Sweet Enemy Page 3

  Penelope laid the ensemble out upon the counterpane and turned to Liliana. “And I will do my part, as I promised, out of love for you—even though I’m not entirely convinced the Wentworths are complicit in Uncle Charles’ death.”

  “It’s the most reasonable explanation, Pen. It was a letter from someone in this family that lured him to his death. It had to have been a Wentworth who betrayed him.” Liliana swallowed her frustration. She couldn’t blame Penelope for her doubts, since she’d been unable to bring herself to tell Pen the rest of her suspicions.

  Once Liliana had realized that the letters had been in some sort of code, a hypothesis naturally formed. Though she had been only ten at the time, Liliana remembered her father acting oddly in the weeks before his death. Hurried. Distant. Secretive. The timing was suspect, also. The Treaty of Amiens had broken down by the time the first letter was written, and hostilities between Britain and France had recommenced in May of that year. So why would her father have coded letters in French and from the late Earl of Stratford, dated well after war was declared? Given her father’s claims of betrayal and his violent death, the most logical conclusion was that he and a member of the Wentworth family had been involved in some sort of espionage gone wrong.

  But she would never voice such an accusation. Not without proof. Proof she intended to find before she left Somerton Park.

  “Well, if that truly is the case,” Pen said, her voice softening in a rare moment of gravity, “the Wentworths will surely not want their involvement known, so please…be careful.” Penelope turned to select her own wardrobe for the evening.

  Liliana clutched a sketch pad to her chest, mulling over her cousin’s warning.

  “La!” Aunt Eliza sailed into the room, dressed for the evening in a turquoise organza gown, a matching turban covering her hair—a concession to the rush to get her charges downstairs, no doubt. “Why are you trifling with that now?” She snatched the pad from Liliana’s hands and tossed it aside, shaking her head as if she’d never understood her niece and never would. Catching Liliana by the elbow, Aunt pulled her to the dressing screen. “You both must get washed and dressed at once.”

  A maid came around the screen bearing the lavender evening gown Pen had selected. Liliana gave herself over to the hurried ablutions, turning her mind to the meeting ahead.

  Penelope had reason to worry. With the current earl’s connections to Wellington, he was fast becoming a powerful political figure. He would not want any complicity in her father’s death made public. She’d have to school her features well, not betray any emotion or thought. If he suspected what she was about, he’d banish her from Somerton Park without delay.

  Or worse. She mustn’t forget that. Not for one moment.

  “It is as I feared. We’ve missed the reception line,” Aunt Eliza grumbled as the trio pushed their way into the crowded salon. Guests milled about in stylish clusters. The assembly, more female than male in number, certainly seemed energized. Bright faces and even wider smiles abounded. And why not? One of London’s most eligible bachelors stood on the marriage block.

  Aunt raised her voice over the din. “Some other girl has probably already caught the earl’s eye,” she groused, stopping just inside the door. She craned her neck in a frustrated half circle. “I can’t see Stratford, but judging by the collection of women near the back corner, I’d say he’s holding court somewhere in that vicinity.” She nodded her head in the direction where, indeed, a small crowd had gathered. “Come.”

  Liliana followed her aunt and cousin, turning this way and that as they squeezed between rustling skirts of taffeta and silk. Cloying perfumes—a hodgepodge of orange blossom, tuberose, jasmine and plumeria to name but a few—assaulted her nose. The diverse scents proved quite unappetizing when mingled in the same room. The overly sweet haze wafting from dozens of husband hunters only increased the churning in Liliana’s stomach, and she quickened her step, anxious to get her first meeting with the Wentworth family over with.

  Though taller than most, Liliana struggled to see over elaborate coiffures and plumed headwear. The slow trudge reminded her of one of her earliest experiments. When she was seven, she’d decided to find out how quickly snails could move. She’d meticulously observed and recorded the progress of six different specimens. They’d averaged four inches every seven minutes. Liliana shook her head as her party inched forward. Those snails would have reached the Earl of Stratford before she would.

  She strained to get a glimpse of her adversary amongst the glittering masses.

  “—more handsome than his brother, don’t you think?” an older woman in the crush was saying to her daughter. Liliana turned her head, drawn to any snippet of information she could collect.

  “Wellington himself has said Stratford exemplifies the best of English courage—”

  “—almost died saving another man’s life,” came a whisper.

  “How heroic,” said another woman with a dramatic sigh.

  Heroic. Liliana frowned. The word contradicted her expectations of the man—though she had, of course, heard tales of his bravery.

  “Sure, he ruffled a few feathers with that poverty relief bill he championed last season, but all great men have their crusades. He’ll step in line, with the right woman’s influen—”

  Aunt Eliza tugged Liliana forward before she could hear any more.

  These women talked about Stratford like he was some sort of paragon.

  Liliana firmed her jaw. Well, maybe he was. But hero, saint or crusader for the masses—it mattered not. She would discover what had really happened to her father, even if she had to ruin Stratford to do it.

  “At last,” Aunt Eliza said as they came to the pastel-clad barricade surrounding the earl. Not to be denied, she dug a discreet elbow in here and there until she broke through, Penelope and Liliana in tow. Liliana drew in a lungful of air and braced herself.

  “Lady Belsham, you’ve arrived.” A woman, presumably the countess, stepped forward to greet them. Her smile was that of an accomplished hostess, though not a particularly warm one. The countess was flanked by two men of remarkably similar appearance. As one of the men looked obviously older, Liliana assumed the gentleman to be an uncle.

  Her eyes fixed upon Stratford. He stood mere feet away, tall, rigid and oddly detached, as if his mind were elsewhere. Black hair complemented winged brows of the same hue. An aquiline nose lay above long, full lips that Lothario himself would envy.

  Stratford devastated her senses—she, who was normally very much inured to the physicality of men. The realization shook Liliana. Air expanded in her lungs, relieving the tightness but doing little to calm the unusual tension that thrummed through her limbs.

  She lowered her lashes. It wouldn’t do to be caught staring, though the desire to observe the Wentworths’ faces nearly overwhelmed her. Could you see guilt in someone’s eyes? And if so, how did you quantify it?

  Liliana kept her head politely bowed through the tale of their broken carriage wheel. But her breath shortened and her nerves tingled. Gooseflesh prickled her arms as an urge to flee swept over her like a frigid breeze. She curled her toes to keep them firmly planted.

  When she looked up again, Stratford’s attention was on Penelope’s introduction, giving Liliana an opportunity to settle herself. She couldn’t say what she’d expected upon finally meeting the earl, but certainly not this riot of indefinable awareness. She drew another deep breath. All she had to do was get through the moment and she’d feel normal again.

  “And may I present my niece, Miss Claremont?” Aunt Eliza said, touching Liliana’s elbow.

  Stratford’s gaze moved to her, and he stiffened. She’d never seen eyes so sharp, so blue. His eyes narrowed and focused intently upon her.

  Liliana’s heart thumped—hard—then skipped a beat. Claremont was a common enough name. So why was he looking at her so? Unless her arrival alarmed him because he knew whose daughter she was and guessed why she’d come…Unease rolled like wave
s through her.

  She affected a small curtsy, as much to compose herself as because his rank dictated. But as her eyes dipped, she noticed the signet ring on Stratford’s pinky and her resolve solidified. The Stratford seal was emblazoned on the ring, only inches from her. She was this close to learning the truth. She straightened, snapping her gaze back to the earl.

  The man’s expression smoothed to one she could not fathom. “Miss Claremont,” he acknowledged with a slight bow, his voice deeper, rougher than it had been when he’d conversed with Aunt or Penelope.

  Lady Stratford’s mouth creased into a frown. And didn’t the uncle’s eyes widen, just slightly?

  A hot flush spread over Liliana’s face and neck. Stratford and his family had reacted to her name…she was sure of it.

  The dinner gong sounded, the reverberating clang startling Liliana. She automatically looked toward the noise. When she turned back, all three Wentworths wore polite, benign smiles. And then they were gone, leading the assembly into the dining room.

  Liliana stood still, immobilized by a surreal uncertainty quite unlike her. Had she imagined their responses because she’d expected to see something?

  She stared after their retreating forms. Lady Stratford whispered something to her son. Liliana noticed his frown in profile, and her suspicion deepened.

  No. If her hosts had nothing to hide, then she would find nothing. If they were guilty, however, she owed it to her father to bring the truth to light.

  The question was, if she discovered something of an incriminating nature, to what lengths would the powerful Earl of Stratford go to silence her?

  Chapter Two

  “A

  re you sure this is a good idea, Mother?” a feminine voice Liliana did not recognize whispered in the darkness. A ring of glowing candlelight advanced upon her in the hallway. She flattened herself against the wall, squeezing between an ornately carved Chippendale chair and a massive wall cabinet containing shadowy sculptures and decorative vases within. She silently prayed the navy walking dress she’d donned would be dark enough to conceal her as she shut her eyes and forced herself to hold still.

  “Of course, gel,” a voice answered, closer now. “Just pretend that you’re lost, and being a gentleman he won’t be able to refuse…” The voice faded as the women passed round the corner.

  Liliana let out a breath at the near miss. She hadn’t anticipated that she wouldn’t be the only person sneaking around Somerton Park tonight. She shook her head. Whatever—whomever—other people hunted was none of her concern.

  An image of black hair and arresting cobalt eyes flashed through her mind. An unwelcome rush of feminine appreciation rolled over her as she recalled her introduction to Stratford. He’d been a head taller than any other gentleman in the room, and even with his sleek muscles fully covered by black evening clothes, Liliana recognized that he would be a specimen worth hunting.

  If, of course, he didn’t turn out to be a traitor. After she’d learned whose family crest had marked the seal, she’d done some research. Stratford’s father had been earl in 1803, so the letters had most likely come from him. But if he and her father had been passing—or receiving—sensitive information, who had more opportunity to carry that information across enemy lines than the current earl, who was then a soldier moving throughout the continent with his regiment?

  Sure that the other women were far past, Liliana slowly felt her way in the shadows toward the central staircase, in search of the library. She was grateful she’d thought to leave her slippers behind. Even in her stockings, she imagined she could hear her every footfall on the cold marble. Her heart sped faster with each step.

  After a frustrating half hour of wrong turns and missteps, Liliana came upon a set of double doors. They stood open, revealing only several bookshelves and shadowed furnishings. At least none of the husband hunters thought to lay in wait in the library. Of course, she couldn’t picture the ladies she’d seen tonight reading much beyond gossip rags or fashion plates.

  Praying for solitude, she slipped into the room and closed the doors. In the oppressive darkness, Liliana made out the lines of a fireplace, cold and dark. Drat it all. Was it really too much to hope some fire remained for light?

  No matter. She reached into a pocket of her navy dress, one of several she’d designed herself. While in London, she wore only fashionable pastels. But in the country, her darker dresses were more practical while working in her laboratory and out gathering the specimens she used in her efforts to isolate chemicals from plants to create more effective medicines. Not only could she carry several items in the oversized pockets, but the fabric stained less easily. The added benefit of keeping her hidden in shadow while sneaking around strangers’ homes was a bonus she’d never needed or appreciated before.

  Liliana withdrew her tinderbox, a taper candle and a holder. She felt her way to the mantel, where she found a jar of spills. Opening the little drawer, she tugged a bit of char cloth into the open and snapped the drawer shut with her thumb. The flint sparked and the cloth began to smolder on the first attempt. Pride swelled as her experimental accelerant flared. She lit first the spill, then the taper.

  She looked about. The high-ceilinged space swallowed the golden flicker of her candle after mere feet. The distant corners of the room disappeared into inky blackness. She would have to risk more light. Liliana made her way to the outer wall, where shutters covered the windows, and flicked a latch, willing the wood not to creak.

  Moonlight flooded in, illuminating shelves and wall sconces.

  Her stomach fell. The main room dwarfed her own study-cum-library many times over. Hers was more the size of one of the two nooks that flanked Somerton Park’s main collection. She counted the number of shelves around her and swiftly extrapolated. My God. She could spend her entire two weeks in here and barely scratch the surface. How would she ever find her father’s letters in this enormous manse—much less other evidence to link Charles Claremont to the Wentworths?

  Impatience flared, sparked by the burning need to understand why her father had been struck down. She’d always had it—this compulsion to break things down to their elements. To discover the why and the how. It was what drove her to continue to pursue science, even though she’d been harshly discouraged by her aunt and rejected by the male establishment. And in a sense, it was what drove her now. She would discover the truth.

  Liliana picked up her candle and started across the room, dodging shadowy sofas, settees, tables and ottomans. The most logical place to look first would be Stratford’s desk. Lighting her way with her taper, she found only a rosewood writing desk, with nothing inside but writing implements. Unlike Claremont Cottage, Somerton Park must have a separate study.

  Two locked doors cleverly tucked between bookshelves seemed the most promising locations, but she saw no locking mechanisms she might manipulate. She ran her fingers over their seams and tugged on the wall sconces that flanked them, hoping to find a trick lock. She gave up after a time. There had to be another entrance to Stratford’s study elsewhere.

  She chafed at the probability of leaving empty-handed and returned her gaze to the library. Could Somerton Park’s shelves house a secret compartment as her father’s did?

  She rushed to the first set of shelves, using her taper to light a wall sconce. As leather-bound volumes came into sharper view, she abstained from reading the multicolored spines and instead methodically checked each shelf as high as she could reach. She ran her hands behind the books, feeling for anything unusual—a raised section, a changed texture. Finding nothing, she hurried to the fireplace, where a rolling ladder rested. She braced it in front of a bookcase and climbed, her stocking feet smarting at the hardness of the rounded rungs.

  By the time she’d reached the third case, the muscles in her thighs and calves trembled slightly and her left arm ached from anchoring herself to the ladder. By the fourth case, small beads of sweat broke out on her brow from her exertions. If she were wise, she�
�d give in for the night and start fresh tomorrow.

  Then something caught her eye. Excitement charged her blood with a crackling energy. In the very top right corner of the highest shelf, a black leather volume stood out like a crow amongst colorful songbirds. The unmarked binding gave no hint of its contents. Of course, it could be nothing. But it resembled a journal or a ledger book, either of which would surely have a sample of handwriting she could compare to the killer’s letter.

  A tingle danced up Liliana’s spine. She gripped the ladder and scrambled to the top.

  The black volume loomed just out of reach. Liliana stretched out her arm in an effort to grasp it. She strained, fingers trembling for a long moment. She gripped a bookshelf with both hands and tried to inch the ladder farther by shimmying her hips in a rather undignified manner, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Liliana clenched her teeth and looked longingly at the book. She had to know what was in it. Aunt Eliza always said her unladylike curiosity would be her downfall, and perhaps tonight that would prove to be true. Regardless, finding something of interest in that black book was Liliana’s only hope to salvage this entire day.