The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding 2)

Even in the several weeks since his disastrous encounter with her at Vauxhall Gardens, she’d changed somehow. And her transformation was even greater than the transformation he’d observed in her from shy Mrs. Graves to Lord Deveril’s confident mistress.

Who had she been before she was Mrs. Graves? The last time they’d met she’d hinted at her past but he, instead of gently encouraging her to trust him, had behaved like an oaf. During his father’s lifetime, Miles had been treated as the brash and immature younger brother of the studious, admirable Richard. He’d tried hard to step into his big brother’s shoes, but at the first sign of encouragement—or in this case, opportunity with regard to a tantalising woman—he’d reverted to character. It would serve him right if she cut him dead. Never spoke to him again or even glanced in his direction.

He watched her play to her audience and was filled with even greater curiosity. What was the reality? A shy innocent pretending brazen confidence, as she claimed?

He wished he could speak to her, but Lord Deveril was ever at her side. Miles could see the pleasure it gave his competitor to watch the covetousness in the eyes of the young men who paid court to his mistress. Miles studiously angled himself so he was looking in the opposite direction. He would not give Deveril the satisfaction of knowing Miles was just another of those jealously admiring Deveril’s greatest treasure.

“Might I join you?”

Miles nodded, though he didn’t know the gentleman who seated himself in the leather wing-back chair opposite. Nevertheless, he gave a start of surprise when he introduced himself as Lord Griffith.

His lordship’s craggy face reminded him of a bulldog’s, though leaner. His eyes were a steely-gray and hawklike above his thin but prominent nose. “My condolences on the loss of your brother. I’m sorry we didn’t meet earlier, at his funeral as I’d hoped.”

Miles’s hurt lurched at the memory as he in turn introduced himself to the man who had rendered his brother final assistance.

“Sir Richard met his end on the Bath road about a mile from my estate,” Lord Griffith went on. “By the time he was carried inside, he’d already succumbed to his wounds.”

It was hard to contemplate the last man who had seen his brother alive without emotion—chiefly self recrimination for failing to carry out Richard’s final request. Didn’t that make Miles the wastrel his family had written off years before?

Lord Griffith’s letter of condolence had reached Miles after the family had buried Richard and what had he been doing?

He’d been carousing; that was the truth of it. If he’d been more diligent in leaving forwarding addresses, he’d have made it back in time for his brother’s funeral. He’d have made it to St. Paul’s churchyard to rescue the damsel Richard had been protecting, too.

Now he was awash with a remorse that came swiftly on the heels of his earlier self-flagellation for the disregard he’d shown Miss Mordaunt.

“How much did he suffer? And the perpetrator? Dear God, but it’s a relief that he’s been served justice,” he muttered when Lord Griffith elaborated upon the latest developments in the case.

“Your late brother’s batman, John Wren, was unable to identify the body of a man dragged from a pond last week; it was in such a state of decomposition. Nevertheless, his clothing identified him as a local highwayman who was notorious in the area. The local magistrate, Sir Humphry Wilcock, is satisfied that your brother’s murderer has met his end.” Lord Griffith shook his head. “Bad business all round.”

A shudder ran through Miles and he raked a hand through his hair. Why had his brother been killed? Who was the young woman he was protecting? Why was he protecting her?

As ever, the question that never allowed him peace forced itself to the fore. “John Wren told me Richard was aiding a young woman; that she was being pursued by someone who wished to acquire something that had been in her late father’s possession. An ancient artefact, perhaps, though I’m not sure.” Miles hesitated. He didn’t want to say too much, even though this man had been the last to try and render his brother assistance.

Yet it seemed Lord Griffith was as anxious as he to learn of her fate. “Good lord, yes, it has proved a vexing mystery. You’ve not found the girl?”

Miles sighed and shook his head. “My brother arranged a meeting in London between the two of us in the event that some harm might come to him, but I wasn’t back in London in time, and though I returned many times, I never made contact.” Would he never be free of the guilt? “I must assume she’s safe; however, it plagues me that I failed my brother’s last request. I suppose Richard used a false name, as he was wont to do when on government business, and perhaps she is unaware of mine.”

Lord Griffith contemplated this. “So both the artefact and the girl remain missing, while your brother is dead. Meanwhile, you have acquired your brother’s collection of grand antiquities.”

“About which I know nothing.”

His lordship smiled. “Then you must accept my invitation to attend a house party at my estate over Yuletide, and perhaps I can persuade you of a greater appreciation of the treasures you’ve inherited.”

Miles inclined his head. “I should like that.” He thought of the great draughty halls of the home he’d inherited and made a pledge to forget Deveril’s confounded mistress and instead concentrate on finding a suitable wife to keep him company while committing himself to a more worthwhile pursuit than gambling and carousing with loose women at every opportunity.

Meeting Lord Griffith was fortuitous. Miles needed to take responsibility for the antiquities in his father’s collection that Richard had inherited and, during his lifetime, took such an interest in. For wasn’t that to be expected? Richard was the responsible brother.

But Richard was dead.

Now it was Miles’s turn to take the reigns of a large estate that housed a collection of valuable treasures from around the world.

He needed to act the responsible gentleman and landholder. Understanding the historic value of his collection of treasures would be a good place to start.

And hopefully it would take his mind off Miss Mordaunt.

Chapter 9

Madame Plumb’s salon was always lively. Jemima often enjoyed the conversation, but tonight she was keeping a low profile, her body chilled to the bone as she fought to hide her fear. The sudden, unexpected arrival of Lord Griffith made her head swim and her hands shake but she barely faltered as she read from her book of verse. Perhaps her newly acquired ability to pretend she was someone completely different was to account for the fact she could remain so collected.