The Sinister Spinster Read online

  Elizabeth clenched her jaw, holding on to her temper with a will. Even though she and Adam hadn't been alone once since that wondrous kiss, she was aware of the speculative glances cast her way by the ladies, who'd noted his preference for her company.

  "Yes, Lady Derring," she said, resentment simmering inside her as she kept her gaze fixed on the wall over her ladyship's shoulder. "Your meaning is more than plain."

  The countess frowned at Elizabeth's stiff tones, and she gave a disapproving frown. "The funeral will be held tomorrow," she continued coldly. "You will be allowed to attend services at the church, but I see no reason for you to remain while he is buried.

  "Indeed," she added with a sniff, "I can think of nothing in more questionable taste. Following the church services you are to return here to make sure all will be ready for the funeral breakfast. I will not have it said we did not see poor Mr. Colburt on his way in the proper fashion."

  She continued in this manner for several minutes, rattling on until Elizabeth's patience was frayed and her jaw was aching from having been clenched so tight. Finally her employer ran out of orders and insults, and Elizabeth was dismissed. Naturally she wasn't allowed to leave until the countess hurled one final word of warning at her.

  "Just mind you watch yourself, Miss Mattingale," she said, her voice fairly dripping with malice as she smirked at Elizabeth. "For I assure you, we shall be watching you."

  Holding her head high, Elizabeth walked out of the countess's drawing room and straight into Adam's arms. His hands closed around her shoulders and his worried amber gaze scurried over her tense features.

  "Elizabeth, what is it?" he demanded, ducking his head to better study her face. "You're shaking."

  "With temper, my lord, I do assure you," she replied, her heart racing in her chest. Being this close to him was both torment and pleasure, and she knew she had best put some distance between them. If she didn't, she feared she'd do something foolish. Something foolish like kissing him or, worse still, putting her head on his shoulder and accepting the comfort and safety his presence offered. Drawing a deep breath, she raised her eyes to his.

  "If you'll excuse me, sir, I must be about my duties," she said, smiling stiffly. She tried moving away, only to have his fingers tighten their hold.

  "The devil with your duties!" he snapped, his eyes flashing with temper. "I want to know what is wrong. Has someone upset you?"

  Abruptly Elizabeth decided she'd had enough of arrogance and demands. The growing softness inside her hardened, and she placed both hands on his chest and shoved as hard as she could.

  "I am not upset!" She enunciated each word slowly so they would penetrate the thickness of his skull. "I am angry."

  He studied her for several seconds before replying. "I can see that," he said, his lips curving in a slow smile. "Dare I ask with whom?"

  Elizabeth gave careful thought to kicking him as hard as she could but decided against it. Considering her shove hadn't moved him so much as an inch, she'd probably end up breaking her toe.

  "If you must know, I was hipped with Lady Derring," she said, scowling up at him. "But if you don't release me at once, I warn you I shall be more than a little vexed with you."

  His smile deepened. "Then I fear you'll have to be vexed," he said, his hands sliding down her arms to grasp her hands. "I need to speak with you, and I prefer to do so in private. Come." And he led her out into the gardens, ignoring her indignant efforts to win her freedom. When they reached the center of the garden, she managed to pull free and turned to face him.

  "Well, we are here," she said, glowering up at him. "I hope you know Lady Derring will doubtlessly have me drawn and quartered for this. What is so important it could not wait?"

  "Have you been writing to your father?"

  The unexpectedness of the question was like a slap in the face. "I—I beg your pardon?" she asked, so shocked she couldn't think.

  "You heard me." His expression, like his tone, was implacable. "Have you been writing to your father? Don't lie to me, Elizabeth. Your very life depends on your being completely honest with me."

  "I had no intention of lying," she replied, knowing the words in themselves were a lie. "It is just that I don't see what my father has to do with all of this."

  His expression hardened. "Don't be naive, or expect me to be," he advised in a soft tone. "You know full well he has a great deal to do with what has happened. Now, have you been writing to him, or have you not?"

  Faced with such a naked demand for the truth, Elizabeth could not prevaricate. "A few times, yes," she said, refusing to hang her head in shame. "He is my father; I cannot be expected to cut him dead merely because Lord Derring commanded it."

  "I'm not here to argue that with you," Adam said, waving that aside. "I want to know what you wrote him, and what he wrote you. Do you still have his letters?"

  Elizabeth thought of the letters she'd tucked away in the band of the hatbox. She'd hidden all but his last letter there after the fright she'd had, which was why they'd escaped detection during the search of her room. She knew if she told Adam she'd destroyed the letters he'd believe her, and because of that she could be no less than honest.

  "Yes, I do."

  "Where are they? Why weren't they found when your room was searched?"

  "Because I'd hidden them," she answered truthfully. "I knew his lordship disapproved of the correspondence, and so I always took care to put them away after I'd finished reading them." She met his watchful gaze. "Shall I get them for you?"

  His eyes flickered, as if surprised by the offer. "If you would," he said, inclining his head gravely. "Thank you."

  Elizabeth flinched. "If you'll wait here, then, I'll go fetch them," she said, and hurried away, praying she reached her room before the tears stinging her eyes began falling.

  Hell and damnation! Adam cursed silently, watching in frustrated impotence as Elizabeth slipped into the house. He would have given all he possessed and more to spare her this, but he knew he could not. He'd long suspected she'd defied Derring's orders, and knew as well how that defiance could be used against her if the truth ever came out. The only way to save Elizabeth was to make her innocence plain to all, and for that he needed her father's letters. He only prayed the information they contained would not hang her rather than free her.

  The thought had him sweating, and by the time Elizabeth returned he was hanging on to his control by a fraying thread.

  "Here you are, my lord," she said, averting her eyes as she handed him the packet. "I would like them back, if I may. They are all I have left of my father."

  The pain in her voice shredded his heart. "I will try," he said, glancing at the packet of letters. There were six in all, and he flipped through them before glancing at her again. "Is this the lot?"

  She gave a jerky nod, her gaze still avoiding his.

  "Which were written after Lord Derring's edict?"

  "The last three," she said, raising her gaze to meet his. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"

  Her use of his title hurt almost as much as the tears he could see drying on her face.

  "Elizabeth," he said, raw with the need to touch her, "I am sorry. You must know I am doing this only to prove your innocence."

  She studied him sadly for several moments. "Must I?" she asked quietly. "To whom are you trying to prove my innocence, Lord Falconer? To the others, or to yourself?"

  Adam had no answer and could only stand silently as once more she walked away from him.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon studying the letters. The invectives Elizabeth's father poured forth against England had his lips thinning several times, but he was certain they didn't constitute treason. Under the recently passed Combination Acts, he supposed they could be considered seditious, but sedition was a far cry from treason. If Mr. Mattingale ever returned to England, he would doubtlessly face arrest, but from what he had read, he could find nothing that implicated Elizabeth in his crimes. The realization had his s
houlders slumping in relief.

  Not wanting to trust the information to anyone, even his valet, he spent several more hours meticulously copying the letters and setting them aside to be sent to the duke in London. It was while he was franking the letters that he realized he hadn't asked Elizabeth how she had maintained the correspondence with her father. A visit to the local postmaster was clearly in order, he decided, tucking Elizabeth's letters inside his jacket. But first he wanted to find Henry and let him know that his spy had been misinformed. The worst thing Mr. Mattingale had asked of Elizabeth was that she move to America as soon as she could manage.

  Realizing he couldn't seek out Henry on his own, he went in search of Lady Elinore. He found her in the morning parlor, sitting in a patch of watery sunlight quietly embroidering. The sight brought him up short, and he leaned against the door to watch her. Almost at once her head came up, and her clear gray eyes met his gaze inquiringly.

  "Is there something you find amusing, my lord?" she asked in the coolly polished accents he'd once considered essential in his marchioness.

  He pushed himself away from the door, embarrassed at having been caught watching her like a moonling. "Not at all," he said, advancing toward her. "I am merely surprised to see you so happily engaged in the womanly arts. I thought you a bluestocking who disdained such things."

  "I am a duke's daughter, Lord Falconer," she replied, setting her hoop and threads aside. "My mother made quite certain I was well-acquainted with the duties expected of that station. And odd as it may seem, I like to embroider; I find it helps me think. Was there anything else you wished, or have you come only to question my domestic abilities?"

  Adam was annoyed to find himself coloring. "I need to see Henry," he said gruffly, aware once more of his gratitude that she'd had the sense to refuse his suit. "Can you arrange it for me?"

  "I can," Lady Elinore said, her light brown brows puckering in a frown. "Although it might be best if you tell me what it is you wish him to know, and allow me to pass it on to him."

  Adam hesitated; he'd seen her and Elizabeth sitting together several times, and she'd been as quick as himself and Lady Barrington in defending her. Still . . .

  "I should prefer meeting with Henry, if you do not mind," he said. "In addition to speaking with him, there is something I wish to show him."

  "I am afraid I cannot allow that," Lady Elinore replied, her voice surprisingly firm. "It is certain to cause comment, and that we cannot afford."

  "I know it will cause comment!" Adam retorted, affronted that she would dare question his authority. "That is why I want you to act as our intermediary. How can anyone suspect anything untoward if you summon your own footman, for pity's sake?"

  "Nevertheless, it is a risk I should prefer not to take," she said, her face taking on an expression of feminine stubbornness. "We don't know who the thief and killer is, and what he may or may not know. Father said he told you to filter any information you might have through him, and since he is not here, you must filter it through me.

  "It's not only Miss Mattingale who is in danger, you know," she added when he hesitated. "What do you think will happen to Henry if the villain ever guesses the truth about him?"

  Adam swore silently, reluctantly conceding that she was right. "Miss Mattingale has been writing to her father in America," he said, doing his best not to sound petulant. "She gave me his letters, and I've examined them at some length. While his sentiments are decidedly questionable, I could see no hint of his having asked her to do anything illicit."

  Lady Elinore tapped a finger to her lips. "Indeed? Are you quite certain of that?"

  His temper stirred, but he didn't allow it to slip its reins. Instead he withdrew the letters and handed them to her.

  "Study them yourself," he offered coldly. "But other than demanding that she return to America, her father made no request of her that can be considered treasonous. I've copied them out to be sent to your father. Have you anything you wish to add?"

  Lady Elinore tucked the letters in her sewing basket along with her hoop and threads before answering. "As a matter of fact, there is," she said, glancing up at him and smiling. "You might tell Papa that I expect to see him by next week's end, and that he owes me that copy of Wollstonecraft he confiscated from me last year."

  Adam shook his head. "You read Wollstonecraft," he said. "Why am I not surprised?"

  She gave a pretty shrug. "I am sure I do not know. Now, if you do not mind, sir, I've a question I should like to ask you."

  Adam tensed in sudden awareness of danger. "What is it?" he asked cautiously.

  "Why did you offer for me?"

  Adam stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Why did you offer for me?" she repeated, her lips curving in an amused smile at his stunned expression. "And you needn't look so horrified, sir. I've no desire that you repeat the event. I am merely curious, that is all."

  Adam fought down the sudden urge to shuffle from one foot to the other. "I suppose I offered for you for the same reason any man of my station offers for a lady," he muttered. "Because I admired you, and thought we would suit."

  "Indeed, and so you said at the time," she said, nodding her head. "But surely there had to be some reason other than that. You must admire any number of ladies."

  What did she want from him? Adam wondered, beginning to feel desperate. "I also admire your father," he said, trying to recall whatever lunacy had prompted him into making such a thorough ass of himself. "I suppose I fancied the notion of our being related in some fashion or another."

  "Did you desire me?"

  "Elinore!" he exclaimed, feeling his face heat in embarrassment. "What the devil sort of question is that?"

  "A reasonable one, or so it seems to me," she replied calmly. "When you were speaking of marrying me, you prattled on about bloodlines and heirs, so I assumed ours would be a normal marriage in every sense of the word. Did you desire me?"

  Adam was beginning to feel like a victim of the Inquisition. "Of course I desired you," he said, praying for deliverance. "You're a beautiful woman, Elinore; you must know that."

  "And it was never more than that? It was never my heart you wanted, my mind, my soul? You would have taken my body and been content with that?"

  "Yes!" he exclaimed, and then thought about it for a moment. "No," he said, realizing now that such a cold and bloodless match would have been the death of him. "The devil take you, Elinore," he muttered, glaring at her. "What is it you're after?"

  "The truth," she said, settling back in her chair and looking oddly satisfied. "Now, as to the letters, have you any idea how Elizabeth has been corresponding with her father?"

  The abrupt change of topic came as a relief and a surprise to Adam. "That is something I mean to discover," he said, intrigued that Elinore had come to the same conelusion as he. "I was thinking of riding into the village tomorrow and speaking to the postmaster. He may have some information that would be of use."

  "He may, but you'd be better advised to talk to the milliner."

  "Mrs. Treckler?" he asked, his facility for remembering names standing him in good stead. "Why should I want to speak with her? I've no need of a new chapeau."

  "Perhaps not, but her brother is the leader of the local group of Gentlemen, and has been known to carry letters for those wishing to avoid the more conventional methods of communication."

  Adam's jaw dropped in astonishment. "How do you know that?" he demanded, recalling his teasing remark about Elizabeth's frequent trips to the milliner's and her prim reply. The little devil! he thought furiously. Just wait until I get my hands on her!

  "From Lady Derring's abigail," Elinore supplied, watching him with no little amusement. "My maid told her I was in a fret because I didn't have any silk, and she told Mary not to worry because Tom Pender would be making another run at high tide."

  "But how do you know about the letters?" he asked, putting his anger aside for the moment. "Just because a man runs a load of silk and br
andy past the excise men, it doesn't necessarily mean he is willing to carry letters, especially to enemy countries."

  "That came from Cook. She told Mary if she had any letters she wished sent to her family in Ireland, Tom would take them for half of what the mails charged."

  Adam manfully swallowed an oath. "We are mad to outlaw smuggling," he observed with considerable feeling. "We ought to legalize the whole bloody thing and be done with it."

  "Ah, but then only think of the sorry mess we would make of it," Elinore observed with a chuckle. "No, we are far better served letting them operate outside the law. They are far more useful that way."

  It seemed an odd remark for a lady, even Elinore, to make, but Adam shrugged it aside. He had far weightier matters to occupy his mind.

  "Perhaps I should ride into the village today," he said grimly. "I find I may have some need for a new bonnet after all."

  Lady Elinore gave a demure smile. "I am sure you will look delightful in it. In the meanwhile, I shall see Henry gets these. Have you anything else you would like to pass on?"

  "Only that I want him to keep a sharp eye on both Derwent and Carling," Adam answered, remembering the dandy's drunken exhibition with a frown. "They're like to be in considerable danger now."

  "Because of what that lackwit let slip?" she asked. "I'm sure he's already heard of it from the other servants, but in case he hasn't, I will let him know."

  Once more her quickness of mind struck Adam, and this time he decided not to let the incident pass unremarked. "You seem rather well-versed in this sort of thing, if you do not mind my saying so," he said, eyes suspicious as he studied her.

  "Not at all," Lady Elinore returned smoothly in her cultured tones. "A lady can learn a great many things from her footman if she but pays the proper mind."

  Not certain how to take that remark, Adam elected to beat a strategic retreat. "Then I'll just bid you good day," he said, and turned to leave the room.

  "Falconer, wait; there is one more question I should like to ask you," Lady Elinore called out just as he reached the door.