palm over it. “I thought I could turn lead into gold. It’s, er, not possible.”

Miss Wimbley spun around, facing him outright, her lovely mouth agape, completely appearing to have forgotten Lucius. “You blew up a part of your—” She swallowed. Loudly. “Your castle?”

“Technically, it’s mine,” Lucius said.

Her eyes flashed with some seething emotion, but she never turned her head, still staring at Noah. “A little too much saltpeter,” he muttered.

Lucius stared at the pile of rocks. “Why haven’t you had the rubble cleared?”

“I’m allowing the locals to make use of it. What do you care, besides? This is the first we’ve seen of you since your wedding.”

Disgust covered Lucius’s brooding features. “I don’t wish to speak of that harrowing event.” He bowed at Miss Wimbley. “Until later, miss.” He sauntered off, leaving Noah with Miss Wimbley looking after his older brother.

“He didn’t like his wedding?” she asked not quite so nonchalantly as she’d likely intended.

The undercurrent in her tone had Noah turning a sharpened gaze on her. “Our father promised his hand when he was a lad of thirteen. We didn’t learn of it until Lucius was all set to offer for Miss Hale a few years ago.”

“The woman who dashed out this morning? She’s quite beautiful.” This came out somewhat grudgingly.

Noah paused, struck by the dulcet melody of her voice. It flowed like a gentle brook over rocks. Even with its stingy tone, the sound was soft, soothing, pleasing to the ear.

A long pause ensued and he realized he was staring. Her plump lips mesmerizing him.

He started, warmth crawling up his neck. “Er, yes. Lucius is still quite angry at how the events unfolded.” His brother had never been more excited than he had been at the prospect of wedding Docia. More than Noah had seen him in years.

It had seemed Lucius had finally decided to take an interest in the earldom’s holdings. He’d rushed to London, met with the solicitors, purchased a ring, then run into Father and the Duke of Rathbourne at White’s, according to Lucius, or at least as far as Noah had been able to piece from Lucius and their father.

Later, Noah had been called into Father’s study by Uncle Sander, who had sat behind the desk with Noah in the chair across, where he was informed that Lucius refused to be counted on for their future. Lucius’s resentment, while understandable, would affect them all.

From that day on, Noah was tasked on assisting his uncle in looking after the earldom’s funds. Sander had built a brilliant strategy going from the small-scale home-based handwoven cloth the villagers had produced to more beneficial means with the land’s natural resources for quarrying and processing decorative stones. Even more so when the Berwick Railway had expanded from Newcastle to Tyne into Northeast England.

With his hands at his lower back and a brisk, cool wind in his face, Noah allowed Miss Wimbley to lead their path. They walked in companionable silence around his chemistry-experiment-gone-bad. He’d been fortunate he hadn’t leveled Stonemare into the sea below, sitting on the edge of the cliffs as it did.

Miss Wimbley came to a stop, plucked the ties of her bonnet free, and tore it off as if it choked her. The winds whipped her skirts into a frenzy, giving him a tantalizing view of slim hips and shapely calves. In build and coloring—but for her dark hair—she was similar to Docia. Unlike Docia, there was a vibrancy about her that shimmered in the muted sunlight. The band confining her hair was no match for a sudden updraft gust. The light-colored leather strip seemed to suspend in midair then floated down and disappeared long before it hit water. “Oh, dear.”

The dark-brown curls barely draped past her shoulders in a surprisingly unfashionable length. But the shorter style suited her delicate, pixie-like features. She turned then, facing him with an impish grin.

The sight mesmerized him and refused to let go.

“I expect you’re wondering why Lady Abra and I showed up on your doorstep,” she said. Her frankness shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.

The melodic timbre again held him spellbound. She looked up and squinted into the sun with no care for her complexion. He caught sight of a sprinkle of freckles across her nose that teased him to distraction. Her deep-chestnut curls had an unnerving effect on his libido. She was like a dark avenging angel but for her startling navy eyes. The perfect illusion, he suspected, as her words penetrated. He’d almost forgotten his own mission to learn what she was about. “Er, ah, I… Yes, I admit to a certain interest,” he said slowly, welcoming her entry to the conversation.

She gave him a sharp nod. “I have reason to believe your father seduced my mother.”

A slow chill seeped into his bones. “I don’t understand.” Yet he was afraid he did.

“Your father is a known libertine.” Of course, it didn’t occur to her to use a more polite word. Her boldness shifted from refreshing to an irritation that set his teeth on edge.

“Was.”

Her brows lifted. “Pardon?”

“Was. My father is dead. Perhaps that fact escaped your memory. It was this morning, after all, when the topic was raised in the vestibule.”

Once the words penetrated, her face blotched a fiery red. “Oh, I’m—” Her voice cracked.

Noah winced, instantly regretting his forthright harshness. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her. Not really. “Where is your mother? I can’t imagine she gave you leave to travel here on your own to confront a known libertine.”

“No. She would have been suitably appalled,” she said with another of those razor-sharp smiles that did not reach her eyes. She lifted her delicate shoulders. “She died in ’38 and left no instructions on how to conduct my life.” She glanced over her shoulder, but they’d drifted from Lady Abra’s line of sight.

He was struck with a bolt of lightning. Such fortitude masked other emotions, he’d guess. Fear? Vulnerability? Anger? Which was it and, why? She was a woman virtually alone. He speared her with a depth usually reserved for one of his experiments. No, she didn’t appear frightened, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t. This went deeper than she was revealing. “My condolences on your mother’s passing, Miss Wimbley. That must have been most difficult for you.”

His words didn’t turn her into a simpering miss. She ignored his acknowledgement as if he hadn’t spoken. No, his words had a whole other unexpected effect. Her spine straightened, her shoulders squared, her chin lifted. Her eyes met his unwaveringly. “I happened upon your father’s name not two weeks past. As I mentioned, I came here for answers from Lord Pender. Your father,” she clarified. Her shoulders fell. “But now he’s dead.” Then she speared him with those oddly shaded blue eyes as the genuine despair in her voice dug into his chest with the force of a dull spoon.

The briny-scented wind whipped her cloak about while he considered how to handle her. But then, he doubted anyone knew how to handle such an obstinate ball of fire. It was her vibrancy that held him enthralled, but he’d never been one ruled by absurdity and certainly not by his emotion. He forced his thoughts into their normal realm of analytical common sense. His scientific process of thinking, he insisted silently.

In that scope, he reluctantly asked, “What kinds of answers?”

She looked back over the jagged edges of the cliffs and didn’t speak for a long moment.

He followed her gaze farther out to a small island that jutted from the ocean’s floor. He’d always dreamed of boating over, but the Northumberland seas were too violent for any sort of safe crossing. Not with weather that changed on the flip of a shilling.

“I believe it was your father who visited my mother when she was ill. For years, I believed it a dream. I was just a child, you see, but the memory is too vivid.”

Noah waited.

“I-I heard her beg him to take me with him.”

Startled by that notion, his head shook, balking at what she was inferring. It wasn’t possible. “You believe my—” He swallowed. Hard. “The earl is, was, your father?”

“I know she doesn’t belong to you…”

She jerked around, facing him. “No!” She shuddered. “Absolutely not. My father is—was—a sailor. Hardly ever home. Addicted to the perils of gin, I fear. But he was definitely my father,” she said, looking as if it pained her in admitting so.

Her adamant denial sent a shot of harsh relief through him for reasons he refused to examine.

Miss Wimbley inhaled as if bracing herself to continue. “But your father took something from Mama,” she said fiercely. “And I want it back.”

Julius. She wanted Julius. She’d learned Father’s secret somehow. What else could it be?