The Carhart Series Page 50

  “Pardon?” He spoke in a low growl. “There is no pardon for what you’ve done.”

  She stared at him, feigning blankness. “You feel strongly about the pearls, then.”

  “You think yourself very clever, don’t you? All those backhanded comments, every last word spoken in front of the group. I haven’t forgotten a word of them, you witless woman.”

  Kate let her eyes widen in shock. “Oh, dear. How inexcusably rude you are being, Harcroft. I know your delicate emotions are overset by recent events, but I must insist that in my own home, you treat me with respect.”

  If he heard her, he didn’t acknowledge it. “No doubt you talked to my wife about marital affairs that ought to stay between husband and wife. No doubt she offered you her own female version of events, calculated in typical feminine fashion to make me appear as awful as possible.” He spat the words female and feminine as if they were the foulest curses imaginable.

  If he thought she’d restricted herself only to talk, he really hadn’t the faintest idea what she’d done.

  Still, Kate blushed. “Ooh.” She let her eyes drop. “You mean…you knew about that? But how humiliating for you. And no wonder you are rude. All married ladies talk about the marital bed. How else are we to have a point of comparison? Infidelity is gauche. One must rely upon gossip instead.”

  “Gossip about the marital bed? But I was speaking of—”

  “If you must know,” Kate continued, “it happened years ago. Louisa was curious, and I had questions. We described our respective experiences and asked for advice. When it was Louisa’s turn, it was Lady Moncrieff who made the indelicate comparison to an undersized carrot. I never mentioned it. I promise you.”

  That froze him in his spot. He licked his lips carefully, and then looked around, as if to ascertain that nobody else had heard. “An—an undersized carrot?”

  “I would never have participated in such an indelicate conversation, I assure you. A lady should not speak about a gentleman’s vegetables. But you are entirely right to reprimand me, my lord. I sincerely apologize for listening. Sometimes, when ladies get in very large groups, our feminine nature takes over. And we do say some indiscreet things.”

  “A very large group of ladies had a discussion about…about…”

  All his bravado, all that masculine intent, had shriveled up—smaller than carrot size, Kate judged. He looked about the entry wildly, as if expecting a bevy of ladies to leap from the woodwork, all laughing at him.

  “Don’t look so abashed. We only spoke of vegetables for a few minutes. I’m positive nobody else recalls the conversation.”

  He looked slightly mollified.

  “After all,” Kate mused on, “that comparison was rather eclipsed by Lady Lannister’s comment about a maid—”

  “A maid!”

  “—beating laundry against a metal washboard.”

  He had nothing to say to that. His mouth gaped. He stepped back. “It wasn’t—no—have all the ladies been thinking that, all these years, when they see me?”

  “Thinking what? About a very tiny root vegetable?” Kate held up her thumb and forefinger, slightly more than an inch apart. Harcroft blanched.

  “No,” Kate said, imbuing her voice with all the reassurance she felt. “Not at all.”

  He let out a breath.

  “There were other descriptions,” she said cheerily. “All equally memorable.”

  He stared, appalled, at the inch-and-a-half gap between her fingers. “Well. This is what you’ve done with your…groundless speculation. You helped lay the groundwork for a good woman—an obedient woman—to question her marriage. You raised doubts in her, about her lawful husband. And no doubt it was the uncertainty that you engendered that fevered her mind.” This track, apparently, took his mind off vegetables. Once removed from the horrifing thought of his inadequacy, he remembered his tirade. “You women, with your disgusting analogies—you caused her to forsake me.”

  “Analogies! Oh, not at all, sir! They were more in the nature of metaphors.”

  He was still underestimating her, and inside, Kate felt faint with relief. He imagined only that she’d encouraged Louisa’s complaints. If he knew that Kate had planned every step of the journey that had stolen his wife from her home in broad daylight, he would have used a stronger word than disgusting.

  “Stop looking at me, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “That’s just—it’s just obscene.”

  What was truly obscene was what he’d done to his wife. But Kate couldn’t let Harcroft suspect she was capable of actual cogitation—not that he was likely to attribute such a thing to a woman.

  “Harcroft, I know you’re upset. But do try to see reason. I never participated in that conversation. You and I have perhaps not been the best of friends, but I’m Louisa’s friend. I want to help her.” All true; she hadn’t participated in the conversation. At the time, she’d been laughing too hard.

  He glanced up at her, warily. But before he could respond, footsteps sounded in the hallway behind them.

  “Harcroft?” Lord Blakely appeared behind the man. “Good. I’ve been looking for you. In the latest dispatch from London, there’s some rather interesting news. White has uncovered a woman—a nursemaid—who was hired from her home in Chelsea and spirited away.”

  Harcroft looked down at Kate, a confused look on his face. “Chelsea? But I was so sure…” He trailed off. “I thought—well. Never mind.”

  Kate couldn’t smile now, or they might wonder. And Kate could hardly disclose that she’d hired a nursemaid and a parlor maid answering to Louisa’s description, to take a paid tour of the Peak district. A nice bit of misdirection; now, if only the men would oblige her by being otherwise directed.

  “It’s a very interesting report,” Lord Blakely repeated, “and we must decide what to do about it.” He turned back down the corridor.

  Harcroft cast one glance backward at Kate. “I apologize,” Kate said in a low voice. “The laundry maid comparison was most unfair. I should never have repeated it.”

  He nodded, jerkily, once. “Apology accepted.”

  Kate held her tongue until the two men left, until their steps receded down the polished corridor and a door closed softly on their conference.

  “A most unfair comparison,” she said to the empty hall. “After all, a scullery maid beats her laundry for longer than two minutes.”

  “WHAT DO WE DO NOW? Do Jenny and I go to Chelsea, while you stay here, Harcroft?”

  As his cousin spoke, Ned shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The council had convened fifteen minutes prior, right after Ned had come in from the field. Jenny, Harcroft and Gareth had all taken places at the long wooden table.

  Notably missing from the conversation was Ned’s own wife. Harcroft hadn’t spoken of inviting her, and given what Ned now knew, he was happier not to have her present.

  Across the table from him, Jenny shifted on her seat, her lips pressing together. She glanced down the table where Harcroft sat. Harcroft was—had been—Ned’s friend, not Jenny’s and Gareth’s. Ned had made the introduction. At his request, Harcroft had welcomed Gareth and his new wife into polite society. What might otherwise have been a difficult matter for them had turned into a few months of discomfort, forgotten once the gossip had been eclipsed by the newest scandal. Still, for that, Jenny was obligated to Harcroft, and no doubt thought her assistance on this matter would even out that old score.

  But it was just obligation.

  And perhaps that was why Jenny shook her head. “Gareth,” she said quietly, “it has been several days. If we venture into Chelsea…”

  In front of them, papers lay piled. Reports from Gareth’s man of business were stacked neatly to the side of Harcroft’s map, complete with its prickle of straight-pins.

  Gareth glanced at her. He had a more rigid sense of duty and obligation, and naturally, the thought that he might shirk either would not sit well with him.

  “Someone has to go to Chelsea,”
Gareth said. “Someone we can trust.”

  Harcroft nodded.

  Jenny’s hands played along the tabletop, and she said nothing.

  She didn’t need to complete her thoughts—at least, not to Ned. Some women of the ton would never balk at leaving their young children to a nursemaid for weeks on end. But Jenny had been abandoned by her own mother, and even a hint of doing the same would doubtless bring up her hackles. A few weeks—with her first child just over a year old—would not have sat well with her.

  “I could go on alone,” Gareth offered. He bit his lip. “But making people comfortable enough to divulge details is not precisely one of my strengths.”

  If Ned were to talk of honor and obligation—and true affection—a great deal of his lay here. He owed Jenny for her long-ago friendship. He owed Gareth for tugging him out of his own youthful mistakes. And he loved them both, and could not countenance sending them off to chase down wild poultry, when he knew precisely how futile the hunt would be.

  “Are we truly worried about a little thing like a few weeks’ absence, when my wife’s well-being might be at stake?” Harcroft demanded.

  Jenny looked away once more.

  Oh, yes. And there was the fact that Ned couldn’t blurt out the truth with Harcroft close by. He’d gotten his cousin and his wife entangled with the earl; it was his responsibility to untwine them. If he could arrange this, nobody would ever be able to say he was useless again. Least of all himself.

  “You’re quite right, Harcroft,” Ned heard himself say. All three turned to him—Jenny, Gareth and the earl himself. “This matter is too important to bungle. Harcroft, you should go to Chelsea.” He turned to his cousin. “The two of you should return to Blakely manor—it’s closer to London, and it’s centrally located. That way, if any new information is discovered, you could easily move on to where you are needed.”

  Harcroft paused contemplatively, then shook his head. “No good. I have to stay here, to finish the canvas of the district. If that woman we heard of on that first day turned out to be Louisa, we might lose her trail. I can’t risk that.”

  “I spent my summers here when I was younger. I know the residents. And—” Ned felt a little dirty, but under these circumstances, the lie was better than the truth coming out “—you know you can trust me to pursue all your interests.”

  Jenny’s eyes narrowed as Ned spoke, and he looked away from her to contemplate the pins on the map. He wasn’t any good at lying to Jenny—he never had been. Jenny was damnably observant. And he could not have this conversation with her—at least not with Harcroft looking on. But all he had to do was convince Harcroft.

  So he added the coup de grâce. “And besides, Harcroft, you know Lady Blakely will be distracted by her own feminine concerns. This matter needs the best attention that you can give.”

  Even Gareth raised his head at that phenomenal stinker of a falsehood.

  “Ned, are you trying to goad me into acting?” Jenny’s voice had taken on a dangerous note.

  “Take me to task later.” He spoke to Jenny, but looked at Harcroft still.

  Harcroft met his gaze. One benefit of the man having no sense of humor was that he had little sense of sarcasm, either. He showed no sign that he heard anything amiss in Ned’s treasonous speech. Finally, he gave a short, sharp nod. And like that, there was nothing more to do but divide the tasks, and try not to let the relief he felt show. Gareth left the room to order the packing to start. Jenny sat, stiff and silent, throughout the remainder of the conversation. Ned felt her eyes on him.

  “Ha.” Harcroft rubbed his hands bitterly as he watched the man leave.

  The room wasn’t cold, but Ned felt a chilling prickle under his collar.

  Harcroft leaned close anyway and whispered, “Watch your wife, Ned. I know you don’t want to hear my warnings. But I’ve talked to the servants. She’s gone on walks—long walks—twice in the last week. And before any of us arrived, she spent a night away from the house.”

  “Harcroft, this isn’t the time to speculate on—”

  “No.” Harcroft stood and dry-washed his hands. “A gentleman doesn’t speculate on a lady’s proclivities. A duke’s daughter is not some…some laundry maid, to be exposed to the world’s censure.” His lip pulled back bitterly. “But Ned—do spare a moment, while looking for my wife, to keep your guard up around yours.”

  “I’m not worried about Kate. I trust her.”

  “Well.” Harcroft strode to the door. “To each their own. I suppose I’ll be ready to leave in the morning. Lady Blakely?”

  “If we’re off in the next few hours, we’ll arrive home tonight.” There was that look in Jenny’s eyes, though, the way she dropped them so quickly, that suggested she had something else in mind. She remained seated, watching Ned as Harcroft walked out. She said nothing, long after his footsteps echoed down the hall.

  And this was the true test. Ned could fool Harcroft. He could bamboozle Gareth. But Jenny had spent the years before her marriage watching for reactions, looking for the tiny, betraying clues that would suggest hidden motivations. Even if his heart had been in the deception, Jenny would have been difficult to lie to.

  “We’ve not talked about Kate much,” she finally said. “I know she and I have not been the best of friends. But are things well between you?”

  “Well enough.”

  “If that’s an answer, I’ll eat my hat.” She tossed her unclad head, and Ned found himself grinning.

  “You’re not wearing one.”

  Her mouth curved up in brief appreciation, but she was not to be misdirected by levity. “What a mess this has been. I just want to know that someone here has a chance of happiness in the next week, Ned. It might as well be you. It’s your turn, after all.” She turned a hand over in her lap and inspected her nails.

  “Really?” Ned asked. “That’s all you wanted to say?”

  “Of course. I care for your welfare. You know that.”

  “What I meant was that you did not use to be so obvious when you were trying to persuade me to divulge my secrets.”

  She glanced up sharply, then smiled. “You have grown up, I see. Very well. Are you going to tell me why you are trying to rid yourself of Harcroft and my husband?”

  Ned considered this briefly. “No.”

  She smiled. “Are you going to share any of your suspicions?” She spoke lightly, as if his suspicions were inconsequential fears that could be divulged in a sentence or two. If he told her everything, she would help him. She would insist on it—she and her husband both. And as much as Ned cared for them, he didn’t want their help. He didn’t want them meddling, interfering in his relationship with his wife.

  And he still wanted to prove himself.

  Besides, Jenny wanted to go home.

  “Suspicions?” Ned parroted.

  She cocked her head. Ned forced himself to remain calm under that examination. He took regular breaths, relaxed his shoulders.

  “My suspicions,” Ned said, “are mine. And the instant I have information beyond what I possess in the moment, I’ll share with you. You can be sure of that.”

  True; everything he knew now, every certain scrap of knowledge, was his. It would take some vast new piece of knowledge to get him to betray what he knew.

  “You know,” Jenny said too casually, “before you arrived in this room, Harcroft said he suspected Kate was maligning him. That she might have precipitated his wife’s flight.”

  Any answer—or no answer—would betray too much. Ned rubbed his chin, as if he could scrub off the weight of her attention. He couldn’t, though; she watched him, as clear-eyed as before. Finally, he met her gaze head-on. “And does that arouse your suspicions as to Kate or Harcroft?”

  “You also didn’t use to answer my little prompts with questions. I should have liked to ask you the same thing, as it turns out. And as it turns out…I don’t know. Neither. Both. Maybe. Harcroft is a moody fellow. I can’t quite put my finger on him.”

>   Saying Harcroft was moody seemed a bit like saying that an unexpected winter storm was a mild inconvenience.

  “He’ll never admit it, as he’s one of those men, but this ordeal has left him completely overwrought. If he were a woman, everyone would say he was on the verge of hysterics. I don’t know what else to say, but I am sure that he loves Louisa. He wept when he told us she was missing. He wept, Ned. Imagine what that must mean to a man stuffed as full of pride as he. There have been times I could have happily slapped him—he constantly drops these unthinking little insults to his wife. But he wept.”

  “And you?”

  “I have not known Louisa—or her husband—well enough to weep. If this information from Chelsea comes to nothing…we must simply wait and hope that Louisa has not come to any harm.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “Or must we?”

  Jenny had always been able to ferret out his secrets. But now…

  Ned simply looked at her and shook his head. “Trust me.”

  Jenny sighed. “Ned, I know you want to help. But this is too important for you to handle on your own.”

  He felt a familiar clutch in his stomach. He might have been fourteen years old again, overhearing his grandfather disparage him. To have Jenny, of all people, do it…

  “What?” His voice dropped. “Are you saying I can only be trusted with responsibility over unimportant matters?”

  “That’s not it. It’s just that this is a very complicated situation. Repaying this debt we owe means a great deal to both Gareth and me. And—”

  “Yes. That’s precisely what you’re saying. You can’t claim to trust me in words, and then not actually trust me. What you’re saying now is akin to, ‘Thank you, Ned, for blundering into a situation you can’t handle. Now step aside and let the adults take care of it.’”