The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress (22 page)

“I would imagine one would feel most affectionate toward someone whose money has rescued one’s family,” she said dryly.

“See here, Lucy.” He huffed. “I do like you. And I think we would have a very nice life together. We have a manor house and a castle in the country,” he added in a tempting manner.

She raised a brow. “And is this castle comparable to your house here in London?”

“Admittedly it’s a bit run-down.” He grinned. “But it’s quite scenic for a ruin. Little more than a pile of stones, really. And I did think a castle would be appealing to an American.”

“Even Americans want their castles to be more than a scenic pile of stones.”

“Do they?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What a pity,” he murmured. “I was counting on the castle.”

“Freddy,” she said in as kind a tone as possible. “Aside from everything else, regardless of how distantly we’re related, I can’t possibly think of you in any way other than how I think of my brothers. And when I marry, I want to feel more than the kind of affection one feels for a brother.”

“I see.” He paused. “Any chance you’ll change your mind?”

“I wouldn’t wager on it.” She shook her head. “I am flattered, really I am, but I’m sure there’s another heiress out there for you.”

“England is remarkably short of heiresses.” He heaved a resigned sigh. “And believe me, I’ve looked. In this country, property and money are usually passed to male offspring. Women are simply expected to marry well.”

“Then obviously you’re going to have to expand your horizons.” She thought for a moment. “You, and your parents of course, should come visit America after I return home. I know a fair number of eligible young ladies who would suit your needs quite nicely.”

He brightened. “So you really think so?”

“I really do.” She paused. “How concerned are you with appearance?”

“I’m not overly concerned with it,” he said slowly, “but there are the children to consider.”

“Nonsense, a pleasant disposition is much more important than looks.”

Freddy smiled weakly.

“Now that I think about it, right off the top of my head I can name several suitable young ladies, and their mothers, who would be more than willing to trade an inheritance for a castle, no matter how ruinous, and a title. They would get a title, wouldn’t they?”

“Eventually—after Father is gone, that is—I’ll be Viscount Northrup. My wife would then be Viscountess Northrup, also referred to as Lady Northrup.”

“Lady Northrup has a lovely ring to it.”

“Are you sure you don’t—”

“I am positive, Freddy,” she said firmly. “Besides, I think of you as I do my brothers, and the least a sister can do is help you find the wife you’re looking for.”

“All right then.” He cast her a reluctant smile. “I’ve never had a sister.” He grimaced. “Never particularly wanted one.”

“Then this will be a new experience for you.” She beamed. “Now, Freddy, tell me everything you know about Lord Cameron Effington.”

“This has now gone entirely too far.” Beryl marched into the Channing House dining room brandishing a fistful of newspaper. Albert immediately bounded from his spot at Lucy’s feet to wiggle and leap around Beryl’s skirts in a frenzy of canine welcome. Beryl scooped him up without so much as a pause in her step or her discourse. “Something must be done, Lucy. And I cannot simply pretend I am unaware of the situation. While that is tempting, apparently I feel some sort of moral obligation—oh.” She spotted Clara and pulled up short. “I beg your pardon. Clement told me Miss Merryweather was in here and I assumed she was alone.”

“That’s quite all right.” Caution edged Clara’s voice and she rose to her feet. She glanced at Lucy. “There are things I could be doing.”

“Do finish your breakfast. It doesn’t really matter to me if you stay or go. You’re Miss West, aren’t you?”

Clara nodded.

Beryl dropped Albert onto a chair beside Lucy’s, where he sat quite properly, as if sitting in a chair at the dining table was his due. Beryl nodded her approval. “Oh good, there’s food left. I’m never especially hungry in the morning but lately I’ve been famished.” She dropped the papers onto the table, then moved to the sideboard and filled a plate, glancing back at Lucy. “Does she know?”

“Does she know what?” Lucy said cautiously.

“About those.” Beryl took the chair next to Albert and nodded at the papers on the table.

Lucy stared. “I doubt it as I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about those blasted stories.” Beryl took a bite of coddled egg, then sighed as if she’d never tasted anything so good.

“Stories?” Clara said slowly.

“The ones in the
Messenger
.”

“There are stories in the
Messenger
?” Clara’s voice rose.

“Oh yes, those.” Lucy shrugged. “I really haven’t had the chance to read them.”

“You haven’t read the ones I gave you last week?” Beryl set her fork down and stared with disbelief. “Why ever not?”

“Quite honestly, Beryl, they slipped my mind. I’ve been, well, busy.”

“I cannot imagine being that busy.” Beryl signaled for a footman to bring her a cup of tea. “I would strongly suggest you read these right now. I no longer have even the slightest doubt that they are based on your activities.”

“I can’t imagine how they could be.” Lucy moved her plate to one side and picked up the clippings.

“I can,” Clara said under her breath.

Lucy shuffled through the papers, reading a line here and a line there. Not much but enough to realize the truth of Beryl’s charge. A heavy weight settled in the pit of her stomach. “Good God, you may be right.” She glanced at the older woman. “How could this have happened?”

“We’ll probably never know.” Beryl accepted the cup, then took a sip. “But people do overhear things. Especially servants, and they are notorious for not being able to keep a secret. Why, some of my very best information has come from what my servants learned through their chats with servants of other households.”

Lucy paged through the clippings. “These stories aren’t entirely accurate.”

“I daresay they don’t need to be. But close enough, I would think. This writer has taken your adventures and twisted them into slightly different stories.” Beryl plucked the clippings from Lucy’s hand and shuffled through them. “In this one”—she handed a clipping to Lucy—“he has taken your elephant and turned it into a camel, your circus into a harem. He’s even had you dying your skin. Right there.” She tapped her finger on the page. “He calls you a dark-haired beauty with the look of the stars in her blue eyes, bright against her dusky skin.”

“The man certainly knows how to turn a phrase,” Lucy murmured. “It’s quite flattering, really.”

“And here, he has changed your gentlemen’s club to a sporting event.” Beryl thrust the rest of them at Lucy. “Your chef and your artist have been altered to twin brothers, one who instructs the heroine in fencing and the other who sculpts a nude likeness. And both brothers have lascivious intentions toward her.”

“They are rather wicked, aren’t they?” Lucy said, reading a few lines describing the lustful intentions of the brothers. She would certainly have to read more of this later.

“They are indeed. Neither of them have the least bit of honor and both of them have only one thing in mind.” Beryl paused. “I must admit I do like that part. It adds a nice touch of, oh, lurid excitement, I would say. Puts the heroine in a bit of jeopardy.”

“Lady Dunwell!” Clara gasped. “You’re talking about Miss Merryweather!”

“No, Miss West, I’m not,” Beryl said firmly. “It’s not actually real, you know. And I’m certainly not encouraging Lucy to follow in the footsteps of a fictional character. However . . .” She turned her attention back to Lucy. “The author of these, a Mr. Aldrich, has also taken those regrets you’ve yet to rectify and written about them as well.”

Lucy stared at the papers in her hand. Those items she had not yet gotten to, especially the ones about lovers and liaisons, flew threw her head. She was almost afraid to ask. “Which ones?”

“Here.” Beryl again took the clippings, found the one she wanted, and handed it back to Lucy. “This one has our heroine frolicking in a fountain in a lighthearted moment as well as misplacing her clothes and swimming naked in the moonlight. In the Thames!” Beryl snorted. “Of all places.”

Clara groaned. “Good Lord.”

“I know. It’s utter nonsense, of course.” Beryl shook her head. “For one thing, no one misplaces their clothing in such a situation. Why, one makes very certain one knows exactly where one’s clothing has been left to forestall situations exactly like this.”

Lucy and Clara traded glances.

“And the Thames?” Beryl grimaced. “Who in their right mind would swim in the Thames? All sorts of disgusting, vile things are seen floating in the Thames. And you absolutely never want to be in that river naked.” She shuddered.

“Still, as you said”—Clara smiled weakly—“it is fiction.”

“Thank God.” Beryl drew a deep breath. “Nonetheless, I think it’s time to do something, take some precautions as it were.”

“Past time,” Clara muttered.

“What do you mean by precautions?” Lucy drew her brows together.

“While you haven’t been exactly secretive about your activities, I do assume you want to preserve your anonymity.”

Lucy nodded. “That would be preferable.”

Beryl met Lucy’s gaze directly. “I think you need to leave London.”

“Leave London?” Lucy shook her head. “Absolutely not. I’m not ready to go home. I’ve managed no more than half of the items on my great-aunt’s list.” She set her jaw firmly. “I started out to accomplish something and barring difficulties due to the time of year and various moral questions, I intend to finish what I started. Or as much as I can. And I cannot do it in New York. Why, I know entirely too many people and—”

“I’m not suggesting you leave England, only London, and you have nicely made my point,” Beryl said. “The more people you meet in London, the more who might possibly connect you with the imaginary Miss Heartley.”

“But I haven’t met many people.”

“Nor are you hiding under a rock either. And might I point out you met a great many people just last night. It’s only a matter of time before people put two and two together and get you.” Beryl plucked a piece of toast from the rack on the table and slathered it with clotted cream. “These stories have become extremely popular and there is already a great deal of speculation as to whether or not they are indeed fiction. People”—she aimed her butter knife at Lucy—“are talking.”

“Even so—”

“Let’s look at this rationally.” Beryl leaned forward. “Even eliminating Miss Heartley’s fictional exploits or your real adventures, there are similarities between the two of you that you cannot deny. How many runaway American heiresses do you think there are in London anyway?”

“I have not run away.” Lucy’s jaw tightened.

“Not in the strict definition of the word, but a young woman in London without her family might well appear to have run away.”

“I suppose but—”

“And appearances, my dear, are everything. Aside from that, there is a distinct physical resemblance between the two of you.”

“Which certainly could be explained by simple coincidence,” Lucy said.

“Of course it could.” Beryl waved off the comment. “But it won’t be. I’m talking about speculation and gossip here, neither of which relies more than vaguely on the facts of a matter.” She took a bite of her toast. “I’m not trying to tell you to give up this quest of yours. I’m not even saying you need to be more discreet. You’ve been most circumspect thus far. I’m simply suggesting that, at this point, you return to Millworth for a while. Out of sight, out of mind and all that.”

Lucy thought for a moment. She had been entirely truthful when she’d told Cameron she had no intention of allowing scandal to ruin the rest of her life. If a bit more discretion was needed now, given these newspaper stories, then there really was no choice.

“There are several things on your list that could be accomplished quite efficiently at Millworth,” Beryl pointed out.

“It’s not a bad idea, Lucy,” Clara said quietly.

“No, it’s not.” Lucy drew a deep breath. “You’re right, Beryl. There’s no reason why I can’t continue my efforts at Millworth. But it does feel as though I am now indeed running away.”

“Nonsense.” Beryl scoffed. “You’re simply being sensible. Believe me, it is far easier to avoid scandal in the first place than have to repair one’s reputation.”

“Of course. Still . . .” Lucy narrowed her eyes. “I would like to know who this”—she glanced at the clippings—“Mr. Aldrich is and how he came by his information.”

“I daresay that’s probably impossible to discover.” Beryl shrugged in an offhand manner. “And you know how these things happen. We’ve already mentioned the servants, plus there were the people at your circus, the chef, your artist, all of whom could have overheard something. And . . . well . . .” She grimaced. “You never know when one might have said something, in complete innocence and without thinking, in the course of casual conversation at some sort of social gathering. Nothing specific, mind you, but
something
might have been said to lead
someone
else to assume the stories aren’t entirely fictional.”

Lucy stared. “You said something to someone?”

“Possibly, but certainly not deliberately,” Beryl added quickly. “You know how it is. Someone has an interesting tidbit of information and, well, if you have something much better it’s nearly impossible to keep it to yourself. But I do make it a point never to reveal names.”

“That’s something anyway,” Clara said under her breath.

“Regardless,” Beryl continued. “The people I might perchance have mentioned something to would never give that information to a writer. They would simply spread it amongst themselves.”

“What a relief,” Lucy said wryly.

Beryl pinned her with a firm look. “You should have been more definitive, Lucy. If you had said your activities were secret I never would have said anything to anyone. I’m very good at keeping secrets. And really the more I think about it, the more I am reasonably confident I didn’t say anything. Except of course to Lionel, but then I tell him nearly everything these days. There was a time when I didn’t and now I’m trying very hard not to keep secrets from him. But Lionel is the soul of discretion. He always has been, really. Quite prudent, you know, for a man in politics.”

“Oh, I don’t think this is your fault.” Lucy waved at the clippings. “There are any number of other people who could have overheard some of this and passed it on to this writer. Although the detail is unsettling.” She picked up a clipping and studied it. “I wonder if Mr. Fairchild can find out who this Mr. Aldrich is and how he came about his information.”

Beryl’s brow rose. “Who is Mr. Fairchild?”

“Oh, well, he’s not really Mr. Fairchild. He’s Mr. Effington. Or rather, I suppose, it’s Lord Effington. No, Lord Cameron Effington.”

“He’s what?” Clara stared.

“I was going to tell you right before Beryl arrived.”

Beryl’s confused gaze slid from one woman to the next. “What are you talking about?”

“Lord Cameron Effington is working as a private investigator under the name of Fairchild. Jackson hired him to well, I don’t know—guard, protect, watch over me. Something absurd like that. And then my purse was stolen and he recovered it and, as I knew he’d been following us, it seemed best to have him accompany us rather than lurk in the shadows.”

Beryl’s brow furrowed. “Jackson didn’t hire a private investigator. I did.”

Lucy sucked in a hard breath. “You?”

“One wouldn’t think that was the most important point in that particular revelation,” Clara said under her breath.

“Or at least I tried to. But the investigator I usually employ, Phineas Chapman, said he didn’t do that sort of thing. Although he did say he’d make a few inquiries to see if there was someone who might be willing to take this on. I do wish he’d told me he had found someone.” Beryl sighed. “I suppose now I will be billed at some point.”

“You hired him?” Lucy stared.

“So it would appear.” Beryl stabbed a piece of bacon.

“Why?” Lucy frowned. “I could understand why Jackson might hire a . . . a watchdog, but why would you? You of all people should understand that just because you’re female doesn’t mean you can’t take care of yourself.”

“Of course I understand that.” Beryl huffed. “But I didn’t know you at all at that point. And Jackson did not seem overly confident that you would do well on your own.”

Lucy snorted.

“He did ask me to keep an eye on you, and well, frankly, even though I agreed, it really wasn’t the sort of thing I do. You understand. So I thought I would hire someone to do it. Although I didn’t realize I actually had.” Beryl took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Jackson also asked me to help find a companion for you and Chapman did recommend”—her gaze flicked to Clara and brightened in recognition—“Miss West, of course.”