Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (12)

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It was a madhouse. The doors to Number Sixteen stood wide open, workmen ran hither and yon, and the neighbor’s cat played with the tassels of the draperies when Lord Denbigh stopped upon the front stairs.

“I have arrived too late.”

It was the strangest thing a visitor had ever uttered upon entry to the Pruett household and said with the gravest, gravelly growl that Amanda almost gave the man a comforting hug.

He looked despondent.

Under one arm he carried a small, brown-wrapped parcel. Amanda saw a servant alight from his parked carriage with a similar, larger bundle. But when he’d caught sight of the house façade with the battered, hastily covered window, Lord Denbigh had almost dropped his package.

“Good morning, Lord Denbigh, but I’m afraid we are not receiving visitors today. There’s been an… accident, you see.” Amanda winced. She was sure that Great-Aunt Celia might consider it a bit more than a graceful stretch of the truth to refer to the purposeful, wanton destruction of a perfectly functioning glass window as an accident. But since she was equally sure that Great-Aunt Celia would not like the actual truth spread, she would stick with her verbiage.

“What has happened? Was anyone hurt? Are you injured?”

Flashing sapphire raked her head to toe.

Something tightened in her chest and she found it difficult to catch a full gulp of air. His eyes could show emotion! And it was entirely directed at her. The force of it took her breath.

She had seen a caged cat once—not a large, wild cat like a lion or tiger, but a plain household cat gone feral. It had prowled the cage with its back arched and tail unfurled as if it strained against unleashing forces the cage could never contain, those kept trapped beneath its very own bristling skin.

This is what Lord Denbigh reminded her of.

All despondency was now replaced by alarm. His eyes scanned for any sign of trauma, from toes to fingertips, lingering upon her brow. Following everywhere he looked, a shiver rushed across her skin. Her toes had curled just a little as he inspected them, digging into the soft sole of her shoe. The side of her neck tickled, the tips of her ears felt aflame, and the heat gathering across her chest could have been mistaken for the start of a fever.

He finally decided she was, in fact, unharmed, and reshuttered his gaze, search complete.

Sigh. His eyes were so much the prettier when sparking sapphire. It revealed the inferno hidden within. For a man who found her annoying, he’d just shown a fierce concern. Over her.

“No one was injured, let me allay your fears! A broken window, only. It’s being replaced as we speak. While the glazier takes measurements, I have remained behind with Miss Heatly and our footman. My Great-Aunt, my brother, and the rest of the staff have repaired to open her townhouse in Mayfair.”

If they hadn’t shared last night’s dance (which seemed an age ago, now) she would never have noticed the subtle difference; he relaxed at her news. Feet still in place, back rigidly straight, his bearing hadn’t changed, but the alarm was gone.

For the most part.

“I thank you for such solicitude, but I assure you, we are all well. I am sorry we cannot accommodate callers today but perhaps—”

“Miss Pruett,” he interrupted, making a blatant glance around the hall for any audience. In the next room, Miss Heatly had her eagle eyes upon the glass-setter while Rory acted as the man’s impromptu assistant. The rest of the household currently installed themselves across town. Unless Miss Heatly could hear through walls over the hubbub, any conversation was quite safe. Still, he lowered his voice, “I must speak with you in private.”

Amanda fought her second urge in less than twelve hours to laugh at the man. Speak with her? In private?

When Great-Aunt Celia holds her tongue!

“If this is an apology, it ca—”

“Apology? Why in the Devil’s na— for what possible reason should I apologize?” he shook his head.

What reason? Amanda could think of a dozen! Three since he’d arrived!

The arm cradling his bundle clenched against his chest. The motion seemed to remind him of the servant hovering somewhere between the front stairs and his conveyance. With a distracted wave, he motioned the man back inside the coach before his fingers returned to drum against his pant leg. Then, without another word, he stormed the opposite direction, straight down her hallway towards the library without so much as a by-your-leave!

“Lord Denbigh… you cannot! Lord Denbigh!”

He’d left Amanda in her own foyer, calling after him.

If she were a teakettle…

There was no choice but to follow. Her boiling temper would do little good in the empty hallway.

If the library’s double-doors hadn’t already been opened, Amanda would have thrown them wide. Instead, she had the satisfaction to slam shut the unoffending blocks of wood. The resulting bang! almost appeased her anger. But she’d seen Denbigh’s face when the noise hit him—and hit was the only word for it. He looked like a man struck; his eyes wide, his nostrils flared. His reaction unsettled her, but she would not back down.

“Lord Denbigh, you may be the ruler of your own castle, but this house is my father’s.”

Is what she would have said if he hadn’t beaten her to it with:

“I apologize.”

“What?”

He sighed, placed the package on the ground, and met her incredulous stare. “I do apologize, Miss Pruett. Most humbly. This was so poorly done. I offer my most sincere regret for my actions and give you assurance that, if it were not of the greatest importance to both our families, I would not even be here today.”

Hmph.

Should she be insulted? He wasn’t going to apologize, then he did, and the way he did it… If she wanted to take the time to analyze his statement, he just said he had no interest in her person. I would not even be here today. She wasn’t even worth his time?

Yes. She should be insulted.

And yet… for a man so staunch and rude and so Lord Denbigh, he had just offered a very pretty apology.

Amanda decided to take the apology.

“Thank you.”

He gave her a curt nod. Then began to pace the room. He prowled. Back and forth. Hands clasped behind his back. The library was completely devoid so that, with the exception of the two feet square occupied by the metamorphic chair (and the two square feet occupied by herself), he could choose any path for pacing he so desired.

He chose back and forth. Like a pendulum clock.

Or feral cat.

“I’ll grow dizzy from much more of your wanderings, Lord Denbigh.”

He stopped. Turned directly towards her, and bluntly delivered, “A few nights ago, a man was murdered near here. His inquest is scheduled in two days. At that inquest, both of our names will likely be offered as suspect unless I find evidence of the culprit.”

Oh Sweet Merciful Heavens!

They knew.

Someone knew. John Lowe knew.

Amanda’s vision became unfocused. In her mind’s eye she could see the Pruett family name emblazoned upon broadsheets strewn across London. The worst scenario imaginable and it was about to happen. Was it better or worse to know the date of one’s own destruction? Two days.

Shock hit her slowly. Or, perhaps it hit very quick, because she felt like ice, her mind was numb, and the only thing she could say was, “Why should you be mentioned?”

Blue eyes pierced, crystalline and cool as an icicle. “Because there were at least three of us in the cemetery that night.”

Amanda’s knees buckled. If the tufted couch were still positioned before the fireplace, she might have made a second, more dramatic attempt at fainting.

As it was, Lord Denbigh quickly stepped forward and cupped her elbows to hold her upright.

This close, she could tell.

During their dance, there had been so many distractions. So many sights and smells.

Now?

Alone in the empty room, his scent hit her. Cinnamon, nutmeg, amber. Rich and woodsy. His arms held firm under her fingertips, his grip was solid.

In his arms, she wouldn’t fall.

“You are Mr. Diggs,” she whispered. She looked upon that stubborn jaw, the rough hewn cheekbones, the arched brow. A nebulous outline of the man who’d carried her so effortlessly in the cemetery entered her mind and fit snuggly around the silhouette on which she currently gazed.

“Mr. Diggs?” he repeated.

No, no, no!

Amanda pushed at his chest, but he didn’t release her until certain she could stand. She felt as if she might never be able to stand again. Her stomach lurched and her head spun. As soon as she regained her balance, his hands opened and she stepped back until she hit the wall.

Lord Denbigh was Mr. Diggs!

Mr. Diggs was Lord Denbigh.

Geoffrey. Why didn’t you tell me?

“You were the one… in the grave… digging…”

Why, Geoffrey? Why?

“I had hoped you wouldn’t remember that.” He almost looked sheepish.

How could she forget?

There were some things a woman did not forget despite having taken a tombstone to the head.

Lord Denbigh was Mr. Diggs.

Tonight, before bed, she would burn that handkerchief.

She’d opened her mouth to speak—what she had no idea, for her brain felt like mashed potatoes with no spice—a protest, a denial, a demand for why he had been there that night, anything. But her words never formed. Instead, she leaned against the wall, staring at the figure of the man before her.

Just as at the Worthington’s, even in shadow he didn’t fade. No, instead he had presence. He filled the empty space. He loomed. She couldn’t meet his eyes, but found herself staring at his arms. The ones that had carried her home.

Until Miss Heatly burst through the doors (as much as a willowy wisp could burst). It was rather Amanda’s lack of expectation which made the floating movements startling. “Ah, excellent Miss Pruett, you preceded my intent. Is the garden gate unlocked? The workmen plan to bring through the glass pane shortly. Oh my! Sir… I did not know we were receiving today.”

Though the words expressed surprise, Miss Heatly’s tenor was calm and composed.

How unlike Amanda’s own tumultuous feelings.

Miss Heatly stood silently near the center of the room making a rather pointed stare from Amanda to the gentleman.

Introductions!

Thank Heaven for years of societal niceties having been beaten into her murphy-mushed brain. The introduction came almost automatically, though the actual words threatened to stick in her throat. “…Miss Heatly is my Great-Aunt’s school friend and companion. I was just explaining our circumstances to—” Mr. Diggs “—Lord Denbigh.”

“Yes, an unfortunate incident.” An incident. Ah, ever graceful and honest was Miss Heatly. Her Great-Aunt would approve. “However, Mrs. Lidgate would be more than happy to receive you at the townhouse. Shall I give you the direction?”

“Thank you, Miss Heatly, though I… I was…” Lord Denbigh appeared distracted. “…was delivering books to fill the library.” His body actually shook slightly as he gestured to the forgotten bundle. “I brought these to complement Lord Edgbaston’s collection.”

Here they stood in an empty library and the only books to be found were wrapped, brought by an uninvited guest.

Miss Heatly laughed. The unexpected sound filled the empty space and Amanda found it rather delightful. Her laughter was light, bubbling, like the coo of a little girl entranced by a butterfly. “The sentiment is entirely welcome, however you would have to bring a bevy of books, my lord, to begin to fill the vastness of this space. I doubt it could be done in one trip.”

“No. I… quite… see that now.” He shook again.

Amanda found the motion quite strange. Almost as if he were trying…

A movement drew her attention to the ground.

“Lawrence!”

A brown and white tabby cat was wrapped around Lord Denbigh’s perfectly tailored trousers. He sniffed at one leg then promptly snagged his nails into the man’s flesh. The Viscount flinched.

“Larry! Off with you! Go catch mice!” Amanda made an attempt to shoo the creature, but he only squeezed his claws a little deeper. At this point, Lord Denbigh could no longer appear gracefully stoic. Air escaped from between his teeth as the kitty’s nails dug in and he kicked his leg, detaching the ball of fluff to plop upon the floorboards.

Unperturbed, Lawrence sat, tail curled about his rump, and began to lick his front paw.

“My lord, I am so sorr—”

A loud clatter interrupted from the terrace.

“The glazier!” Miss Heatly jumped to open the rattling garden doors.

“—so very sorry—”

Two workmen entered from the back (along with the glass-setter, calling directions at each step: “Mind the doorjamb!” “Not so high!” “The covering is falling, don’t trip on the sheet!” more a distraction than an aide) and made noisy, but otherwise uneventful progress through the room. Miss Heatly issued directions of her own. Lawrence deigned to move closer to the fireplace to continue his ablutions.

Lord Denbigh was stiff where he stood, likely dripping blood into his shoe.

“—the neighbour’s cat wanders in sometimes. We don’t mind, he’s such a good mouser—”

“I am not overset about the cat, Miss Pruett.” His hissed voice was for her ears only. “At present, I am most anxious over a certain pending inquiry.” His whisper sank lower. “I must know everything about that night if I am to find the culprit.”

He? He planned on taking over their investigation!

The room around them buzzed like Amanda’s head.

“The door’s too small, that jam’s got to come off!”

“Don’t be daft. Just tilt it, Reg! No, no Reginald, towards me!”

Miss Heatly offered a calm suggestion which they unwisely ignored. “Gentlemen, if I may…”

Amanda rounded on Lord Denbigh, “What makes you think I know or have anything to do with what has happened?”

“You mean beside the fact that you gave every indication that you expected your name to be referenced at the inquest? I have it on good authority.”

“Whose?”

He sighed.

“You show up at my door twice in as many days, disclose your identity, then accuse me of—”

“I called yesterday only to ensure you were uninjured, not to reveal myself. However, a visit from a certain Bow Street officer forced my hand.”

“John Lowe?” She gulped. “How much does he know?”

“How much? Why? You didn’t actually kill someone?”

They both stared wide at each other, then took a panicked glance around the room. Miss Heatly still instructed the workmen, the glazier still worried his hands, and the cat still laved his left paw. The general commotion at least masked their conversation.

“Of course not! We had nothing to do with that! We merely found Victor…” she glanced at the workers and lowered her voice, “…the body!” She hadn’t meant to reveal as much. But now she couldn’t stop. “We haven’t even learned anything of value, since you are Mr. Diggs!”

Which was rather annoying.

Lord Denbigh was Mr. Diggs. But if he was also trying to clear his name, he couldn’t be Sir Sinister, too.

She’d examine her immense relief later.

His brow furrowed in confusion. “Then you reported your discovery of the body to Mr. Lowe?”

“The man is conducting his own investigation, there’s no need to give him the rope to hang us!”

“You said you didn’t do anything!”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? How can you ‘not exactly’ do something which might warrant a trip to the gallows?”

Amanda’s lips finally managed to stay together.

Lord Denbigh narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Lowe was right. You are sticking your nose into perilous ravines.” His head shook, then he straightened, arched a brow, and (without even looking at her!) said, “You may cease your dangerous meddling. I will take charge of matters from here.”

Meddling?! Take charge? He’d said something to make her jaw actually drop. Of all the audacious, self-important, overbearing…

Amanda had to take several breaths before she replied. Otherwise she might screech like a harpy and shatter the brand new glass.

“Lord Denbigh, even if I needed or requested your assistance—which I haven’t—to what purpose? There is no danger.” She refused to think about bandits or broken windows.

“No, who would be in any danger with a dead ma—”

She winced.

“—a discovery on his front porch and a maniac about?”

She felt no need to respond. Though it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the discovery had never been on their front porch. It had been, in fact, closer to where he was currently standing. That revelation might cause him to explode, so she somehow managed to hold her tongue.

Highlighting her silence, the workmen at last manhandled the glass through the doorway. “Watch the corners, Reg!” Miss Heatly and the glazier followed, the former directing, the latter spouting gratuitous guidance. Lawrence remained.

The ensuing quiet grew increasingly uncomfortable. She could hear Lord Denbigh’s breathing as he glared down upon her. Not quite a huff, though for him she must broaden her onomatopoeic vocabulary. After what seemed an interminable time of his glaring at her scalp, he puffed an exhale and said, “If there is no danger, then this entire episode has been my mistake. Allow me to show myself out—”

“You showed yourself in.”

“—and I’ll leave you to the clemency of the inquest. Or to whatever fate is concocted by the merciless blackguard who committed this crime.”

He took two steps towards the door.

She didn’t stop him.

On his third step, he formed a precise about-face. Storming back to her, the floodgates opened: “Hell’s Breath, woman! Would you truly let me walk out that door with a murderer lurking nearby? With our—my—good name threatened to be ground into mud? Now I understand why Mr. Lowe was so concerned! It’s high time someone took control of the situation. Finding a body roused your curiosity, didn’t it? Thus you’ve been asking prying questions without demonstrating the slightest concern for your own welfare!”

Amanda blinked. Shelby was the one who’d been asking discreet questions, actually, and that hadn’t gotten them anywhere. All Amanda had done was play cards, dance a dance, and hit a ball around the yard. This did not strike her as extremely reckless behavior. Moreover, there was nothing to indicate the murderer lurked. As to her intentions, she was not about to correct him.

“I’ll take your silence as affirmation. You have been snooping. With whom?”

If she remained silent, he’d simply supply the entire conversation on his own. Which, at this rate, was a diatribe. It wasn’t any of his business (maybe a wee little of his business as he was about to be accused of murder alongside her), so Amanda felt quite righteous when she answered, “My maidservant.”

“Your. Maid.”

Amanda straightened up to her full height. The top of her head reached just under his chin but she pointed it as high as it would go. “Shelby is extraordinarily resourceful.”

“Then she’s discovered something?”

“Well, no…”

“You at least have a list of suspects?”

He was her list of suspects.

“Evidence?” Not without the watch and handkerchief. Which she now knew must be his. He sighed at her silence. “So, without any forethought, you and your maid have taken it upon yourselves to ask questions regarding a brutal slaying upon your front doorstep. Did it ever occur to you what might happen if you go about poking at hives with sticks?”

Amanda stewed where she stood. Without forethought? They hadn’t had much time for forethought! And when they’d had that luxury, they’d discussed matters fully. This man’s arrogant presumption! Making judgements without basis or fact and he accused her of acting rashly!

She wanted to rile him. To jar his superiority. So she said the one thing she knew could shock him. “Did it occur to you the body was not found upon the doorstep?”

“I spoke metaphorically.”

“Shelby found him here, in the library.”

“What?!”

He stood, dumbstruck. Amanda took a horrible amount of satisfaction in that.

“Almost where Lawrence now sits.”

Lord Denbigh’s eyes shot to the cat sitting upon the hearth. A small shudder racked his shoulders. “Inside this room? Inside the house?” Those blue eyes shot back to her, sapphire sparks shooting like firecrackers. “Obviously, you thoroughly questioned the staff’s involvement?”

Fury flamed up her spine. “It is exactly that kind of pompous assumption which made us move the body!”

“You… moved…” Lord Denbigh’s sentence came out in barely comprehensible stutters. “You must be mad! Found in your library… and you moved… Do you do nothing according to the dictates of logic or proper behavior? You must know how that appears…”

“Of course I do. Though I don’t think you are in a position to criticize me on appearances.”

He was the one who’d been digging in a grave, not she! How could this man barge into her residence and within a three minute conversation make everything they had spent hours discussing rationally—logically, thank you!—sound like the ramblings of a lunatic?

And what did he offer that was any better?

To have a stranger swoop in and do the exact same thing they had been doing?

After all, that was what he was proposing: to replace her and find Sir Sinister himself. Amanda supposed he had a right to investigate, but so had she!

“As it is my annoying habit to vex you, I must tell you I have no intention to stop my ‘nosy, prying snooping’ nor to put my family’s reputation and future solely into the ever-so-capable hands of one such as yourself.”

In other words: a boorish, patronizing brute who would make arrogant assumptions and commandeer their planned pursuit! Even if it had led nowhere.

He was silent for several seconds. Amanda wondered if she had finally pushed him too far. Then he spoke, and his words were so calm, so soft, almost sorrowful.

“Miss Pruett, whatever your opinion of me, we are now in this together. We, both of us, have been linked to this crime. We shall both be implicated. Yours is not the only family in jeopardy. You must trust me. We have no time.”

If he had truly said it as an order, she would have fought him. If he’d browbeaten or threatened her, Amanda would have dug in her heels all the way to China.

The man was adamant of his position. He obviously thought she was a lunatic, thoroughly (and foolishly) in the wrong. And she did not trust him—an hour ago she’d thought he was the murderer! Possibly. But this was not an order nor a threat. He had asked not for the sake of himself, but for his family. That was a sentiment with which she could sympathize.

He was pleading with her to bend. As he had.

“You are suggesting… we combine our efforts?”

He nodded. “Pax.” He held out his hand to her. His smile was almost charming. “Despite my better judgement, we do this together.”

She shook his hand.

The meeting of flesh should have been perfunctory, like all his other movements. But the gesture held an intimacy, a warmth that enveloped her. It radiated from his fingers through her hand, spreading from vein to limb. She thought of the expression in his eyes when he’d entered the house. The fiery emotion just beneath the surface. Her hand was nestled in that heat.

“It is complete chaos out there!” Miss Heatly stepped in through the hall. Amanda jumped. Her hand tingled. She felt entirely too warm. Somehow, there was a respectable distance between them. That was still too close.

“How they can even think to accomplish anything in such bedlam! At least the glass is in one piece. We’re of no more use here, I’m afraid; Rory will keep a watchful eye on them, mark my words. The workmen have entirely blocked the front entrance, so I’ve taken the liberty, my lord, of instructing your manservant move around back to retrieve you. I suggest we depart the same route.” It was unwise to disregard one of Miss Heatly’s suggestions.

“My thanks.” Lord Denbigh, it seemed, was not a fool. “By your leave, I shall escort you to Mrs. Lidgate myself.”

“Yes, I think that’s best,” Miss Heatly agreed. Since they hadn’t their own carriage, his offhand offer was exceedingly welcome.

Nodding, Lord Denbigh swooped a long arm to the floor to collect his forgotten package. He paused as he rose, attention caught by movement at the back of the room. The meddlesome cat had collapsed to the floor, sleek body arched, and batted wildly at the corner of the wall beside the hearth.

“As we are leaving…” Lord Denbigh knelt toward the creature who had so viciously wounded his flesh. “To prove no hard feelings, it was a pleasure to meet you, Mouster Lawrence.” He extended his hand, gently.

Mouster Lawrence?

Amanda blinked.

Had he just made a pun?

To the cat?

The man is more civil with creatures than people.

Lawrence paused his batting and scratching to sniff the tips of Lord Denbigh’s fingers. In response (either to the smell or the joke, she didn’t know), he opened his jaws and hissed.

Lord Denbigh quickly stood, even before the canines flashed.

Miss Heatly chuckled. “I believe that was feline for, ‘Good day to you, too, sir.’” Miss Heatly smiled from cat to viscount, pleased with her own (surprising) whimsy. A noise sounded outside. “Oh! I think I hear the carriage. Yes, I see your man, there.” She exited into the garden.

As soon as Miss Heatly was out the door, Lord Denbigh shoved his open palm before Amanda’s eyes, “Look at what the cat dragged in. Quite literally.”

In his hand rested a little cylinder phial with a curved lip, chipped in the rim.

“My word, what is that?”

“Didn’t you find a sherd of glass in this very room yesterday?”

Yes, she had. Wedged near where Victor had lain.

He handed it to her.

“Observe the edge, there! It looks like some sort of powdery residue.” His thick finger pointed at a layer of white dust powdering the glass vial. Amanda peered a little closer. She tried to ignore that finger, the warm hand attached, and the sensations which came from it. “Mr. Lowe failed to mention how the man was murdered. Perhaps poison?”

She nearly dropped the tube.

Lord Denbigh took it back. “I doubt the substance acts upon contact, but I wouldn’t advise you to lick the glass.”

“No. The flavor might ruin my palate.”

“Permanently.”

They shared a tentative smile. Peace, he’d said. It reminded Amanda of the unspoken truce during their game of whist. If they didn’t constantly bark and snap at each other, this unwelcome partnership just might work.

Miss Heatly peeked her head back inside. “Is there a delay? The carriage awaits.”

The woman had impeccable and remarkable timing. Amanda felt as if they’d just been caught in the act of doing something naughty whenever she interrupted. Her cheeks flared.

Lord Denbigh discreetly slipped the vial into his pocket. Amanda watched the movement with a touch of envy, a wistful sigh escaping her lips against Great-Aunt Celia’s concern over fashion.

As they walked, Miss Heatly stepping with quick efficiency ahead of them, Lord Denbigh ensured they trailed behind just enough for privacy. He didn’t lean down to her height, but his words felt like they were spoken directly in her ear. She felt a little shiver as he spoke.

“To see if it’s poison, I know a chemist who can determine the compound. If you consent, before we arrive at Mrs. Ludw… Lidgate’s, I might leave this with him?” Amanda nodded her acceptance. “Good. Thank you.”

It was his quiet thanks which held Amanda’s attention the short ride through town.

 

Great-Aunt Celia’s townhouse was extravagant, but tasteful and in the current mode of fashion. Black and white marble checkered the entranceway before a grand single-staircase spiraling to the upper floors. Scalloped alcoves shaded marble and bronze statues or bouquets of flowers—fresh cut and full, despite the house having just opened—but while it was opulent and imposing and had all the luxuries of town living, it did not feel very much like her aunt. Amanda had always thought otherwise. She wondered, now, at the change.

They discovered their hostess and Geoffrey in the reception hall beside the fireplace, huddled over a chess table. Correction: Geoffrey was huddled. Great-Aunt Celia sat back on a settee, directing him with her cane. “No no, Bishop takes Knight. The other Knight, boy! White cannot jump to black! What have they been teaching you? I thought Miss Heatly was challenging your grey matter, but she must be going soft for you to make a move like that. I shall have checkmate in three unless you… Yes! You saw it. The only thing you could do, really. Very good, I nearly feared the worst, that you were a lost cause!

“Well, what have we here! Lord Denbigh such an honor for you to greet us this morning after last night’s incident.”

(Incident. You see!)

While Great-Aunt Celia greeted their guest, Amanda pulled Geoffrey aside. He’d swallowed deeply when he saw the two of them enter together. He knew what was coming. When they reached the corner of the great hall, hopefully far enough away to be out of earshot, she rounded on him.

“Do you recall, my brother dear, that after your excursion the other night, we, the two of us, agreed that you were in an amazing amount of trouble? That your actions had warranted a deluge of punishment? I believe the words ‘reap’ and ‘sown’ were used.”

Geoffrey looked as if he were about to speak, but wisely refrained. Amanda fought to keep her temper.

“What, after all that has occurred, gave you the faintest inclination to lie to me?”

“I didn—”

Amanda tilted her head. “Mr. Diggs?”

Geoffrey snapped his mouth shut. His eyes darted to the imposing figure being barraged by Great-Aunt Celia.

“You alone knew they were the same man. You knew my thoughts on the matter. You deliberately kept information from me.” She bent down so that they were eye-to-eye. He wouldn’t meet them. “Geoffrey, I am severely disappointed.”

The color fled from his face, then rushed back in a wave, flooding his cheeks up to the tips of his ears. His eyes were suspiciously glassy.

“Amanda, you must tell me now how the repairs progress!” Great-Aunt Celia called to her. Lord Denbigh wisely used the opportunity to make his escape, fleeing their direction.

She hesitated leaving Geoffrey, but perhaps it was best. With a sigh, she warned her brother, “We will discuss this at length, later.” She made her way back across the room, but Lord Denbigh caught her midway.

“I might say a few words to him.”

It was said as a statement, but Amanda responded as if he’d asked. “Very well.”

Miss Heatly joined her by the fireplace as they told Great-Aunt Celia the progress of the repairs, but her attention remained on her brother. Between the two women’s chatter it was impossible for any—how did Sophie put it?—ah, yes, “clandestine listening.” She couldn’t hear a word said. But she could see Geoffrey’s head bent low enough to touch his waistcoat.

Then he suddenly raised his head back up, shaking in denial. “But you’re not!” and she could barely make out the reply, “I could have been, Master Pruett.” Geoffrey lowered his head again. Amanda was worried the boy might cry, then and there, and she’d have to intervene, but Lord Denbigh put one hand on his shoulder, spoke several low, hushed words, and handed him the parcel of books.

Geoffrey beamed at the man.

Amanda found herself smiling, too.

“What are you so happy about, child? This glass-man is trying to cheat you. He’s charging an outrageous fee for nails. Nails! He didn’t hammer the pane in!”

Lord Denbigh timed his return until the other women were thoroughly occupied debating the efficiency of the workmen. Only she could hear his gravelly voice, “We are running out of time, but we cannot proceed in the dark, blindly. Lowe didn’t strike me as the type of man for scapegoats, and he would never have approached me if this were something easily cleared by arresting street thugs. He said that this was a member of the ton. Who would have a reason to do such a thing?” He sighed. “We need information. We need someone who knows everything about everyone.”

Amanda smiled. “I know just the person.”