Page 8 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

G eneva climbed the two flights to Abra’s and her suite. She entered and collapsed onto the settee in the sitting room with a sense of disequilibrium. Her head spun. Turmoil twisted her insides. She was the most insensitive person on the face of the earth. The image of Miss Isabelle sitting high above the ground on Julius’s shoulders and the careful handling by his next older brother, Noah lifting her down and setting her so gently to her feet plowed through her. Errg. When the devil would she learn to internalize her immediate impulses instead of blurting out the first thought that invaded her head?

The door opened and Abra strolled in from the corridor. “Oh, there you are.”

“Just as we returned, you’d left.” With concerted effort, Geneva pushed the unsettling images from her mind, which denigrated to the other disturbing incident of the morning.

“Miss Hale insisted I walk with her. You left me behind. You know I don’t walk as quickly as you. Besides, walking off alone with him is unwise,” Abra admonished her.

Geneva rolled her eyes. “Ugh. You sound like your father.”

“At least you didn’t say ‘stepmother,’” she returned, wrinkling her nose. “Where did you get to?”

“If you must know, the wind nearly sent me flying over the cliffs to my demise. And that wasn’t the worst of it.”

“Mr. Oshea kissed you?” was her wry retort.

“ What ?” Geneva scowled at her friend. “No. What a ridiculous notion.” A vision that didn’t repulse her. She swallowed a groan. “Don’t say such things. I’m trying to tell you I almost fell to my death. Over. The. Cliffs.”

“Yet here you are.”

She couldn’t believe it. Abra didn’t believe her. She was tempted to raise her sleeve and see if there was a burn mark from his valiant grip on her. But if there were, she’d prefer to check it in private. She clamped her lips tightly.

Abra grinned. “Hmm. All right, then. I had an opportunity to speak with Mr. Julius Oshea. He’s very sweet.”

“Are you certain that was wise? What of your plans for Lord Ruskin? And young . He can’t be over fifteen.”

“Nineteen. He’s nineteen. That’s almost of legal age.”

Geneva speared her with a quelling glance. “Oh, how you jest. Well,” she said, adopting a too-casual tone. “Your stepmother would adore you marrying into an earl’s family, would she not? I suggest you not entangle yourself with these people, Abra. It’s quite unfashionable to marry one so much younger than oneself.”

“Ha. It’s only a few years. Why, when I’m forty-nine, he shall be forty-four or five.” She waved out her hand. “Hardly any difference at all.”

Genuine humor erupted from Geneva in a full-bellied laugh. The first since she and Abra had boarded the train north. “Oh, all right. You win. Besides, he is untitled.”

Her bottom lip poked out in a pout. “True.” She dropped beside Geneva on the settee and laid her head back and swiveled, facing Geneva. “What are your plans?”

She clasped her fingers together, laid her palms open across her ribs, and stared up at the ornamental plastered ceiling. Tastefully arranged grasses topped with sparsely placed flowers in ivory tones took the place of decorative corning that embossed the top portion of the walls into the ceiling and edged the rectangular chamber. The calming sight allowed her to pull her thoughts together. “The family will be occupied with all the pomp and circumstance that goes along with an earl’s passing.”

“I don’t think I care for the direction of this conversation,” Abra mumbled. “I’m part of the peerage, you know.”

“Oh. You act so normal I tend to forget.”

“Well?”

Geneva lowered her voice, and even glanced at the door behind them to make certain it was closed. “I need to search the earl’s chamber.”

Abra jolted to sitting. “Blast it, Gen. Don’t you dare. They’ll run us out of here with our heads on pikes.”

“That’s much too old-fashioned.”

“Don’t be flippant,” Abra snapped. She dropped her face in her hands. “Papa will kill me.”

“Nonsense. If anything, he’s likely to help us. If you deign to ask him, that is.”

A sly look glinted in her friend’s eye. “I suppose I could ask him to make enquiries.”

Well, that jest was a spectacular misfire . “Don’t you dare. Then the evil one would be involved.” Geneva tapped her fingers on her thigh. “I think I can search the earl’s chamber during the service.”

“I sincerely hope you mean ‘former earl.’” Her teasing remark dripped with wry amusement.

Geneva rolled her eyes then eyed her thoughtfully.

“Don’t even think such a thing.” Abra groaned. “Searching the former earl’s chamber is too risky. Besides, we shall have to make an appearance.”

“ You have to make an appearance,” she corrected. “I do not. I practically live in the slums.”

“You do not live in the slums. I would never visit the slums. Besides Papa already investigated your residence and deemed it acceptable as long as I am accompanied by Pasha and a footman.”

“You never bring a footman.”

“He doesn’t have to know everything. You are missing my point, Gen. If Papa hadn’t approved, I would be locked in my chamber.”

Geneva released a sigh. “That’s neither here nor there. I don’t believe Lord Perlsea, rather, Pender, has moved into that chamber and it might be our only opportunity.”

“I suppose I can act as a decoy,” she said reluctantly. “But Mr. Oshea seems highly observant to me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Especially where you’re concerned.”

How utterly annoying. “Truly?” Geneva certainly hadn’t detected anything of that sort when he’d shown her his laboratory. He’d just watched her with a hooded gaze from across the room. Only when she’d touched his precious bone had he displayed the passion that seemed to simmer beneath the skin. She shivered.

“You gave them my suite?” The feminine fury vibrated outside the sitting room door.

Geneva met Abra’s eyes and by mutual consent, they looked at the closed door, remaining silent.

The low, deeper response was indiscernible but set Geneva’s nerve endings afire. Why did Abra have to put the picture of a kiss from him in her head?

“How could you?”

Another rumble of Noah Oshea’s incoherent words.

“Of course, I was coming back,” she snapped. “And no. I refused being banished to the East Tower.”

The two went back and forth until Miss Hale appeared to cave with the promise that her companion—fine! Mr. Oshea—would fetch her each morning.

“She has a carriage,” Geneva whispered.

“She’s staking her claim,” Abra whispered back. “I’ve met her before, you know. In London. She attended my debut.” Abra grinned. “She reminds me of you.”

“ What ?” Geneva smacked her friend’s hand. “What a horrid thing to say.”

“It was quite the scandal,” Abra went on. “She’d put it about that Pender’s son was to marry her.”

Geneva’s mouth dropped, and she’d never be able to explain the manacle squeezing her chest.

“Not that one. The other one. Viscount Perlsea, Lucius . The current earl.” She emphasized his name and titles as if Geneva were an imbecile of low intellect. “It was all before Meredith learned her father and the previous earl had contracted a betrothal agreement.”

Geneva scowled. “I know that. But the bastard sent her to Cornwall and won’t let her leave. She’s a prisoner.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You know as well as I no one can force her to remain in Cornwall. She’s chosen to remain due to the school she’s set up for the children.”

“That was a couple of years ago. Something else is going on. We haven’t heard from her in months.” Geneva jumped to her feet and dashed to the windows. “Lud, all we can see is the sea from here.” She spun back to Abra. “Surely, she’ll accompany her father to the memorial service.”

Abra drummed her fingers on her knee. “It’s difficult to say. The duke, as you might recall, has a reason behind everything he does. She’ll be here if it suits him.”

Geneva paced from the hearth to the window and back, her head down, the thoughts pricking her skin like a ping of arrows from Caligula’s massive army. Abra wasn’t wrong. “We should ascertain what chamber they assign Miss Hale. If it faces the drive, perhaps we could offer to trade.”

“Geneva!” Abra’s exasperation brought her up.

She stopped, her eyes shooting to her friend. “What?”

“I’m in a horrible position here.”

Geneva hurried over, lowered next to her, and took her hands. “What do you mean?”

“I know this will come as a surprise, but as a debutante, I was not well received.” Abra’s attempt at being witty, of course. Geneva understood in a way different from Hannah and Meredith. Abra had been singled out from the moment they’d met because Abra was not lily-white like other English debutantes, and Geneva hadn’t peerage on her side.

The night after Abra’s come-out ball—which Geneva hadn’t attended—the four friends had stayed the weekend at Lord Westbridge’s mansion in town with Abra, where she’d cried her heart out at the injustices of it all. How petty all those other young women were. Geneva had spent the weekend thinking how fortunate she’d been at her own lot in life. It had taken all her resolve in not voicing that stroke of luck.

“You must have forgotten the weekend after,” Geneva countered.

“No, I haven’t forgotten.” Abra spoke softly. “Some of the ton will likely be making the trip north to acknowledge the late earl’s passing.” She leaned in. “That includes my father and stepmother.”

Groaning, Geneva dropped her face in her hands. “Your stepmother?” She adored Lord Westbridge. Lady Westbridge not so much. The woman could have stepped straight from the tale of Cinderella . The heroine’s stepmother personified.

“He could hardly leave her behind,” Abra bit out.

Geneva’s shoulders slumped. “And that means—”

“Yes. Lord Ruskin will likely be among them. So, you see? I can’t possibly get caught up in the least bit of scandal.”

“If indeed they appear, perhaps Hannah will be with them?” An inkling of hope trickled through Geneva. Hannah would help stave off any looming fiascos.

“Doubtful. Ruskin is too traditional. He wouldn’t allow Hannah to attend the funeral.” A frown furrowed her forehead. “If Papa and Stepmother do attend, Stepmother will insist on accompanying Papa, and she’ll drag me along for sure.”

Blast . Her foot tapped the floor, more thoughts inundating her. “How are we to explain we’re in Northumberland and not Cornwall?” Geneva’s voice trilled higher with each word. “I shall ask to be removed to a smaller chamber. Your father shouldn’t know I’m here. Or that we are here together.” That went double for Lady Westbridge. The woman hated Geneva.

“Geneva, think! How do you propose I explain my presence in Northumberland? No. Like it or not, we are in this debacle together. Papa will never cause a scene. If he shows, I’ll speak with him. You know he will forgive me anything.” She heaved in a deep breath. “Almost, anyway.”

She stood and took Geneva by the upper arms and shook her. “I came here for you and I shall tell Papa so. If Lord Ruskin can’t accept you as my dearest friend, he may find himself another woman to take as his wife. If he even bothers to request my hand,” she whispered with a sense of hopelessness that broke Geneva’s heart.

“He can’t possibly be that daft,” Geneva assured her. Abra’s loyalty and friendship brought tears to Geneva’s eyes. “He’ll ask. If he doesn’t, the fault shall lie at the feet of your stepmother. Hannah is certain of her brother’s regard for you.” She squeezed Abra’s hand. “You are the dearest friend one could ever have and I shall do my utmost to be worthy. Now, about Meredith…”

*

Noah took Docia by the arm and hauled her down the corridor to another hall as far from the Blue Suite as he could get. He opened the door to the Yellow Suite and peered in. There were bags on the floor and he quickly backed out. There was no other option; he dragged her to the East Tower, where they could talk without being overheard. Unfortunately, all of his ancestors would be there to witness this ridiculous scene.

Docia jerked her arm from him. “There is no call for brute force! You know? I don’t believe we shall suit one another for marriage, after all.”

Something with which he wholeheartedly agreed. The relief rushing through him was monumental. “All right,” he said slowly. “Why the change of heart? You’ve been badgering me for months.”

“I’ve seen how you look at that… that woman .”

This was not a conversation he was prepared for, and certainly not with Docia. With a mental step back, he studied her elfin face—the delicately proportioned features, the small, upturned nose, and high, well-defined cheekbones. The blue eyes were reminiscent of someone else’s he preferred not thinking of in this moment. But one couldn’t deny Docia’s attractiveness with another of her brightly-colored frocks that was likely French. Whether it was the latest fashion or not, he couldn’t say.

When Noah considered their past, his brain had apparently been absent. He should have remembered the two of them had never been true friends. How they had clashed at the onset. Docia had announced at the age of eleven her intentions of marrying Lucius.

From the time they’d been children, she’d been enamored with, obsessed with, all that was proper, including behavior, but she’d never been quite able to quash that self-serving side of her personality. In the right mood, it could be engaging. In the wrong mood, it was downright irritating. The whole family felt sorry for her, he supposed. Her father had gone to London one weekend and had never returned.

So, Verda and Sander had welcomed her into the Oshea fold.

Currently, her eyes were narrowed on him, her arms folded over her chest with her nose in the air. “I’ll reserve judgment for the time being, however.”

He let out an impatient breath. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

She strolled over to him and touched his arm.

The move surprised him.

She frowned. “I don’t know how I feel about Miss Wimbley. I’m almost certain she is not for you. Perhaps you could take her as a mistress.” Her hand fell away. “With discretion, of course.”

And just like that, every hackle raised the hair on his skin. “I’ll be sure to let you know if she accepts my proposal,” he bit out, his insides trembling with outrage.

She turned on her fashionable heels, their clicks echoing against the chamber walls. He glanced up at his father’s portrait. The resemblance between Lucius, Noah, and their father didn’t jump out to Noah. The artist had captured his father’s weak chin and pouting lips. There was also a bleakness in his eyes that Noah had seen in Lucius’s since his marriage to Lady Meredith. Still, that did not mean Docia was for his brother. Which was certainly an impossibility besides.

The previous Earl of Pender’s lips seemed to twist in the mocking smirk that Noah had experienced his entire life. He was half-afraid he’d see that same expression on his father’s face even as the coffin box was being nailed shut.

God, Noah’s morbidity knew no bounds. Too much time in his laboratory and working with bones, he supposed. He blew out a deep breath, scowled at his father, and strode from the East Tower. He needed to speak with Lucius. Docia would drive him into an early grave and Noah wanted to warn him. She was up to something, and it did not bode well. Her schemes never had.