Barbara Pierce (5 page)

She had told Lyssa and Darknell the truth. How could she not, when Priddy had refused to discuss the subject again, and Kilby was nigh bursting with anxiety over the duke’s death? Her friends were trustworthy. They had been sharing confidences with one another for years. Her vexation with Lord Darknell would eventually wane. At the moment, his teasing comments had Kilby regretting that she had made him privy to her secrets.
He will not tell anyone the truth,
she thought. It was just unlike him to be so provoking.

She could not resist snapping at Darknell for his insensitivity. “You know there is nothing safe about Ealkin these days. Priddy understands this. I thought you did as well, my lord. Our friendship has spanned years and yet you seem to have suffered no ill effects from it.” His comment about her possessing deadly wiles stung. She doubted she could deliberately flirt with a gentleman without collapsing into a fit of giggles at the absurdity of it all.

“So it would appear,” Darknell said enigmatically, causing Kilby to gnash her teeth in agitation. His brows lifted in bemusement when Kilby stomped a few steps away from him. Prudently, deciding not to aggravate the lady further, the viscount turned his charming smile on Lyssa. “So what do you have to say about this business, Nunn?”

Lady Lyssa, or Nunn as her friends affectionately called her, was the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Wildon. The first thing everyone noticed about her was that she was remarkably tall for a woman. Standing next to Lord Darknell, Kilby observed the viscount was taller barely by two inches.

While Kilby viewed Lyssa’s height as an asset, her friend did not. She felt her height enhanced the illusion of a boyish figure, rather than the ideal feminine frame Lyssa
often dreamed of. She had a comely face with pale blue eyes, straight teeth, and long, wavy hair the color of wheat. At nineteen, Lyssa was being pressured by her family to make an advantageous match this season. Kilby had little doubt Lyssa would receive several offers for her hand in marriage before the season had ended. Though, for her friend’s sake, Kilby prayed the gentlemen seeking Lyssa’s affections treasured her friend as highly as her family’s connections.

The pair strolled closer to her so their private conversation could not be overheard. “I think that if you persist in taunting Kilby, you will get a deserving poke in the eye for your troubles,” Lyssa said, moving away from the viscount and aligning herself with her friend. “What troubles you, Darknell? Do not tell me that you believe Kilby invited that old man up to her bedchamber?”

Darknell shifted his dark brown gaze from Lyssa to Kilby. His appraisal was too frank and contemplative for her liking. Her fingers tightened around her parasol. While the viscount might deserve a crack in the head with her parasol, she resisted the urge for violence. After all, she had begged him to join them at the rural fair east of London for a practical reason. She and Lyssa needed him to act as their escort and protector. It was not prudent for two gently reared ladies to walk about a common fair unescorted.

“No,” Darknell said a few seconds later. “The Duke of Solitea had a nefarious reputation with the ladies; a fact I would have gladly shared with you, my lady, had you seen fit to reveal your plans to meet the gentleman in private.”

Kilby cringed at his mild rebuke. Darknell made her sound like a brainless twit. Well, he was wrong! She would be the first to admit she was out of her element in London. Unlike her friends’ families, her parents had shielded her from the boisterous town life. Whenever she had begged her father to permit her to join him on one of his trips to
London, he had refused her request. He promptly would then lecture her on the town’s decadence and the subtle corruption of a person’s moral character. She had grown up believing London was nothing more than a hideous cesspool of villains. Archer’s callous behavior had only reinforced the impression.

It was not until she had been introduced to Lyssa at one of her parents’ summer gatherings that she had been given a kinder description of the sights and delights the town offered. Since then, she had longed for a chance to visit London. The fight she had had with Archer and his angry revelations had only fueled her desire.

Archer’s announcement had planted the insidious seeds of doubt within Kilby about her father. A part of her believed her brother was distorting the truth for his own twisted aims. Though he had been adamant that the letters remain in his possession, he had allowed her to read several of the more incriminating ones. It was only then Kilby had to concede that her mother had indeed been keeping a few secrets. She also knew the answers she sought could be found in London. Luckily, with Priddy’s backing, she was finally here. Kilby was not about to let anyone or anything, including her own naïveté, ruin her chance to remain in town.

She twisted her parasol in agitation. Darknell was not going to drop the subject of the duke until she had to his satisfaction suffered properly for her sins. “I had not heard one unkind word about the Duke of Solitea. He seemed charming and solicitous, unlike other gentlemen of the
ton,
” Kilby said, feeling defensive because flattery and a handsome face had beguiled her. “I was so grateful he was willing to discuss my parents with me, I did not question his motives when he suggested an intimate setting for our discussion. Since I do not want Priddy or anyone else to learn that I have been prying into my parents’ past, his request for privacy made sense.”

“Little girl, the man had every intention of bedding you,” Darknell said bluntly. “Did you have to simplify his intent by inviting him up to your bedchamber?”

Kilby responded with a gimlet stare. She loved the man dearly, but honestly, if he continued to remind her of her idiocy, she was not going to be responsible for her actions. “How many times do I have to tell you? I did not invite him up to my bedchamber. The duke simply followed me.”

Lyssa gave Kilby a sympathetic pat on her arm. “You must have been terrified when you realized he had followed you upstairs.”

“Not really,” Kilby admitted to her friends. “I thought perhaps the poor man was confused.”

Darknell snorted. “Fitchwolf,” he said with affection. “You need a keeper.”

Kilby felt her cheeks color at his remark. Without a word, she headed for the heart of the fair, not caring if Darknell followed. Naturally, he did and Lyssa was a step behind him. The viscount had always taken his job as their escort seriously. A little feminine temper would not dissuade him.

“I will remind you, the Duke of Solitea remained a gentleman to the end,” Kilby said curtly, and then winced at her poor choice of words. She was also lying. No one needed to know the duke had succeeded in kissing her on the lips. She was already in enough trouble.

“You can thank the specter of death for that small blessing,” Darknell shot back. He grabbed her arm, slowing her down to a reasonable pace.

“Spare us,” Lyssa muttered under her breath as she caught up with them. She had often stepped between them in the past when Kilby and Darknell argued.

Darknell had been insufferable from the second he had approached their carriage. Kilby could not fathom why the man persisted in baiting her. “I think we can all agree, the duke paid dearly for his errors. Let him rest in peace.”

“I suggest we talk about something else,” Lyssa said.

“Agreed,” seconded Kilby, smiling at her friend in gratitude.

The viscount released his grip on Kilby and placed his hands behind his back as they walked for a minute in silence. “Fine. I will begin. Who is your next victim, Lady Kilby?”

The fact he was using her title proved Darknell was more than a little perturbed with her. She was not going to let him goad her. “Good heavens, you make it sound like I killed the duke.”

“I know you did not. Nevertheless, it is what the Carlisles are thinking,” he said mildly.

Her mouth parted in astonishment. “That is ridiculous! Even the surgeon who arrived at the house agreed that the man died of natural causes.”

“Fitchwolf, you are such an innocent.” He sighed. “I speak of
la petite mort,
or the little death,” Darknell explained, as if he were instructing a child. “I wager the entire Carlisle family believes Solitea died while pumping himself dry between your soft thighs.”

Both ladies gasped at the viscount’s deliberate vulgarity. Darknell’s crude version of events sickened her. Kilby absently rubbed her irritated stomach. Priddy had warned her that while the duke’s family had agreed the circumstances leading up to the duke’s death were best kept secret, the family’s private speculation about the duke’s presence was beyond their control. The surgeon and the servants had been paid generously for their silence. Nevertheless, what if they talked? And what of the duke’s family? Good heavens, the man had been married. Did the entire Carlisle family truly believe she had been the duke’s mistress? Oh, how they must despise her!

“I am certain not everyone in the Carlisle family believes you were the duke’s mistress. Do you not agree, my
lord?” Lyssa asked, interrupting the direction of Kilby’s distressing thoughts. Her friend was frowning at the viscount, daring him to disagree.

“Not all,” Darknell conceded. His gaze softened as he noted the worried expression on Kilby’s face. “You are a newcomer to polite society. Some will immediately despise you for your beauty, while others will long to claim you for their own. If the Carlisles or the servants break their oath of secrecy, your brief connection to the duke will make you a target for the gossips. Lady Quennell knows this. Surely it would be a kinder recourse if you left London, and returned next season. By then, the Carlisles will have forgotten your part in the duke’s death.”

“No, you are wrong,” Kilby said abruptly. Darknell’s frankness angered her, but she realized that he spoke out of concern. He did not think she was strong enough to face the scrutiny of the
ton
and the cruelty of the outspoken. “The Carlisles gain nothing in breaking their word. They will keep our secret. Priddy believes we can brazen this out, and I trust her judgment. Besides, I did nothing
wrong
!”

She shook her head. “Archer was manipulated by Priddy into granting his approval for this trip. If he learns that I am seeking a husband beyond his influence or, God forbid, the intimate details of the duke’s death, he will drag me from London by my hair and lock me away until I am too old to care. I was told by a reliable source that a certain gentleman who knew my mother would likely be found here this afternoon. All I desire is an introduction. I beg of you, will you help me?”

The viscount stared directly into Kilby’s eyes, clearly weighing the repercussions of his refusal. Darknell was a good man. He was intelligent, honorable, and above all fair. How could he refuse her?

Darknell glanced away from her pleading expression, and breathed out an exaggerated sigh. “No.”

“You know, most gentlemen choose a discreet locale when engaging in a duel,” Ramscar said as Fayne approached him. He leaned against the side of the phaeton and crossed his arms. “A rural fair is neither discreet nor practical when you intend to kill or maim another gentleman.”

Fayne shot his friend a disgruntled look. When had his friend adopted a few scruples? His reasons for sending Hollensworth an invitation to join them at the fair had nothing to do with maiming or killing. The truth was slightly more complicated.

“As usual, I cannot fault your logic, Ram. How fortunate for me that I have no intention of engaging anyone in a duel this afternoon.” Fayne frowned at his choice of words. “At least that was my original plan,” he amended, as he walked around to the rear of the phaeton and knelt down to unlock the long, narrow wooden box that was strapped to a narrow shelf at the back.

Ramscar trailed after him. “Hollensworth might think otherwise.”

Fayne snickered as he jiggled the key in the lock. Hollensworth wanted him dead. Since the evening of the ball, it had become apparent the baron was not particular about how he accomplished his goal. Instead of waiting for an ambush, Fayne had decided to give the man a chance to vent his rage and injustice against the man he believed stole his brother’s will to live.

“The problem is Hollensworth is
not
thinking,” Fayne argued. The baron’s attack in front of witnesses the night of the ball hinted at the man’s instability. “Before his brother’s death, I had credited the man with possessing an equable disposition. Lately, his actions seem akin to a madman’s.”

He opened the box and withdrew a long, padded bundle. Tucking it under his arm, Fayne reached into the box again
and retrieved a saber sheathed in a leather scabbard. He flung the sword hilt first at his friend who nimbly caught it. If all went according to his plan, Fayne would not need the weapon. Even so, he had no intention of giving Hollensworth any advantage.

Rising from his crouched position, he began unwrapping the layers of coarse gray wool that protected the half-dozen loose sticks no thicker than his thumb. Made of ash, each rod was unpeeled and thirty-five inches in length. To prevent the freshly cut sticks from drying out, one of the servants had bound the ends with wet linen. Once the rod was inserted into a pot or a large wicker basket that served as the hilt, he had a useful weapon for “cudgel play” or backswording.