LOST: The Love of a Lord Page 3

  “Actually, I think you can.”

  “Really?” That surprised her. As a general rule, men did not ask her for help. And Mr. Fitzroy had seemed particularly irritated with her yesterday. The fact that he suddenly wished for her aid struck her as unusual. “How?”

  “I’m worried that the plot may involve the Earl of Kinross as well and I—”

  “Aslin?” Her voice trembled right along with the rest of her. Was he in danger? Did he know?

  “What I need to know is—”

  “Mister Fitzroy, I need to know the sort of danger that Ware and Priscilla, and by extension the new earl, are in. Please, tell me what’s happening.”

  Ralph cursed under his breath. Ware and Priscilla were in no trouble at all. This was why he was ill-suited to subterfuge.

  He’d attempted to skirt past one little untruth to get some much-needed information. But she was sniffing about his lie like a dog searching for a bone. If he wasn’t careful, she’d discover it.

  She might look angelic and be fidgety, which he’d originally thought might be flightiness, but he’d been completely wrong.

  She was asking all the right questions. Yesterday it had been his position—or false position—as a valet. Not that it was a difficult conclusion to make. But today, she’d narrowed in on his lie and was about to dismantle the falsehood in short order.

  What did he say?

  He ought to have come up with something more elaborate with his hours in the carriage to collect his thoughts. But he’d been distracted by the way sun accentuated the pearl of her skin and the flash of green in her gaze. And then there were her lips…

  “Do you remember those articles in the paper about the man going around in a domino and cape?”

  “The Bushy Hero?” she asked, stopping again with a sigh, but not of impatience. This was the noise a woman made when she was swept away by romantic fancy. “Of course I remember him.”

  Ralph’s nostrils curled the slightest bit. Granted, he’d been half of the Bushy Hero, stalking criminals in the night. And it was heroic, he supposed. When it wasn’t downright dangerous. It had been Wyatt’s idea, a way of redeeming his past injury and proving to himself he was a worthy man.

  But the deeds hadn’t been romantic. They’d been gritty, and dark, and frequently dangerous. He supposed good women painted those sorts of things in idyllic colors. It allowed them to place stock in the deeds of men.

  But part of him wanted to explain why she shouldn’t.

  She might get caught up in a man who wasn’t all that good or just or right. To be fair, Wyatt was all those things. But most men who stalked the night were simply villains.

  He gave himself a shake. Best to stick to the web of deceit he was attempting to weave. “He…” Ralph paused. “He sent a letter to the queen.”

  Her brows lifted, her lips parting as she stopped to stare at him. “The Bushy Hero sent a letter to the queen.”

  Ralph kept going, hoping he’d find a way through this conversation. “That’s right. And in it, he insinuated that—”

  Now her brows furrowed. “What?”

  Ralph swallowed, slipping his free palm along his hip. When had he begun sweating? “That he’d overheard a plot to steal the jewels of the guests at the funeral of the Earl of Kinross.”

  Clara gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh my.” Then she stopped. “What do jewels have to do with Wyatt?”

  Ralph blinked twice. Shite. What did jewels have to do with Wyatt? “He’s got this diamond-encrusted insignia ring from his father. Worth a small fortune.”

  Clara nodded. “And the thief?”

  Ralph breathed a sigh. He might be reaching the other side of this dark tunnel. “That’s what we don’t know.”

  “We?” Her fingers began tapping on his sleeve. “Who is the ‘we?’ Is the Bushy Hero going to be at the funeral?” Her voice rose with hope.

  This time, he couldn’t help himself. “Of course not. He’s no more than a criminal himself.”

  Her eyes widened. “He’s a hero.”

  “Who hides behind a mask. Because he has something to hide.” He’d thought that she’d been linked to the new Earl of Kinross. She seemed rather attached to the Bushy Hero for a woman about to marry. He grimaced. It only proved what he always thought true of all elites: they were loyal to no one but their own ambition. “Besides, I thought you and the earl…”

  She tightened her grip on his arm. “You heard that? I mean, I’ve hoped but—” She stopped again, her lips clamping shut.

  So she was interested in Kinross. He’d have to be very careful not to reveal his true purpose. But if she was after the earl, why did she get so dreamy about the Bushy Hero? And what would she do if she found out that hero was Wyatt and himself? “The point is, I don’t know the earl and as a servant—”

  “We’ve already established you’re not.”

  True. “He’ll think I am, which means I won’t really have access to him, will I? But I’ll need certain information to keep everyone safe and—”

  “Tell me, how did this become your job? What connection do you have to the queen and the Bushy Hero?”

  He stalled. Because it was an excellent question and he should have seen it coming. “Not me—Wyatt. The queen…” What did he say without revealing too much?

  Her eyes crinkled as she stared at him. “Did she ask Wyatt for help?”

  Clearing his throat, Ralph looked into her clear, angelic face. Why was he lying to this woman? It felt wrong…like stealing a sweet from a child. Which was odd considering he’d just accused her of being opportunistic with her affections.

  And why should he lie to her at all? He’d wanted to be an earl to right injustices, not cause them. Was the title corrupting him already?

  But if he didn’t move forward with the queen’s offer, what would he do with his life?

  He couldn’t be a boxer again, he was too old. He didn’t think it a good idea to keep stalking criminals in the night.

  And Wyatt didn’t need him the way he had after his accident.

  Many might dream of such power and position, but despite growing up in a viscount’s house, he never had. His father had shown him the ugly side of power. Angry and abusive, the viscount had used his position to treat others horridly.

  Ralph never wanted to be that man. Ever.

  But what did that mean for his own path forward? Was lying to Clara and others so different than the many mistakes his father had made?

  “Mister Fitzroy?”

  He blinked, having lost the thread of the conversation. Wyatt. Queen. Help. “Wyatt’s name was specifically mentioned in the report given to the queen. I’ll see him safe, and the best way to do that is to investigate the criminals set to perpetrate the crime.”

  Clara nodded, leaning close. “My friend Charlotte, the new Countess of Westmoreland, has helped the police with a few investigations. We could enlist her help if need be. And certainly I’ll do whatever I can. Just tell me, Mister Fitzroy. What do you need?”

  “I’m sure I’m fine.”

  But she drew in a breath, her other hand fluttering. “You might consider being introduced as someone other than a valet. If it’s an acquaintance of Kinross’s that’s the perpetrator, you’ll have better access to them if you’re a guest.” And then she nibbled her lip, hiding a smile. “And your valet impression is somewhat…” She didn’t finish but he understood.

  He was not convincing. He looked into her beautiful face, so open and giving, and he winced. She didn’t seem opportunistic. Clara seemed open, honest, and truly concerned.

  Looking forward, he saw that Wyatt had stopped and turned to look back at Ralph, his gaze narrowed in suspicion.

  Wyatt had every right to doubt.

  In this moment, Ralph felt like the worst sort of cad.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Clara held her breath as she waited for Mr. Fitzroy’s answer.

  Under her hand, his bulging biceps flexed, reminding her of the
strength and power of this man. The one currently set upon investigating a criminal plot to keep her friends safe.

  She couldn’t be more excited if she’d met the actual Bushy Hero.

  But that thought made her wince. She was taking this trip to be with Kinross. Not to obsess over a man she’d read about in the papers or Mr. Fitzroy.

  Besides. He didn’t even like her. Did he?

  That was of no account. She was here for Kinross. The man she’d dreamed of for years. And with her mother’s illness…it seemed vital to seize her future now—and that future had always been matrimony with Kinross.

  So she ignored her racing heart as she looked at Mr. Fitzroy. He wasn’t even her sort of man. Kinross had always had fairytale looks with perfect hair and teeth, a square jaw and the sort of form on which statues were modeled.

  While Mr. Fitzroy… His thick hair stuck out a bit here and there, looking difficult to tame. And his muscles were massive, and his eyes… Well, there was something so very inviting about them. And then there was his fixation on keeping others safe.

  She shook her head. She had to stop.

  “In terms of what I need,” he rumbled, “some information on the new earl would be very helpful.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged, looking away as his face tightened into a slight wince. “It’s his home that’s been targeted. There might be an inadvertent link between him and the thieves.”

  That made her gasp and she found herself moving just a touch closer to Mr. Fitzroy. Her hip brushed his and then she skittered away as much as her hand in his arm would allow.

  She shook her head. “Let me see. He went to Oxford with my brother. He has a town house in London where he spent most of his time. He…”

  What else did she know? He liked card games, he was terribly charming, and he hated his father. But that was far too personal to share with Mr. Fitzroy.

  “Did he stay in London a great deal? Not in the country with his father?”

  Her gaze narrowed. What did that have to do with jewel thieves? When Mr. Fitzroy had begun talking, she’d thought she’d be getting some actual answers. Was this plot what Priscilla had been referring to yesterday?

  But she was back to being confused.

  And much as she liked Mr. Fitzroy, she’d know more before she shared anything else. “He does not keep me informed of most of his movements.”

  Mr. Fitzroy nodded, but his face fell with obvious disappointment.

  They finished their walk in relative silence and for once, Clara was glad to climb into the carriage again. Here, there would be no more questions and she could sift through all the information she’d learned.

  She pressed her hands together as she considered what he’d told her about the potential thieves, Wyatt, the queen. Everything made sense until she got to his questions about Kinross. The Bushy Hero had targeted London crime. Was Kinross somehow involved in the robberies that the Bushy Hero had investigated a few months back?

  Was that why Ralph had asked where he resided?

  Her head swam as her stomach pitched. She had to know the truth. If the people she cared for were in danger…

  A slight pitter-patter on the roof caught her notice and she pulled back the curtain. When had all those clouds rolled in?

  The sky grew darker and the rain steadier until it came down in such a deluge that another sound could not be heard over the pounding of the water on the carriage.

  Clara’s hands pressed together as the carriage slowed to a crawl.

  “Should I climb out?” Ralph asked Wyatt, his brow knit in a line of concern.

  Wyatt shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Just then, the carriage gave a sickening lurch, sliding to the side. She started to slide too, pressing into Priscilla until Mr. Fitzroy’s large hand shot out, steadying her as the vehicle ground to a stop.

  She reached for Mr. Fitzroy’s massive forearm, holding on to him as though he were a buoy in the ocean even though the carriage was now still.

  “It’s the mud, my lord,” the driver called over the rain.

  Wyatt snapped open the door and, stepping out into the muck, his foot audibly sank into the seeping liquid.

  “Blast,” Mr. Fitzroy murmured as he slowly withdrew his hand from her arm. With a start, she realized she held him still, and she dropped her hands, her cheeks flaming with heat. He gave her a small smile as he stepped out too.

  Wyatt returned a moment later. “There’s a small hill with a tree up ahead. We’re going to carry you ladies to its cover so that we can push the vehicle out.”

  Carry?

  But Wyatt was already reaching back inside. Priscilla moved to the door and he swept his wife into his arms, dashing toward the cover of the tree.

  She partially stood, watching their progress.

  “Clara,” Mr. Fitzroy called, holding out his hand toward her.

  Had he just used her given name? Why did the single word shiver down her spine? Had his voice always been so deep?

  She stepped toward him and in a blink, she found herself in his arms, pressed to his barrel chest.

  How had he done that?

  But the rain began to pelt her and she wrapped her arms about his neck as she burrowed her face against him.

  The rain was cold but he was ridiculously warm, and as he dashed toward the cover, hardly jostling her, she had the sensation that this was the sort of man who might protect her from all the rain that life might pelt down.

  Ralph hugged Clara closer.

  He hadn’t meant to utter her given name. Miss Melby. That’s what he should have said.

  But she was so lovely and she’d held his arm like a woman in need of a tether and then… He looked down at her, burrowed into his chest.

  She fit against him like she was meant to be there, her soft curves molding to him. She’d clearly donned a short corset for travel and it allowed him…

  He stopped. He might be an earl, but that did not mean that a woman like Clara could ever be his. He didn’t even wish for it to be so. She was part of the other…

  The only person he cared for in the elite class was Wyatt. That was it. And now Priscilla. He swore under his breath. Priscilla and Wyatt were different. They’d both experienced real abuse. The sort that made a person understand what it meant to be downtrodden. Clara didn’t have that depth. Did she?

  Not that it mattered. She already had a beau. A man who’d known he’d be an earl his entire life. A man who had been groomed to be an earl.

  Ralph had been raised by a man who taught him early on that he was less for being a bastard, for having a common mother.

  Wyatt didn’t treat him like less, his brother didn’t have to. Ralph knew that men like Wyatt and Kinross were more important than himself.

  Clara belonged with those sorts of men.

  Her arms tightened about his neck and he found himself pulling her closer as they reached the cover of the tree. He knew she would never be for him. Yesterday, he hadn’t even liked this woman, but as he held her tight, he realized that he wished to pretend for a moment. He wanted to be the man who cared for a woman such as this.

  No wonder he’d been irritable at the start of the trip. He had to stare at a woman all day who reminded him that it didn’t matter what the queen did or didn’t give him, he’d never be one of the elite.

  It was that thought that allowed him to swing her down and set her lightly on her feet.

  Though she did not let go.

  Her arms were still locked about his neck, her body now pressed to his from shoulder to hip, her face turned up to his.

  He held her waist and as he looked down at her, an ache throbbed in his chest.

  “The rain is already letting up,” Wyatt said, breaking the spell under which he’d found himself.

  It must have been true for Clara as well because she unthreaded her arms from about him, taking a step back. He couldn’t seem to help holding her waist for a few moments longer, making certain she was s
teady.

  But then, looking at Wyatt, he gave a nod. “Let’s go. That carriage won’t dislodge itself.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Clara held her breath as she watched Mr. Fitzroy.

  He’d removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, his muscles flexing and straining as he squatted down, pushing the carriage through the thick mud that had collected on the road.

  Her hands pressed together, covering her mouth as she watched. In this moment, he managed to be breathtakingly gorgeous. Something about all that strength.

  “Clara.” Priscilla touched her arm. “This trip has been such a whirlwind, we’ve hardly a chance to speak.”

  “It has,” Clara returned, tearing her gaze from Mr. Fitzroy to look at her friend.

  “Tell me,” Priscilla said, “how is your mother?”

  Unease slid through her at the change in topic. “My father says she’s fine, but…” Her words trailed off.

  Priscilla winced sympathetically, her hand brushing down Clara’s arm. “She’s been attending fewer and fewer events.”

  “That’s right,” Clara replied. “She stays in bed a great deal of the day and she only picks at her food.”

  “What does the doctor say?”

  “It isn’t her lungs or heart. They don’t say much and they can’t seem to pinpoint what’s wrong, but we’re all…” She stopped, taking a breath. “We’re all worried. Her most of all. She’s grown more concerned with my future and that of my brother’s. She’s been talking endlessly about matches for the two of us.”

  Priscilla wrapped her arms about Clara, resting her head on Clara’s shoulder. “That’s so difficult.”

  Clara found her eyes welling with tears. “How was it when you lost your father?”

  Priscilla remained silent for a moment as her gaze shifted off to the horizon. Clara could see the sadness that still lingered there. But in a moment, it was gone, and when Priscilla turned back to her, her eyes were kind. “It gets better with time.”