Jason was glad to find Kinsey’s secretary, Thorburn, absent from the library. He had no intention of including Thorburn in this investigation, as he remained high on the list of suspects.

He had learned nothing from the male members of the staff. The nervous footman, Jeremy, had been remarkably unobservant, considering his bedroom was next door to Bart’s.

“Only the muffled voice of Mrs. Chance, who tended to him. Very efficiently too,” Jeremy had said. “Kept him as clean and comfortable as was possible. And quite firm with the staff. Wouldn’t allow us to stay long unless we upset him, but poor Bart was too ill to notice that we were there.”

Disheartened, Jason had hoped for more. The maids’ chambers were segregated from the men’s, situated in a different wing. Fiske also had rooms at the opposite end of the corridor to Bart’s and was no help at all, apart from expressing sorrow that he’d chastised Bart for his negligent appearance.

“I heard Bart arguing with Mrs. Chance,” one of the upstairs maids, Alice, her eyes like saucers, whispered in a conspiratorial manner when he questioned her. “It shocked me to hear him speak like that, so I stopped and listened.”

“When was this?”

“A week or so before he took to his bed, milord.”

“What was the argument about?”

“Mrs. Chance wanted him to run an errand, and he refused. Bart said something I didn’t understand.”

“And what was that, Alice?”

“Bart said, ‘You must think me a fool.’”

“That was all?”

Alice chewed her bottom lip. “Yes, milord. Mrs. Chance told him to be careful. He might find himself out on the street without a character.”

“What do you think Bart meant by that?”

“When Mrs. Chance had gone away, I asked him. He just said he didn’t like to go on personal errands for her.”

“But footmen are required to run messages for the house, are they not?”

“Yes, milord. And when I reminded him of it, he just shrugged.”

The French lady’s maid was of no help at all. After reminiscing about how she and Bart conversed in French, she fell upon Jason’s chest in tears.

After calming Eloise, he sent her down to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

When Lady Helen entered the room, he was studying artifacts in a glass-fronted cabinet. Jason turned to her. “Your father has an excellent collection.” He watched her cross the room, coolly composed. He’d begun to suspect she donned her unruffled demeanor like steel-plated armor, and he wondered why. It could not always have been so, for he caught glimpses beneath the façade. He had no business wondering, of course, and wished he could stop. But each time he saw her, he came away wanting to know more.

“Yes. Although Papa donates most of his discoveries to the museum.”

He paused before a decorative detail depicting two donkeys bearing loads. “Didn’t the Ancient Egyptians have camels? They are known to be the ships of the desert, are they not?”

“Not then, no, they preferred donkeys. And wooden barges on the Nile to move grain and stone blocks. They used the Nile like we do our roads, sailing in papyrus boats.” She smiled at him, and for once, he could see her relax into herself. When she glanced up toward the blue-painted ceiling above them, he caught a glimpse of the dewy magnolia skin of her throat, which looked petal soft. “And every day, high above the river, the sun god Ra was believed to sail across the sky in his solar boat.”

“I don’t blame them for forgoing camels. They look like fractious beasts, and very uncomfortable.”

She laughed, making him grin at how infectious it was. “I hope to ride one.”

“You do?” He wondered at that and tried to imagine it but failed. This starchy young lady on a camel? “I can’t quite see it,” he said, his lips twitching.

She shrugged, looking annoyed. “I don’t see why. Is it because I’m a woman?”

“I can assure you it isn’t,” he hastened to say, enjoying the fire in her eyes. “I believe camels would be deliberately bad-mannered with both sexes.”

Her eyes danced. “Women do travel to exotic climes. Do you know that Egyptian women had equal rights with men?”

“They did?” He wanted to prolong the discussion, enjoying her animation. This conversation brought Lady Helen out of where she’d been hiding. And for that, he was both intrigued and grateful.

“Yes. Men and women were treated as equals in the eyes of the law. Unlike today,” she said with an exasperated shrug, “women could own, earn, buy, sell, and inherit property. They could live unprotected by male guardians and, if widowed or divorced, could raise their own children. They could bring cases before, and be punished by, the law courts.”

“Were they not expected to marry?”

“Yes, and the wife was the mistress of the house, responsible for domestic matters. She raised the children while their husband provided for them.”

“Not so different to today, then,” he said, teasing her.

“Marriage today is very different, Lord Peyton,” she said crisply. “A wife has no rights and loses any claim to property.”

“Not all men are tyrants, Lady Helen. Some allow their wives a good deal of freedom. You surely must agree.”

“My father certainly, who is a cut above most men. But while these laws remain, women will never be free.”

“Only your father, Lady Helen? Surely, you have met decent men since you entered society?”

“I don’t believe we were discussing my circumstances.” Her lashes hid her expression, and the Helen who spoke to him as a confident equal and challenged him was gone.

He wanted to better understand her but had been too forthright. He moved on to view a Greek vase then discovered naked men cavorting in imaginative ways around its circumference. Lady Helen flicked a disinterested glance at the detailed, suggestive poses and stepped away. He almost smiled, suspecting she’d examined it quite closely when it first arrived. But fearing he might offend her, he turned his attention to a base-relief of Egyptian hieroglyphs. “I viewed the Rosetta Stone in the British Museum. The English army recovered it from the French during the Egyptian campaign in 1801.”

“A very important find,” she said at his elbow, “as it’s hoped to hold the key to deciphering hieroglyphic language.”

“Indeed.” He turned to observe her bright, intelligent eyes and wished he didn’t have to return to the matter at hand. “I have yet to speak with your housekeeper. Is Mrs. Chance away for the afternoon?”

“Yes, she is visiting her brother.”

“He lives in London?”

“He travels a good deal for his work. She always has the afternoon off when he’s in the city.”

“What can you tell me about Mr. Thorburn?”

“My father likes him. He has worked as Papa’s secretary for a few years.”

“I need to see him. He doesn’t have quarters in the house?”

“No. Neither does he work on Mondays.”

Jason had avoided approaching Kinsey’s desk and rifling through his papers, but he spied the earl’s handsome magnifying glass perched on a brass and polished wooden stand. He reached into his pocket. “Shall we examine the letter fragment?”

She drew in a breath. “Oh yes, let’s.”

Removing the scrap from his wallet he placed the fragile paper carefully onto the polished surface of the desk and bent to examine it through the magnifying glass. A few of the letters leaped out at him. “Interesting.”

“What is? Let me see.” She moved closer, her delicate perfume reminding him of early spring. Her hair brushed his wrist as she lowered her head to peer through the glass at the smudged words. Distracted, he breathed her in. She must wash her hair with lavender soap. She raised her head, her gray eyes questioning. “I believe I can make out more of the first line.”

“Tell me what you see,” he said, held captive by her sudden arresting smile.

“I think this is, ‘Abused Lord…and this ‘Kin,’ but the rest is blurred. Surely this must refer to my father. It wasn’t ‘truth’ as we’d previously thought. It’s ‘trust.’ My father’s trust has been abused?”

“I thought the same. It doesn’t tell us much, except that the letter concerns your father. It appears we must be patient until we can consult him.”

A book titled Description De l’Égypte perched on the desk. Opening it, he found it to be a catalog of interesting notes, engravings, and drawings from over a hundred scholars and scientists.

“It was collated at Napoleon’s decree and covers all aspects of ancient and modern Egypt and its natural history,” she said, leaning back against the desk to watch him.

He turned the page. “Fascinating.”

“I find it so.”

“You’ve read this?”

A flash of humor crossed her face. “I am working my way through it.”

He glanced at her in admiration. Lady Helen was proving fascinating herself.

Beside the book were notes written in Arabic. Although he could read Latin and Greek, his grasp of Arabian script was limited. But one name stood out because it was written in English. “Has your father ever mentioned a Mr. Alexandro Volta?”

She searched his eyes, hers turning a brilliant gray-blue, like crushed violets. “No, why?”

Startled by the change in her, those remarkable eyes, and that delicately flushed skin, Jason fought to order his thoughts. “I remember reading something about Volta. Now, what was it? Ah yes. He was awarded the Copley by the Royal Society of London for his scientific research. Invented a glowing wire, I believe. One of the many experiments concerning magnetic and electrical power.”

She gasped, her eyes alight, seemingly unaware that her hand clutched his sleeve. “It could have some connection to electric fish!”

His gaze dropped to her luscious lips. “I believe you’re right!” Without thought, he leaned forward and pressed a brief kiss on her mouth.

Somehow, the kiss lengthened. Her mouth softened under his, and she made a small appreciative noise as his arm swept around her waist to pull her closer. He became aware of the soft compliant body within his arm, and the luscious taste of her lips, and his blood rampaged through his veins.

She stiffened, and he pulled away, dropping his hands.

“My lord!” She gave a shaky laugh, her hand to her mouth, and stepped back.

“Forgive me,” he said with a shameless grin, his blood still pounding. “This is not something I normally do, kissing ladies on brief acquaintance. An impulse. I blame the excitement of the moment.”

What a disgraceful fellow he was. Not only had he broken every rule of etiquette, he’d lied. He didn’t regret kissing her one bit. She’d looked so vividly alive and quite beautiful, and he couldn’t resist. But she’d be well within her rights to slap him.

She did not. Her cheeks flamed, and her tongue traced her lips. What he hadn’t expected was his own reaction to the touch and taste of her, and the heat that streaked through him, making him want to draw her close again and kiss her senseless. He cleared his throat.

“I should go. I’m confident Lord Kinsey will enlighten us.”

“Yes…yes. I believe he will.” Doubt clouded her eyes like a summer storm.

“I’ll interview your housekeeper tomorrow. You expect your father home on time?”

“He has been delayed for a few days,” she said over her shoulder and hurried to the door as if he was about to pounce on her.

Jason watched her uneasily. He had not experienced that reaction from a lady before. He cursed himself for his rash behavior, although he still could not regret the kiss.

Walking home, despite the interesting connection to Volta, Jason could think of nothing but Lady Helen. How her feisty, confident manner, so very different to her careful demeanor, had aroused something in him he didn’t quite understand. He’d wanted to draw closer, which surprised him as much as her. She returned his kiss in a very un-spinster-like manner, her hands resting on his shoulders before she pushed him away. But still, it was clear she did not welcome his attentions. Irritated by a rash action that seemed most unlike him, he hoped there would be no awkwardness between them when they met again. He did not normally act impulsively, and certainly not with a lady he respected.

A letter from his university friend, Robert Vale, who was in Italy, awaited him. Jason went to the library to read it. Vale was now studying art in Florence under one of the masters. He had exhibited considerable artistic talent at university, but his passion had distracted him from his studies, and he’d failed his exams.

They’d spent Robert’s last evening drinking ale in an Oxford tavern while he explained why he wasn’t in the least sorry to be leaving university and how a man’s expectations of where he stood in the world were often blinkered. Jason still remembered his words, “Sometimes, the beliefs you carry throughout life are simply wrong, dear fellow.”

As they grew more foxed by the hour, Jason had sought to argue, sad to see his friend leave England. Their top-heavy drinking session had occurred only a month after Phoebe died, and Jason had espoused his strongly held opinion that a man who allowed himself to love a woman too deeply was vulnerable to great loss. He now regretted having bored his friend, but he had not changed his mind. Better to move lightly through life and resist temptations like Lady Helen.

It was good that Robert still appeared contented with his life. Jason had had the opportunity to visit him when in Italy. He’d found his artistic friend, who came from a titled and wealthy English family, living in a small house with the voluptuous and excitable mother of their four bambinos.

Jason admitted that, at the time, he’d considered Vale to be hiding from life and avoiding his responsibilities. But reading his letter, he saw he’d been wrong.

Francesca and the children are in good health, and we are soon to welcome another bambino, Vale wrote. We must now move to a bigger house. A nuisance when we are so comfortable here. Fortunately, I have received a good commission for a portrait, so money is not as tight as it is sometimes. Life is good, my friend. The food is abundant, the sun still shines, and the vino is excellent. You should come to visit and wet the baby’s head. As to your Baron Bianchi, I have met him briefly and been privileged to visit his wonderful villa to view his marvelous collection of sculpture and paintings. While I cannot claim to know him intimately, he is well thought of here.

Putting down the letter, Jason studied the Claude Lorraine landscape of a fictional Italy on the wall opposite. Was Lizzie about to disappear from his life? They’d always been close confidantes who supported each other through the darkest times. Only she understood how his past had affected him. He’d enjoyed her company after Greywood charged him with the task of caring for her. Was that about to change? One could never be sure of what lay in the future. Surely, this reinforced his view of the vagaries of life and how advisable it was to move through it unencumbered.

The door opened, and his brother strode in.

“I missed you last evening, Charlie. How was the theater?”

Charlie flung himself down on the leather sofa. “Mrs. Groton and Amelia found it entertaining, but if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” He shrugged. “Tumblers or a juggler’s feats are really only astonishing the first time you view them.”

Detecting the sour note in Charlie’s voice, Jason sat back and viewed him. “What has occurred?”

“Eh? Nothing. Not really.” He huffed out a breath. “It’s just that when driving Amelia in the park, the dandies and fops clustered around the curricle, demanding to know who she was. And then at the theater, it was even worse.”

“Miss Groton is very pretty. You must expect it, Charlie.”

“But Amelia encourages them. She’s a shocking flirt. Her aunt does nothing to stop her.”

“All this is new to her. And very exciting, I imagine.”

“I suppose so,” Charlie said in a sulky voice. “But she refused my invitation to go to the opera this evening. Said she had a sore throat and was tired.”

“Well, perhaps she is.”

He scowled. “I’d be prepared to place a bet in White’s betting book that she has another engagement. There was one persistent fellow hanging around her like a bee around the lavender. Didn’t like the cut of his jib. Whispered something in her ear I didn’t hear.”

“Care to go out with me tonight, then?” Jason asked, wishing to distract himself from a vision of Lady Helen in his arms. “I’m happy for you to choose the venue, except for cockfights.”

Charlie grinned. “Really? That would be grand, Jas. Tonight there’s a chance for a fellow to spar with Gentleman John Jackson at his boxing club.”

“Excellent. Afterward, we could indulge in a spot of fencing practice at Angelo’s Fencing Academy, next door, then end the night with a good lobster dinner at the Royal Saloon in Piccadilly.”

“Capital!” Charlie bounded up, Miss Groton apparently forgotten. Jason was pleased with the opportunity to enjoy Charlie’s company before he was sent back. He’d been corresponding with an influential friend who had written to the dean on his behalf. Word had come this morning that Charlie was to return to Oxford at the beginning of the next term. But Jason wasn’t about to tell him now. No sense in spoiling the evening.

 

***

“Yes, Mama.” Her pulse was still racing. Peyton had kissed her. She’d been so caught up in the excitement of their possible discovery, had she unwittingly invited his kiss when she placed a hand on his arm? And before she could gain control of herself, she had kissed him back! Did he think her fast? Or was he a rake? She didn’t want to believe it of him. Couldn’t, not when she could still feel the touch of his lips and his strong manly arms around her and wanted to be alone to relive the moment.

Her mother, who had the instinct of a lioness, grabbed her arm. “Something has occurred?”

Helen dragged in a slow, deep breath. “Yes, we were able to decipher more of the letter. And must now await Papa’s return to understand it.” She hoped it was enough to put her mother off.

“Come into your room. I want to hear all about it.”

Perched on her bed, she tried to present a coherent account of events, expect for, of course, the kiss.

“Well, that is interesting,” Mama observed. “And best left to Lord Peyton until your father is home.” Helen feared a telltale flush was still in evidence, as a worried frown creased her mother’s forehead. “I wonder if I should allow you to spend time alone with Peyton. He is an army man after all.”

“Oh, Mama! Lord Peyton is a gentleman, worthy of our trust.” Helen surprised herself by rushing to his defense, dismayed at the prospect of them no longer working together and losing their new-found intimacy, no matter how utterly disturbing and fruitless it was. However, it wasn’t a lie. Peyton was no rake. He’d quickly let her go when she’d come to her senses. She knew only too well what rakehells were capable of. A rake would have laughed at her reaction, kissed her again, and taken other liberties. Peyton was nothing like Albert Lord Lawley, the gentleman, so called, who had ruined her life. She suppressed a shiver. “You cannot always tell a true gentleman by his title.”

“Oh, my darling girl.” Sitting on Helen’s bed, Mama hugged her close. “No, you cannot.” Her voice trembled. “I shall never forgive myself for what happened to you that night.”

“It was my fault, Mama. I shouldn’t have slipped away onto the terrace with Lawley when Lady Fountain distracted you. When he invited me to stroll in the garden, he was so handsome and charming that I trusted him. I was young and foolish, but I’m not anymore. I don’t believe I am wrong about Lord Peyton, although it hardly matters.” She knew his kiss meant little more than, as he’d explained, a reaction to the excitement of the moment. “He has no interest in marrying me.”

“Nevertheless, my dear, I am relieved you can find it in yourself to trust a man again. I see it as a sign that you’ve recovered and are open to finding a prospective husband this Season.”

Helen neither believed the world had changed nor that a rosy future awaited her. But Peyton had found her attractive enough to kiss, which, when she calmed down, made her smile.

Helen left her mother and went downstairs. The shock of that dreadful time had faded with the years. She could face it without flinching and firmly thrust the memories away. Lawley might have forgotten it too, although his anger at what he saw as unfair treatment made it seem unlikely.

She had been bedridden for some weeks following that terrible ball while gossip filled the news sheets and fueled the talk in drawing rooms. Her mother, fearing Helen’s spirits had sunk dangerously low, tended her most lovingly. Mama had insisted that Lawley had taken nothing from Helen that mattered, that she was still the same innocent she’d always been. But Helen knew he’d taken far too much that night, every vestige of her confidence, her hopes, and her dreams. His taunting words as he’d ravaged her were etched into her memory, how he’d sneered when she cried and fought him, saying she should welcome his attentions because she wasn’t very pretty and said he would have preferred to be with one of the Season’s beauties. Struggling with him, she’d hit her head on a stone wall and lost consciousness. She was thankfully unaware of being carried inside by her father to uproar and speculation.

Lawley, a younger son of an impoverished baron, denied everything, saying that the “silly girl” was merely hysterical, but when the ton gave him the cut direct, he’d departed for the Continent soon afterward, leaving behind a mountain of debts. As his pockets were to let, it was Mama’s opinion that he’d sought to compromise Helen and force the marriage.

Her dreams might still be haunted by his violent act, but she refused to give in to what that man had done to her. What she might do if she ever came face to face with him again at some society function, she wasn’t sure, but fury not distress now drove her. She only hoped she would never find out.

A deep sigh escaped her, and then she straightened her shoulders. She must stop this stupid admiration of Lord Peyton. While he did not fit her notion of a rake, one who seduced innocent young women, he might consider a lady of her age to be eager for a light flirtation. And if that was the case, well, he could think again. Tomorrow, she would treat him as she had learned to treat every gentleman she met in society, with her head held high, as if his kiss was a matter of complete indifference to her.