Trial by Desire (Carhart 2)

Gareth glanced at her. He had a more rigid sense of duty and obligation, and naturally, the thought that he might shirk either would not sit well with him.

“Someone has to go to Chelsea,” Gareth said. “Someone we can trust.”

Harcroft nodded.

Jenny’s hands played along the tabletop, and she said nothing.

She didn’t need to complete her thoughts—at least, not to Ned. Some women of the ton would never balk at leaving their young children to a nursemaid for weeks on end. But Jenny had been abandoned by her own mother, and even a hint of doing the same would doubtless bring up her hackles. A few weeks—with her first child just over a year old—would not have sat well with her.

“I could go on alone,” Gareth offered. He bit his lip. “But making people comfortable enough to divulge details is not precisely one of my strengths.”

If Ned were to talk of honor and obligation—and true affection—a great deal of his lay here. He owed Jenny for her long-ago friendship. He owed Gareth for tugging him out of his own youthful mistakes. And he loved them both, and could not countenance sending them off to chase down wild poultry, when he knew precisely how futile the hunt would be.

“Are we truly worried about a little thing like a few weeks’ absence, when my wife’s well-being might be at stake?” Harcroft demanded.

Jenny looked away once more.

Oh, yes. And there was the fact that Ned couldn’t blurt out the truth with Harcroft close by. He’d gotten his cousin and his wife entangled with the earl; it was his responsibility to untwine them. If he could arrange this, nobody would ever be able to say he was useless again. Least of all himself.

“You’re quite right, Harcroft,” Ned heard himself say. All three turned to him—Jenny, Gareth and the earl himself. “This matter is too important to bungle. Harcroft, you should go to Chelsea.” He turned to his cousin. “The two of you should return to Blakely manor—it’s closer to London, and it’s centrally located. That way, if any new information is discovered, you could easily move on to where you are needed.”

Harcroft paused contemplatively, then shook his head. “No good. I have to stay here, to finish the canvas of the district. If that woman we heard of on that first day turned out to be Louisa, we might lose her trail. I can’t risk that.”

“I spent my summers here when I was younger. I know the residents. And—” Ned felt a little dirty, but under these circumstances, the lie was better than the truth coming out “—you know you can trust me to pursue all your interests.”

Jenny’s eyes narrowed as Ned spoke, and he looked away from her to contemplate the pins on the map. He wasn’t any good at lying to Jenny—he never had been. Jenny was damnably observant. And he could not have this conversation with her—at least not with Harcroft looking on. But all he had to do was convince Harcroft.

So he added the coup de grâce. “And besides, Harcroft, you know Lady Blakely will be distracted by her own feminine concerns. This matter needs the best attention that you can give.”

Even Gareth raised his head at that phenomenal stinker of a falsehood.

“Ned, are you trying to goad me into acting?” Jenny’s voice had taken on a dangerous note.

“Take me to task later.” He spoke to Jenny, but looked at Harcroft still.

Harcroft met his gaze. One benefit of the man having no sense of humor was that he had little sense of sarcasm, either. He showed no sign that he heard anything amiss in Ned’s treasonous speech. Finally, he gave a short, sharp nod. And like that, there was nothing more to do but divide the tasks, and try not to let the relief he felt show. Gareth left the room to order the packing to start. Jenny sat, stiff and silent, throughout the remainder of the conversation. Ned felt her eyes on him.

“Ha.” Harcroft rubbed his hands bitterly as he watched the man leave.

The room wasn’t cold, but Ned felt a chilling prickle under his collar.

Harcroft leaned close anyway and whispered, “Watch your wife, Ned. I know you don’t want to hear my warnings. But I’ve talked to the servants. She’s gone on walks—long walks—twice in the last week. And before any of us arrived, she spent a night away from the house.”

“Harcroft, this isn’t the time to speculate on—”

“No.” Harcroft stood and dry-washed his hands. “A gentleman doesn’t speculate on a lady’s proclivities. A duke’s daughter is not some…some laundry maid, to be exposed to the world’s censure.” His lip pulled back bitterly. “But Ned—do spare a moment, while looking for my wife, to keep your guard up around yours.”

“I’m not worried about Kate. I trust her.”

“Well.” Harcroft strode to the door. “To each their own. I suppose I’ll be ready to leave in the morning. Lady Blakely?”

“If we’re off in the next few hours, we’ll arrive home tonight.” There was that look in Jenny’s eyes, though, the way she dropped them so quickly, that suggested she had something else in mind. She remained seated, watching Ned as Harcroft walked out. She said nothing, long after his footsteps echoed down the hall.

And this was the true test. Ned could fool Harcroft. He could bamboozle Gareth. But Jenny had spent the years before her marriage watching for reactions, looking for the tiny, betraying clues that would suggest hidden motivations. Even if his heart had been in the deception, Jenny would have been difficult to lie to.

“We’ve not talked about Kate much,” she finally said. “I know she and I have not been the best of friends. But are things well between you?”

“Well enough.”

“If that’s an answer, I’ll eat my hat.” She tossed her unclad head, and Ned found himself grinning.

“You’re not wearing one.”

Her mouth curved up in brief appreciation, but she was not to be misdirected by levity. “What a mess this has been. I just want to know that someone here has a chance of happiness in the next week, Ned. It might as well be you. It’s your turn, after all.” She turned a hand over in her lap and inspected her nails.

“Really?” Ned asked. “That’s all you wanted to say?”

“Of course. I care for your welfare. You know that.”

“What I meant was that you did not use to be so obvious when you were trying to persuade me to divulge my secrets.”

She glanced up sharply, then smiled. “You have grown up, I see. Very well. Are you going to tell me why you are trying to rid yourself of Harcroft and my husband?”

Ned considered this briefly. “No.”

She smiled. “Are you going to share any of your suspicions?” She spoke lightly, as if his suspicions were inconsequential fears that could be divulged in a sentence or two. If he told her everything, she would help him. She would insist on it—she and her husband both. And as much as Ned cared for them, he didn’t want their help. He didn’t want them meddling, interfering in his relationship with his wife.

And he still wanted to prove himself.

Besides, Jenny wanted to go home.

“Suspicions?” Ned parroted.

She cocked her head. Ned forced himself to remain calm under that examination. He took regular breaths, relaxed his shoulders.

“My suspicions,” Ned said, “are mine. And the instant I have information beyond what I possess in the moment, I’ll share with you. You can be sure of that.”

True; everything he knew now, every certain scrap of knowledge, was his. It would take some vast new piece of knowledge to get him to betray what he knew.

“You know,” Jenny said too casually, “before you arrived in this room, Harcroft said he suspected Kate was maligning him. That she might have precipitated his wife’s flight.”

Any answer—or no answer—would betray too much. Ned rubbed his chin, as if he could scrub off the weight of her attention. He couldn’t, though; she watched him, as clear-eyed as before. Finally, he met her gaze head-on. “And does that arouse your suspicions as to Kate or Harcroft?”

“You also didn’t use to answer my lit

tle prompts with questions. I should have liked to ask you the same thing, as it turns out. And as it turns out…I don’t know. Neither. Both. Maybe. Harcroft is a moody fellow. I can’t quite put my finger on him.”

Saying Harcroft was moody seemed a bit like saying that an unexpected winter storm was a mild inconvenience.

“He’ll never admit it, as he’s one of those men, but this ordeal has left him completely overwrought. If he were a woman, everyone would say he was on the verge of hysterics. I don’t know what else to say, but I am sure that he loves Louisa. He wept when he told us she was missing. He wept, Ned. Imagine what that must mean to a man stuffed as full of pride as he. There have been times I could have happily slapped him—he constantly drops these unthinking little insults to his wife. But he wept.”

“And you?”

“I have not known Louisa—or her husband—well enough to weep. If this information from Chelsea comes to nothing…we must simply wait and hope that Louisa has not come to any harm.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “Or must we?”