The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“I’ll never believe that.” Lady Brentmor shook her head. “I’ve learned the hard way never to believe you at all. Always blaming someone else for your troubles. Now you blame what happened twenty-five years ago?”

Her son approached, to lean over the desk. “It’s you who’s dredging up the past. Bound to keep Jason’s girl to yourself, aren’t you, though she belongs with her husband.”

“He can’t keep her. He’s next to penniless.”

“And you’ll see he remains so, won’t you? I do wonder how you managed it. Don’t tell me Percival never told either of them about the chess set. He knew of Diana’s bequest before I did, I’ve no doubt. She kept few secrets from him. Only one, perhaps,” he added bitterly.

“Edenmont don’t know about the set, and it’s going to stay that way.” Her eyes flashed a warning. “There’s no point telling him anyhow since it won’t do him no good.”

“Certainly not.” Sir Gerald drew back. “No more good than it does me, with a piece missing.”

He flung himself into the chair at the chess table. “Might as well let him have it. At least then I won’t be responsible for the curst thing.”

“You’ll do nothing. I’ll handle this my own way.”

He looked away, lest she see the triumph in his face. She’d just told him all he wanted to know. She was so determined to keep Jason’s girl that she wouldn’t let Esme have the dowry Edenmont so desperately needed. Yet why should the crone care, when the set was nigh worthless with a piece missing? She cared, he answered himself, because she knew the queen wasn’t missing. She had it, or knew where it was. That’s why she hadn’t demanded the set long since. That’s why she wouldn’t let him give it to Esme now. Selfish, ruthless old bitch.

“I know your way,” he said. “Keep us all tied like puppets to your purse strings. But not me, not any more, my dearest Mama. I’m ruined. I’ve nothing to lose now.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’d better not be threatening me.

Sir Gerald took up the black queen’s substitute. “I think my niece should be told the truth.”

“You mean your twisted version of it. She won’t believe you.”

“Maybe not.” He smiled at the chess piece. “It hardly matters. I’ve nothing to lose, as I said.”

Lady Brentmor put down her own glass and folded her hands upon the desk. “I figured you was up to something. How much do you want?”

Though they’d kept their voices low, Esme had heard all she needed: it was her grandmother who kept back the dowry, and all those grim warnings about Sir Gerald were nothing but lies. The reason was obvious. Esme had wed a man Lady Brentmor disapproved of. Since the willful old woman couldn’t dissolve the marriage, she’d tried to do the next best thing. She’d probably hoped Varian would drink himself into an early grave or come to any of the host of untimely ends fast-living men were prone to. The dowager must have been highly annoyed with his efforts to rebuild and restore his inheritance.

Luckily, Percival had heard nothing. He appeared satisfied with Esme’s brief summary and her pretense of disappointment. “He only wanted money,” she said, “and at last our grandmother agreed to give him some.”

“As she should have done in the first place.” Rubbing his shoulder, Percival staggered to the narrow terrace leading to the salon and collapsed onto a bench.

Esme sat beside him and took over the task of massaging his aching shoulder. “I did wonder why she would not bribe him. She told me he was desperate for money. But I supposed bribery was against her principles.”

Percival frowned. “I shouldn’t think so—though one can never be sure about Grandmama...or Papa.” His worried gaze met Esme’s. “Neither of them mentioned the chess set? It was there, right under their noses. I saw it when the footman went in with the wine.”

“Perhaps they discussed it before I got to the window,” Esme calmly answered. She wanted to get away and think. On the other hand, she suspected Percival knew more about his elders’ secrets than he let on. He had seemed very uneasy since they’d reached London.

“Not that it matters,” he said. “Grandmama would never give him the black queen. If he’d had it, Papa would have sold the set by now.”

“That it is legally mine would not stop him.”

“Not when it meant so much money. He might make off with it and pretend it was stolen and...” Coloring, Percival, added hurriedly, “But he doesn’t have the queen, so it’s perfectly safe, and I expect Grandmama won’t let him know she’s got it until she can make sure he can’t touch the set at all.”

Esme’s hand paused. “Yes, I imagine she has hidden it very cleverly. Somewhere in the country house.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Certainly. It’s miles away. Quite safe from Papa,” came the hasty response.

Too hasty. The wretched child knew it was not miles away. Now she did, too. Esme rose, her expression revealing only cousinly affection. “Then we’ve nothing to worry about,” she said.

Percival stared at his shoes. “Certainly not. Nothing at all to worry about.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Cook will be disappointed,” Sir Gerald told his niece. “You’ve taken no more than a spoonful of her famous syllabub. Or perhaps you find it too rich? I find it so, but then, I’ve never had a sweet tooth.”

He’d been sickeningly genial from the instant Esme had entered his London townhouse, and more so after meeting with his mother. She must have paid him handsomely, Esme thought.

She manufactured an apologetic smile. “I like syllabub very much, Uncle, and I hope you will tell your cook this is the best I’ve ever tasted. Every dish has been delicious. But my headache weakens my appetite. Tomorrow I shall be well again and make the cook happy.”

Percival gazed longingly at her dessert.

“Don’t stare like a begging puppy,” the dowager grumbled. “May as well eat that, too. You’ve finished everything else for her.”

Percival had, in fact, eaten as though he expected to be hanged first thing in the morning. He’d taken at least two enormous helpings of every dish, then disposed of everything Esme had left on her plate. She’d noticed before that his appetite grew in proportion to his anxiety. His conscience was troubling him. As it ought.

Sir Gerald bestowed a fatherly glance of approval upon his son. “He’s a growing boy, after all.”

The growing boy blinked once at this display of paternal affection, then snatched up Esme’s dessert and speedily disposed of it.

Sir Gerald’s kindly gaze returned to Esme. “I’m sorry you’re ill. Headaches can be dreadful. I suffer them myself. You’ll want some laudanum, perhaps?”

Esme accepted the offer and politely excused herself shortly thereafter.

While the others adjourned to the drawing room for tea, she went upstairs and made a rapid inspection of her grandmother’s bedroom. Having already thought the matter through, she wasted no time. Unless the chess piece was upon the dowager’s person, it must be hidden where even servants were unlikely to come across it. Which meant no place that was dusted daily. Not a locked place either, like a drawer or jewel box, for any determined person could pick a lock. And no place so obvious as under the mattress.

Thus it took Esme mere minutes to locate the little box wedged in a comer of the underside of the bedstand. She only made sure the chess piece was actually inside before putting the box back. She dared not take it now. The dowager might check before she went to bed. It was enough to know where it was.

Esme quickly slipped out and reached her own room minutes before Molly arrived, bearing a small pitcher of lemonade and the laudanum bottle.

The maid appeared so sluggish and stupid that Esme wondered if she’d been drinking. Not that Esme minded. She was perfectly happy to see the drowsy maid depart as soon as she’d prepared her mistress for bed.

When Molly had gone, Esme dumped all the lemonade and a small amount of the laudanum into the chamber pot. If anyone checked, it would appear she’

d taken her medicine like a good girl. She opened the door just a crack, then slipped under the bedclothes and prepared for a long wait.

After what seemed like many hours, she heard Percival mumbling to the servant accompanying him. Soon thereafter, a grumbling Lady Brentmor passed the door. A while later, Esme heard her uncle’s voice. He must have stopped only to say good night to his mother, because his footsteps soon faded as he went on to his own room. That was on the other side of the house, thank heaven.

Esme continued to wait, though the house had already sunk into silence. It seemed she waited hours, yet when the hall clock struck, she was very surprised to count only ten chimes.

It was odd that the house should be so still at such an early hour. In the country, the dowager rarely retired before midnight, and the servants were always about some while after.

Then Esme recalled that the footmen who’d waited at dinner had seemed as sluggish as Molly had. Sir Gerald had ordered a feast for dinner, to celebrate his niece’s arrival, he’d said. Evidently, the servants had decided to celebrate, too. Not that they’d need to drink much if they ate any of the syllabub, Esme thought. It had contained a great deal more wine than any she’d tasted before. Even Percival was probably drunk after three helpings of it, plus the glass of unwatered wine his father had allowed the boy at dinner.