A Wild Justice
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Gail Ranstrom
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22
Chapter One
“You asked which of the women present tonight has a reputation for intelligence, capability and loyalty,” Julius Lingate said, nodding toward a woman at the far end of the Worthingdons’ ballroom. “Lady Annica Sayles fits that description to the letter.”
“Go on,” Tristan Sinclair, eighth earl of Auberville, interjected, studying the slender line of the woman’s back, the dark hair with red glints secured in a tidy chignon at her nape, and the graceful sway of peacock-blue satin as she strolled beside a fair-haired young lady.
“Not much is known about her life in Sussex before coming to live in London. By all accounts her father—”
“The earl?”
Julius nodded and continued, “—was a souse and a particularly unpleasant man. He was in his cups when he insisted on driving the family carriage home from a visit to the vicar’s. He came round a bend too fast and tipped the fool thing over. Killed himself and his wife. The valet, who was riding inside when the earl took his place on the box, threw Lady Annica clear, but ’tis said she was never the same afterward. The valet still limps. Lady Annica steadfastly refuses to discuss the event.”
“Interesting. And then?”
“The title and ancestral estate went to her uncle Thomas, who is her guardian. She has her mother’s estates and property, and has even controlled them for the past three years.”
“How long ago was the accident?”
“She was not quite sixteen, so…nine years ago.”
“Young for such hurts,” Tristan mused, remembering his experiences with betrayal and loss at the hands of his mother. He’d promised himself then that he’d never trust or need a woman again. He’d marry—that much was inescapable for a man in his position—but he wouldn’t need a woman.
“She buried herself in her art, her books and politics, acquired a reputation as a bluestocking, took up a variety of causes and reforms,” Julius droned on. “That’s where the problems come in. She has barely managed to stay on the right side of scandal.”
Tristan smiled and relaxed. A woman with her own commitments would have little time to demand a depth of commitment he was not willing to give. “I owe you my gratitude, Jules. You have confirmed my own information.” He watched the object of their conversation shake her head and send a young man away with a wave of her hand.
“It couldn’t have been easy—orphaned, alone, humiliated by the scandal over her father’s behavior,” Julius continued.
“According to my sources, she was bloody magnificent! She neither confirmed nor denied the rumors.” His quarry turned to acknowledge an acquaintance, and he was momentarily dazzled. Even at this distance, he could see the exact color of her wide, sparkling eyes—brownish evergreen, the precise shade of pine trees and wooded glens. In them was a solitary gleam that could not be disguised—the look of a soul who did not believe in love, who did not expect it. The look only a fellow cynic would recognize. Bloody magnificent, indeed!
A delicate pink stained her cheeks and her full mouth curved in a delicious smile that begged ravishment. He drew in a sharp breath. Had he known Lady Annica Sayles was so stunning, he’d not have wasted time making further inquiries. Oh yes, she’d do nicely. “She hasn’t had suitors? That is difficult to believe.”
“To the contrary, she’s had suitors coming out of the woodwork. She smiles sweetly and then makes quick work of them. You saw what happened to that young man—and I’d wager all he asked for was a dance.”
Tristan’s hands tightened on the balustrade of the staircase landing. “She is rude?”
“Nay! Her manners are impeccable. One would have to experience the chill to comprehend my meaning.” Julius grinned.
“Have you?”
“Indeed! Yet we’ve been cordial since. Now confess. What’s behind your fascination with Lady Annica Sayles?”
“I’ve been busy settling my father’s estate in Devon since resigning my commission. Now that all is running smoothly, I am ready to turn my attention to acquiring a wife and begetting an heir. The lady would appear to meet my requirements.”
Julius coughed, spraying a mouthful of wine over the landing’s Oriental carpet. “Wife? Good God, Auberville! You’d do better to court the queen! You cannot be serious.”
Tristan thumped him on the back. “If I did not need an heir, I would not marry at all. Women are risky, at best. I want one who will offer the least amount of trouble and not require supervision. In short, I want a capable woman.”
“Least amount of trouble? Have you heard a single word I’ve said?” Julius was incredulous. “Lady Annica isn’t suitable at all. She’s no biddable miss. With no parents to set her limits, she sets her own. She is beyond capable—she is headstrong. Good God, Tris—she gambles at cards! I believe James Stanford saw her ‘blow a cloud’ in Bennington’s game room. She is considered a bluestocking. ’Tis whispered she has been known to wear trousers. She has political views and speaks them. She is engaged in social reform and is not received in certain circles as a result.”
“That will change when she is Lady Auberville. And if one must be bound to a woman for life, she should at least be able to function adequately without constant instruction or supervision, and carry on a conversation regarding subjects other than gowns and social events. A woman I can talk to, Jules. Is that too much to ask?”
Julius raised his eyebrows heavenward. “Lady Annica is unmarried by choice, not lack of offers. If you are set on her, you had better prepare for a fight.”
Lady Annica and her companion paused just beneath their position on the landing. Two other women joined them and they all bent their heads together, their voices dropping to whispers—exchanging some piece of feminine confidence, no doubt. Lady Annica was so lovely and delicate that he could scarcely envision her engaging in the activities Julius described. She laughed at something her companion said, and the delightfully wicked sound sent shivers up his spine.
He had been undecided until a few moments ago. But now, having heard her laugh, he was certain that, if he did not marry her, he would at least know how to provoke that sound. He had some interesting ideas even now.
“Once she learns your intentions, you are not likely to gain entry to her salon,” Julius whispered.
Tristan smiled. Diplomacy, strategic planning and expediency were his forte. “Do you think I should give her a sporting chance?”
“That would be quite decent of you, Tris.” His friend shot him a wry grin. “’Tis more than she’d give you, and I’ve never known you to give an edge away. Egad! The wagers that will be laid on this. I can’t wait to see the carnage. Lady Annica and Auberville! Shall I introduce you now?”
Tristan smiled, the excitement of the game rising in him. “No. I’d wager the indirect approach would be best. I know her uncle, Lord Thomas Sayles. He may be of some use to me.”
Tristan’s lips curved in what his enemies called his “predatory smile” when he caught sight of Thomas Sayles, seventh earl of Lakehurst, reading the Times in the lounge of White’s Club for Gentlemen the following afternoon. This was like the old days in Tunis—diplomacy and negotiations, cat and mouse. Not the bloody covert activities he engaged in now.
“Ah, there you are, Thomas. Hendricks said I might find you here,” he said in greeting.
His target, a middle-aged man with a gray mustache and balding head, looked up and gave him a distracted smile. “Auberville. Haven’t seen you for a good long while, lad. Is there something I can do for you?”
“No. Just came to pay my respects and say goodbye.”
Lord Sayles perked up and gestured to the deep club chair across from him. He waved for a silent waiter to bring a glass of claret for his guest. “Going somewhere?”
“I shall be removing to Devon before long.”
“Can’t retreat this early in the season, lad. What will the ladies say if you do not give them a fair chance at you? Lucy mentioned your name as one of the season’s most eligible.”
“Your wife flatters me, Thomas, but for now I have other things on my mind.”
“What might that be?”
He gave a lazy shrug, leading the conversation. “Deuced nuisance, really. I’ve been trying to find an illustrator for a publication on flowering shrubs indigenous to the Cornish coast. All the best artists are contracted. Perhaps I’ll have better luck in Devon.”
“Have you tried Beetleson?”
Evidently Thomas was going to need some guiding. “I was hoping to find an original approach. So many of these books have been done that I fear mine will be lost in the stacks unless I have a fresh presentation.” Tristan sighed. “I tell you, Thomas, I’d be willing to accept a dilettante at this point.”
“Dilettante, eh? The Ladies Art Society awarded my niece, Annica, a First in oils and watercolors two years running. The watercolor in the foyer here is one of hers.”
“Your niece?” Tristan appeared to consider this for a moment. “Would she engage in such an undertaking? Most women do not want to enter a business arrangement.”
“This is the very thing that would appeal to ’Nica. She has become a most unusual woman.”
“Would her husband allow her to accompany me—chaperoned, of course—to the sites of several specimens?”
“Annica is not married, Auberville. As her guardian, I would not object at all. She could use some outings in male company. She is with her bluestocking friends too much.”
“I would be interested in talking to her, Thomas. I shall send her a note requesting an interview.”
“No!” Thomas raised one hand in a gesture of interdiction. “I wouldn’t warn her, were I you. Drop in tomorrow afternoon. Use my name. She will see you as a courtesy to me.”
Tristan assumed an air of deep thought. “If you are certain, Thomas. I wouldn’t want to put the lady out.”
“She’d relish the opportunity to prove herself as capable as a man. Be warned, though—she is an unconventional female. She can be quite curt. Doesn’t mean anything by it, but doesn’t like to waste her time, she says. Good thing you’re not a timid man.”
Tristan raised his glass again. “I have dealt with brusque people ere now, Thomas, but thank you for the warning.”
Annica set her watering can aside and lifted the gilt-edged calling card from the silver tray. “Tristan Sinclair, Lord Auberville.” She flipped the card over to read the scrawled message, “Referred by Lord Thomas Sayles.”
She’d heard of the man who was taking London by storm. She raised her eyebrows. What could society’s darling want with her? Still, his credentials were impeccable, and she knew her uncle Thomas would be appalled if she declined to receive him.
“Show him to me, Hodgeson,” she said in a resigned tone. The greenhouse was an unlikely place to receive callers, but he had not made an appointment, after all.
Her manservant cleared his throat and flushed. “Will you require half an hour to change, milady?”
“Whatever for?” Annica looked down at her trousers, smudged with dirt and grime. Her conscience tweaked her, but only for a moment. “His lordship was not expected. I refuse to set my day in a dither because of an unexpected caller.”
“But it is Lord Auberville—”
“Why, so it is.” She smiled evenly. “Then I suppose I must be polite. Thank you for the reminder, Hodgeson.” She halted further discussion with an airy wave of her hand.
She allowed Hodgeson to act as her social conscience due to her deep affection for him, finding it more difficult to dismiss his pained expressions than her aunt’s and uncle’s frequent laments. Indeed, Hodgeson’s raised eyebrow was the closest thing to a reproach that she ever felt, and his occasional limp was all the reminder she needed of all she owed him.
Glancing about for a place to put her trowel and gloves, she caught sight of a weed beneath her potting bench and bent to remove it. Though she yanked and pulled, the plant was more deeply rooted than she’d thought. She tugged sharply to dislodge it and, when the roots gave way, was unprepared. Her bottom landed with a plop on the hard-packed earth of the greenhouse floor. Dirt sprayed her face. Her braid loosened from its coil and slipped down her back.
“Phooey!” She spat dirt off the tip of her tongue.
From behind, strong hands cupped her elbows and lifted her to her feet. “Are you injured?” a husky voice asked.
She turned to face the new arrival. Disconcerted by what she found, she stood docilely while the man removed a snowy linen handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped at the dirt across her nose. When she tried to back away, he held her immobile by catching her chin, then tilting her face up to him again.
Warmth crept into her cheeks and she watched a half smile play across sensual lips, causing a rogue dimple to deepen in the man’s chin. Clear cool blue eyes that would shame a winter sky twinkled at her, and a cap of dark blond hair streaked golden by the sun topped a face with enough mystery to be interesting. A fading jagged scar ran across his left cheekbone, and she was not aware of touching it until the man smiled again. As he did, a little thrill raced from her fingertips to the back of her neck.
“From a d-duel?” she asked, feeling like a schoolgirl.
“I scarcely know what to say. I’m tempted to answer whatever would most please you.”
“The truth pleases me.”
“Shell fragment. Trafalgar.”
She winced, feeling a sharp stab of pain in her own cheek. Oddly, the mark saved this man from the stigma of masculine beauty and placed him in a far more intriguing category. And, just as odd, she thought she read danger in the smile.
“Lady Annica, I presume?” he murmured, releasing her chin.
She cleared her throat, broke eye contact and stepped back, gathering her wits. “Yes. And you must be Lord Auberville.” She waved at the card on the potting bench.
“Have I come at a bad time?”
“Not to be rude, Auberville, but did we have an appointment? I cannot for the life of me remember having met you, let alone having invited you to call upon me.”
“We have not met. I came at your uncle’s suggestion.”
Annica felt a twinge of disappointment and annoyance that this man was going to be just like all the others. For a moment she had wondered if… “I must admit, he came very close this time. You may go now.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Uncle Thomas never tires of throwing fresh meat to the lioness. It has been nearly a year since the last time, though, and I thought he had finally given up.”
“I do not…” Auberville lowered his dark blond eyebrows.
“I am unmarried by choice, Auberville. I do not entertain suitors. I am not interested in making any alliances, no matter how sensible or beneficial to both families. I cannot be persuaded by false flattery nor pretty speeches. I am, in short, a hard nut to crack. Take my advice—we shall both be happier if you do not waste your time in the effort.”
He spread his arms wide, a picture of innocent confusion. “You have me at a disadvantage, Lady Annica,” he said. “I haven’t the faintest notion of what you are talking about.”
“Did Uncle Thomas not send you to see if we might be what he calls ‘a fit’?”
“Good Lord! Is that what you thought?”
Annica frowned when the handsome young earl began laughing. “Is that not the case, Lord Auberville?”
“Not at all, dear woman.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Botany.”
Her mind went blank. “I fear you have me at a loss.”
“I mentioned to your uncle that I am preparing for publication a treatise on flowering shrubs indigenous to the Cornish coast. My editor has requested a folio of approximately fifteen illustrations. Thomas said you are a talented illustrator, and pointed out an example of your work. I’d pay handsomely, of course.”
“Your tea, milady,” Hodgeson announced. Unperturbed by the scene before him, he placed the silver tray on a table by a cushioned garden bench and turned to regard her with an impassive face. “Will I be showing his lordship out now, milady?”
“Another cup, Hodgeson.”
He lifted one eyebrow slightly before he nodded and left to fetch the cup.
“My apologies, Auberville,” Annica murmured, squirming with embarrassment. She must seem like an egotistical chit to the handsome lord. She turned away and slapped the dirt from her trousers. She bent over to put the weed in a basket and rinse her hands in a bucket of water. “I’m apt to assume the worst where Uncle Thomas is concerned. He means well, but I cannot make him understand that I really have no wish to marry. ’Tisn’t as if the family line will die with me. Heaven knows, his own children promise to be a prolific lot,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. She was surprised to find Lord Auberville watching her with a cryptic expression on his handsome face. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he found something amusing.
“But I must say I am intrigued by your offer.” She straightened and turned to face him. “Would I be likely to have the specimens here, in my own collection?”
“There’s the rub,” he admitted. “The specimens are sufficiently rare as to be generally unavailable. I have located twelve of the fifteen in various conservatories or greenhouses in or near London. Three others—the most rare, and therefore the most important—do not thrive under cultivation. They bloom only in mid-August, for a fortnight, on the western coast. They are a variety of phlox, but quite unlike any growing elsewhere.”
“Interesting,” Annica conceded. She motioned her caller to the garden bench and took a seat beside him. The extra cup arrived, and she poured for them both. “’Tis mid-May. That will delay your submission until autumn, will it not? Sugar? Milk?”
“Lemon,” he requested. “We are not in a hurry. My editor and I would prefer to wait and have the illustrations done properly than rush into publication without them.”
“I admire your patience, milord.” She dropped a lemon wedge into his cup and handed it to him before adding a drop of milk to her own. “My own experience has indicated that most men are wanting in that regard.”
“I assure you, I’m a very patient man.” He favored her with an enigmatic smile.
Unaccountably unnerved by that comment, Annica turned back to her duties as hostess. Using the silver tongs to place a slice of sponge cake on a small plate, she arranged several strawberries and a dollop of whipped cream on top. A sprig of mint leaf finished her artful arrangement. She placed a fork on the side and presented him with the dish.
“Thank you, Lady Annica,” he said, his voice nearly a purr.
She nodded and took a sip of her tea. “Will you be giving me a list of the plants and conservatories where the specimens are to be found?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’d prefer that, of course, but the owners of the conservatories have agreed to allow me access only upon appointment. Wretched inconvenience, but there it is. I suppose we could arrange to go together.”
Annica shrugged, as if indifferent. “When did you want to begin, milord?” she asked. “I do have a few other commitments.”
“Oh, ah, I should think immediately. If we can have the rest done before we have to leave for Cornwall, we could be ready for submission by the end of August.”
“Has your publisher set you a deadline?”
“September 5.”
She frowned and pushed her cake around on her plate with a fork. The thought of taking on such a project was surprisingly appealing, though she couldn’t say why. “I shall put some of my other projects aside in order to accommodate you, Lord Auberville. Give me a day or two to tidy up loose ends.”
“There you are ’Nica! I’ve looked all over the house. Are you—oh!” The plump, gray-haired woman stopped short. “Hodgeson did not tell me we had a guest, dear.”
“I suppose he thought it was of little consequence.”
“Oh, I am certain you do not mean that, Annica.” The woman smiled apologetically at their guest.
Annica bit her lip, realizing her glaring faux pas. “Sorry, Auberville. I meant that Hodgeson must have thought my having a caller…not that you were of…well.” She stammered to a halt, then took a deep breath and changed direction. “Aunt Lucy, may I present Tristan Sinclair, Lord Auberville? My lord, please to meet my aunt, Lady Lucille Sayles.”
Having already come to his feet, he took her aunt’s offered hand and bowed over it. “Lady Sayles, I am charmed.”
Aunt Lucy inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Do sit down, and please accept my apologies for the interruption.”
“Join us, Aunt Lucy. We have concluded our business.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. “I see.”
Annica knew what her aunt thought, and laughed. “No, Aunt Lucy, I have not given him ‘short shrift.’ Auberville came to me with a business proposition at Uncle Thomas’s suggestion. I am going to illustrate his treatise on Cornish flowering plants.”
“But you’ve never done that sort of thing.”
“Uncle has shown him one of my pieces, and he says my work is acceptable.”
“More than acceptable, Lady Annica. Quite charming,” Auberville offered.
“You and my husband are acquainted?” Lucy asked.
“We belong to the same club,” he explained.
“I see. How fortunate for ’Nica. She has always said she would like to do something of importance. To have her work published in a quality book will be quite an achievement.”
Achievement! “Oh, good heavens! I forgot this is Wednesday. The ladies will be waiting at the Book Emporium.” Annica sprang to her feet, set her cup aside, kissed her aunt’s cheek and backed toward the greenhouse door. “Auberville—my apologies. Aunt Lucy will keep you company while you finish your tea. So good meeting you and all that. See you soon—next week latest.”
“Bluestocking society, you know—call themselves the Wednesday League,” she heard her aunt lament as she hurried across the lawn. “Spinsters and one widow. So disappointing.”
“Psst! Over here, yer ladyship!”
Annica kept her head down and slowly circled the table in one aisle of the bookseller’s shop, examining titles as she went. When she came shoulder to shoulder with a short, powerfully built man, she stopped and picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice. “I did not notice you without your red waistcoat, Mr. Bouldin,” she whispered, referring to the Bow Street Runner’s mark of identification.
“You said as ’ow you didn’t want to be noticed, yer ladyship.”
“Quite right. It would never do to have society know that I conduct investigations. I fear such a thing would put me far beyond the pale. Now, did you bring information regarding Farmingdale?” she whispered.
“Aye. ’E’s leavin’ tomorrow night, just after midnight.” He passed her a piece of paper. “That’s where an’ when.”
“Well done, Mr. Bouldin. My group has another job for you.”
“I gathered as much, yer ladyship.” The man nodded. “I already started lookin’ for the fourth bloke. What else d’ye ’ave for me?”
She glanced around to be certain she was not observed, then took a piece of paper and several banknotes from her reticule. She slipped them between the pages of the book and returned it to the table, selecting another for examination.
The man scratched his dark head and retrieved the book Annica had just put down. He read the paper and pocketed the banknotes.
“What’s this about, Lady A.?”
“Precisely what we want to know, Mr. Bouldin.” Annica glanced toward the door, struggling with unease. “These women have disappeared without a trace. They must be somewhere. And this morning I received word that Constance Bennington’s abigail, Frederika Ballard, did not return from her day off.”
“I’ve ’eard rumors about this, yer ladyship. I’d leave it alone, was I you.”
Annica lifted her eyebrows slightly. “I cannot ignore the issue, Mr. Bouldin, because next time it could be one of my friends.”
