On A Wicked Dawn Read online

  Amelia shrugged. “Silk sometimes does that—just gives way.” Although the fabric of the shawl looked like it had been worried and wrenched. “Never mind. We’ll get you a new one.”

  Emily sat up. “Until you get a new shawl, you won’t be carrying your red reticule—the one that matched it. Can I borrow it? It’s just the right shade to go with my carriage dress.”

  “Of course.” Anne looked up at the shelf above the wardrobe’s hanging space. “It should be here somewhere.”

  Amelia glanced down at her notes. Emily and Anne shared clothes and accessories freely, a fact that had further disguised the lack in their wardrobes from the eagle eyes of the ton’s matrons. She scribbled a reminder to make sure Anne had all she needed to go on with, given all indications were that Emily would shortly be leaving home.

  “I’m sure it was here.” Stretched on her toes, Anne pushed things this way, then that. “Ah—here it is.”

  She pulled the reticule free by its strings; with a grin, she swung and let it fly across the room to Emily on the bed.

  Emily laughed and caught it, then her face registered surprise. “It’s heavy. What on earth have you got in it?”

  As she felt the contents of the reticule through the layers of red silk, Emily’s expression grew more puzzled.

  Amelia glanced at Anne, but the only expression on her face, in her brown eyes, was one of complete bemusement. “A handkerchief, some pins. I don’t know what could be heavy . . .” But they could all now see the shape under Emily’s hands. “Let me see.”

  Anne crossed to the bed, to Emily’s side; Amelia rose and joined them. By then, Emily had tugged the reticule’s strings loose; she eased open the top and looked in. Then, frowning, she reached in and pulled out—

  “A quizzing glass.” Emily held it up. They all stared at the ornately chased stem, at the tiny jewels winking along its length.

  “Whose on earth is it?”

  It was Anne who asked the question. Amelia looked at her—closely, sharply; no matter how hard she looked there was nothing but total befuddlement in the younger girl’s face.

  “And how did it get there?” Anne glanced back at her wardrobe, then swept around and returned to the shelf. Without Amelia suggesting it, Anne hauled all her reticules, all the hatboxes they’d already examined down. When the shelf was bare, she pushed aside the boxes and knelt beside the mound of reticules. She opened each one, and shook out the contents. Handkerchiefs, pins, a comb, two fans.

  Nothing else.

  Sitting back on her heels, Anne looked across the room. “I don’t understand.”

  Neither did Amelia. “It’s not your mother’s, is it?”

  Emily shook her head, still studying the quizzing glass. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone else with it either.”

  Amelia took the quizzing glass. It truly was heavy; she couldn’t imagine any lady carrying such a thing. Anne had drawn near, frowning at the glass—entirely at a loss.

  “It must have been put into your reticule by mistake.” Amelia slid the glass into the pocket of her day gown. “I’ll ask around—the owner shouldn’t be too hard to trace.” She looked around. “Now, have we finished going through everything?”

  Anne blinked, then looked about, somewhat dazedly. “I think so.”

  Emily gathered up the red reticule and jumped from the bed. “I’ve just remembered—it’s our day to do the vases.”

  Amelia manufactured a smile. “You’d better get going then—there’s less than an hour to luncheon.”

  They left the room; Anne closed the door. Emily popped into her room to leave the red reticule there, then rejoined them as they headed down the corridor. Amelia hung back as the two girls went ahead down the stairs; at the bottom, they turned and waved, then continued on to the garden hall.

  On the last stair, Amelia paused. Emily had smiled, Anne had not. Doubtless, Emily had already dismissed the quizzing glass from her mind; she had too many far more pleasant matters to dwell on. Anne, however, was worried. Possibly a little fearful. But so she would be; despite being quiet, she was not unintelligent. None of Luc’s sisters was.

  Amelia stood in the empty front hall, hand on the newel post, gazing unseeing at the front door, then she sighed, refocused, stepped down from the stairs, and headed for the study.

  Luc looked up as Amelia entered the study. She saw him seated behind his large desk, but didn’t smile. He watched impassively as she closed the door, then crossed the room.

  As she neared, he realized her expression was unfamiliar—reserved, almost somber.

  “What’s the matter?” He couldn’t hold back the question, started to rise.

  She met his gaze, waved him back. He subsided into his chair; she passed the chair before the desk, continued around it. Reaching him, lips tight, she turned, sat on his lap, then leaned into him.

  His mind streaked in a dozen different directions; an odd fear clutched his heart. Bad news—that was all he could think. He closed his arms about her, gently, then more firmly; she snuggled closer, deeper into his embrace, her cheek to his chest. He laid his jaw against her curls, feeling them slide like silk against his chin. “What?”

  “I went with Emily and Anne to check through their things—you heard me organizing.”

  “You found something.” The vise about his heart slowly closed.

  “Yes. This.” She lifted her hand and showed him an ornate quizzing glass. “It was in one of Anne’s reticules.”

  His heart grew cold, then colder; he forced himself to take the quizzing glass. He held it up, squinted when he saw the stones flash. “Diamonds?”

  “I think so. And I don’t think it’s a lady’s—it’s too heavy.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”

  “I haven’t either. Nor have Emily and Anne.”

  Luc felt cold tension flow through him; it kept him so silent and still, Amelia eventually glanced up.

  He met her gaze; her eyes were wide, as blue as the sky. A little shock, and a ton of worry, shadowed the blue. He clung to the contact and forced himself to say, “So it’s Anne, and we have another Ashford scandal.”

  He saw the frown flow into Amelia’s eyes before her brows drew down.

  “No.” She shook her head brusquely. “Stop leaping to conclusions.”

  “Leaping . . . ?” He felt a flash of temper. Knew it was irrational. “What the hell am I—is anyone to think—“

  Amelia struggled to sit up, to draw out of his arms.

  He immediately tightened his hold. “No. Sit still.”

  She complied—he suspected because she had to—but her accents were clipped when she tersely informed him, “I’m sure it’s not Anne. Or Emily, for that matter.”

  He felt a little of the icy tension seep away, felt the vise ease a notch. “Why? Tell me.”

  She hesitated, then said, “I’m not a mind reader, but I’m not hopeless at judging people and their reactions either. Anne was truly surprised, totally puzzled over the quizzing glass being in her reticule. She hadn’t known it was there—I’m sure she didn’t recognize it, meaning she literally had never seen it before. Anne’s shy—she’s not experienced enough to hide her feelings. And the most telling fact of all was that she didn’t need to give Emily the reticule—she could easily have said it wasn’t there, or she’d look it out later, or . . . a host of things.”

  Luc struggled through her words, then admitted, “I’m lost—explain.”

  She did, sitting in his lap within the circle of his arms.

  When she finished, she sat still, waited . . .

  After some moments, he forced himself to take a tight breath. “Are you sure . . . ?”

  “Yes.” She looked into his face, held his gaze. “I’m quite certain that whoever took that quizzing glass, it wasn’t Anne or Emily.”

  He tried to find some wavering in the steady blue of her eyes. “You’re not just saying that . . . ?” He gestured with one hand; even though it was
behind her back, she understood.

  The stubborn set of her chin and lips softened. She laid a hand against his cheek. “I might”—she paused, then continued—“turn a blind eye to some things if I thought it was in your best interests, that it would help you or our family, but this . . .” She shook her head; her eyes held his. “Telling you it wasn’t Anne when it was wouldn’t help, and might instead lead to a great deal more harm.”

  Her words sank into him, slowly eased the vise open, let his blood flow again and warm him, driving away the chill.

  He drew a deep breath. “You’re sure.” No question; the answer was in her eyes.

  She nodded. “Not Anne. Not Emily.”

  He let the knowledge buoy him for a heartbeat, then asked, “If not them, then who? How did this”—he lifted the quizzing glass—“get into Anne’s reticule?”

  Amelia looked at the glass. “I don’t know—and that’s what truly worries me.”

  * * *

  The luncheon gong summoned them from the study fifteen minutes later. They left the room together, leaving the quizzing glass in a locked chest.

  Amelia checked her reflection in the mirror in the front hall, cast a quick glance around, then tugged her bodice properly into place.

  Luc fought to keep his lips straight; the look she shot him as she turned and caught him doing so suggested he hadn’t succeeded.

  The dining room quickly filled. After seeing Amelia to her chair, Luc strolled the length of the table to his place at its head. The meal passed swiftly; the usual chatter prevailed. He watched Anne; for the most part, she kept her eyes cast down, answering any questions but with a frankly distant air. Her expression was serious, she volunteered nothing, but Lucifer and Phyllida were present; Anne’s behavior could simply be due to her shyness.

  He wondered if he should speak with her . . . unfortunately, both she and Emily regarded him with a certain awe, quite different to how Portia and Penelope reacted. Any questions from him might totally undermine Anne’s confidence.

  On his left, Lucifer sat back. “If it’s convenient, I wouldn’t mind going over those investments with you this afternoon.”

  Luc hesitated, then nodded. Amelia and Phyllida were making arrangements to visit the village; they’d doubtless take Emily and Anne with them. Portia, Penelope, and Miss Pink were heading off for a ramble to the folly; his mother would, as she usually did, rest through the afternoon.

  Setting down his napkin, he pushed back his chair and looked at Lucifer. “No time like the present.”

  Lucifer grinned. Together they rose, strolled up the room, both, entirely independently, putting out a hand to their respective ladies’ shoulders as they passed. Both Amelia and Phyllida looked up with identical, confident, wifely smiles, then went back to their arranging.

  Luc and Lucifer quietly left the room.

  * * *

  “Where’s Anne?” Amelia asked when she and Phyllida met Emily in the stables.

  “She’s gone to Lyddington Manor to visit Fiona—she’d forgetten she’d said she would.”

  Amelia digested that while they mounted. The Manor wasn’t far; Anne would be safe there. Remembering Fiona’s bubbling presence in London, and how it had helped Anne cope with the ton, Amelia was happy to see the friendship remain strong.

  She, Phyllida, and Emily indulged in a quick gallop to shake the fidgets from their mounts, then settled to a more comfortable amble along the lane to Lyddington. The day was fine, the sun warm on their faces. Birds trilled and swooped. All seemed right within their world.

  In the village, they left their horses at the inn and wandered the green, then repaired to the bakery to purchase some pastries. They consumed the delicious morsels on the seat in the sun, then simply sat and mused about life. About children. At Amelia’s behest, Phyllida brought her up to date on her sons’ development; Aidan and Evan were growing apace.

  “They’re scamps. I know they’re quite safe at the Manor, but . . .” Phyllida gazed down the green, into the distance. “I do miss them.” Smiling, she glanced at Amelia. “Mind you, I’m quite sure Papa, Jonas, and Sweetie will have spoiled them dreadfully by the time we get back.”

  Her gaze moving past Amelia, Phyllida murmured, “We’ve company. Who’s this?”

  It was Mrs. Tilby; the vicar’s wife joined them in a voluble froth of greetings and declarations. She seemed quite keyed up; the pleasantries aside, she told them why.

  “Things are going missing. A host of small items—well, you know how it is when you’re not quite sure when you last saw something. We only realized when we gathered for the Ladies’ Guild meeting yesterday—it’s not the sort of thing one worries about until one realizes it’s an epidemic. Well, one hardly likes to think what might disappear next.”

  Her heart sinking, Amelia asked, “What things have gone missing?”

  “Lady Merrington’s small enamel box—it used to sit on the windowsill in her drawing room. An engraved crystal paperweight from the Gingolds’, a gold letter opener from the Dallingers’, a gold bowl from the Castle.”

  Those were all houses she, together with Minerva, Emily, and Anne, had visited in the last week.

  Phyllida’s dark eyes touched her face, then Phyllida turned to Mrs. Tilby. “And these things have only recently gone missing?”

  “Well, dear, that’s what no one can truthfully say. What we do know is that they’ve vanished now, and no one knows where they’ve gone.”

  Amelia and Phyllida had to hold their tongues and disguise their impatience, until, late that evening, they finally got their husbands to themselves. Then they poured out their story.

  Lucifer frowned. “It doesn’t make sense. In order to sell such things, they’d have to go to London.” He glanced at Luc.

  Who shook his head. “I can’t see rhyme or reason to it either.” He took a sip of brandy, his gaze going to Amelia, curled in one corner of the chaise. “That is, of course, assuming they’re stealing for the monetary value of the things.”

  Lucifer inclined his head. “Assuming that.”

  Amelia felt the weight of Luc’s gaze; she turned her head and met it. He was waiting for her to tell Lucifer about the quizzing glass. She returned his dark gaze steadily and kept her lips firmly shut.

  “There’s another, more pertinent point to consider,” Phyllida said from the other end of the chaise. “The thefts are still going on.”

  “Which means”—Amelia took up the thread of the argument she and Phyllida had already thrashed out—“that the thief is still active. We therefore have a chance of catching them, unmasking them, and setting matters straight.”

  Lucifer nodded. “You’re right.” After a moment, he mused, “We need to think of a way of drawing whoever it is into the open.”

  They tossed ideas about but could see no immediate way forward. Still turning the matter over in their minds, they retired to their beds.

  “Why didn’t you tell them?” Luc slumped on his back beside Amelia in their bed. She’d snuffed the candle; faint moonlight, silvery and insubstantial, filtered through the room.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He took a moment to consider her tone, but why she should be annoyed with him he couldn’t imagine. “I’m hardly likely to tell a tale that seems to definitively implicate one of my sisters. Especially when, according to you, she’s not the thief.”

  “Well! There you are.” After a moment, she continued, in a fractionally less belligerent tone, “Why did you imagine I’d think differently?”

  He suddenly wasn’t sure whether there was any ice at all, thin or otherwise, under his feet. “Lucifer’s your cousin. A Cynster.”

  She looked at him. “You’re my husband.”

  He could feel her gaze but didn’t turn to meet it. He stared instead at the canopy while he tried to understand. “You’re a Cynster born and bred.” He knew what he thought that meant, but was too wary to put it into words.

  She turned fully, coming up on one elbow s
o she could—frowningly—study his face. “I might have been born a Cynster, but I married you—I’m an Ashford now. Of course I’m going to do all I can to protect your sisters.”

  He had to meet her gaze. “Even to the extent of being not quite open with Lucifer?”

  She returned his regard. “If you want the truth, the question never even occurred to me. My loyalty now is to you, and beyond you, our family.”

  A knot of tension buried so deep he hadn’t until that moment been aware of its existence unraveled, flowed away. Left him. Her declaration rang in his mind; the set of her jaw and lips stated she was unwaveringly steadfast, her position solidly fixed.

  He had to ask. “Can you really do that—switch allegiances? Just like that?”

  Even in the dimness, he could interpret the look she bent on him; she thought he was being unforgivably dense.

  “Of course women can do that—we’re expected to do that. Just stop and think how complicated life would be if we couldn’t—or didn’t—do that!”

  She was right; he was being—had been—unforgivably dense. “I didn’t think . . . men aren’t conditioned to change loyalties like that, especially not family ones.”

  One sharp pointy elbow came to rest on his chest. She leaned over him. “It always falls to the ladies to handle the more difficult tasks.”

  Now she was closer he could see the exasperated affection in her eyes. She couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t understood; she thought he’d been obtuse, unthinking. Not true, but now he did comprehend, finally saw what the truth had to be . . . raising his hands, he framed her face. “Just as well.” He drew her closer. “Thank you.”

  Before she could ask what he was thanking her for, he kissed her, long, lingeringly—thoroughly. She murmured incoherently and pressed nearer. Releasing her face, he slid his hands down her body, gripped her waist and lifted her across, setting her down atop him.

  Drawing back from the kiss, he murmured, “If I could make a suggestion . . . ?”

  Given his erection was now cradled between her thighs, Amelia had little doubt of what direction his suggestion would take. “By all means.” She set her lips to his. When she finally drew back, she invited, “Suggest away.”