An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

HARRY DIDN’T LEAVE his rooms the next morning, alerted by a message from Salter and disappointing information from Dawlish.

“They don’t know,” Dawlish repeated for Salter’s benefit when they gathered in Harry’s library at eleven. “Both are sure Mrs Babbacombe’s Miss Heather’s guardian but whether there’s another they can’t say either way.”

“Hmm.” Salter frowned. He looked at Harry. “Word came in from some of my people. Joliffe’s hired a carriage with four strong horses. No particular destination and he didn’t hire any boys with it—paid a goodly deposit to take it without.”

Harry’s fingers tightened about his pen. “I think we can conclude that Mrs Babbacombe is in danger.”

Salter grimaced. “Perhaps—but I’ve been thinking about what your man here said. You can’t go watching them for forever—and if they don’t take one, they might take the other. The stepdaughter’s still their ultimate goal.”

It was Harry’s turn to grimace. “True.” He stood poised to remove Lucinda from all danger but it was undoubtedly true that, if Joliffe was desperate enough, such a move would expose Heather as Joliffe’s next target.

“I’ve been thinking,” Salter continued, “that this matter of the carriage is probably for the best. It means he’s planning a move soon. We’re alerted—something Joliffe doesn’t know. If we can sort out the facts about this guardianship, meanwhile keeping a close watch on Joliffe and his crew, then before they can make their move, we can tie them up with a warrant. My sources are sure Mortimer Babbacombe will talk readily enough. Seems he’s in over his head.”

Harry drew his pen back and forth through his fingers, his gaze distant as he considered the next twenty-four hours. “If you need the information about the guardianship to obtain a warrant, then we’ll have to investigate further.” His gaze shifted to Dawlish. “Go and see Fergus—ask if he knows where to contact a Mr Mabberly of Babbacombe Inns.”

“Ah—no need.” Salter held up a large finger. “Leave that to me. But what shall I tell Mr Mabberly?”

Harry’s lips compressed. “He’s Mrs Babbacombe’s agent—she trusts him, I gather—so you may tell him whatever you must. But he’ll very likely know the answer. Or at least know who does.”

“Still no thoughts of just asking the lady?”

Slowly, Harry shook his head. “But if we haven’t got the answer by tomorrow evening, I’ll ask her.”

Salter accepted the deadline without comment. “Need any help keeping an eye on the pair of them?”

Again Harry shook his head. “They won’t be leaving Hallows House today or tonight.” He looked at Salter, his expression resigned. “My aunt is holding a soirée.”

IT WAS THE BIGGEST SOIRÉE Em had held in years and she was determined to enjoy it to the full.

Lucinda said as much as, side by side, she and Harry ascended the stairs to the ballroom. “She’s positively wound tight. You could almost believe it was she making her come-out.”

Harry grinned. The exceedingly select dinner Em had organised to precede her “little entertainment” had been a decided success; the company had been such as to gratify the most ambitious hostess. “She’s enjoyed herself tremendously these last few months. Ever since you and Heather joined her.”

Lucinda met his eyes briefly. “She’s been very good to us.”

“And you’ve be

en very good for her,” Harry murmured as they reached the head of the staircase.

Em was already there, taking up her position to greet the first of the guests who were even now milling in the hall.

“Don’t forget to compliment her on the décor,” Lucinda whispered. “It’s all her own effort.”

Harry nodded. When Em waved insistently, summoning Lucinda to her side, he bowed and strolled on into the ballroom. It was indeed a sight—garlanded with purple and gold—Em’s favourite colours—lightened here and there with a touch of blue. Cornflowers stood in urns on tables by the side of the room; blue bows tied back the curtains about the long windows. Harry smiled and paused to glance back at the trio at the door—Em in heavy purple silk, Heather in pale gold muslin with a hint of blue at neckline and hem, and Lucinda—his siren—stunning in a gown of sapphire silk trimmed with fine golden ribbons.

Harry decided that sincerely complimenting his aunt would, in this instance, be easy. He strolled the room, chatting with acquaintances, even steeling himself to converse with the few ageing relatives Em had seen fit to invite. But he did not lose sight of the welcoming party; when Em finally quit her position, he was already at Lucinda’s side.

She smiled up at him, unaffectedly open, the gesture warm yet with a lingering sense of…Harry gazed down into her softly blue eyes, even softer now, and realised with a jolt that what he could sense was melancholy.

“If the crowds keep rolling in as they are, Em’s soirée will be declared the very worst crush of the Season.” Lucinda placed her hand on his arm and laughed up at him. “I might very well have to plead fatigue from the first.”

Harry returned her smile but his gaze remained acute. “Lady Herscult is one of Em’s oldest friends; she’s charged me most straitly to bring you directly to her.”

With a serene smile and an inclination of her head, Lucinda allowed him to lead her into the growing crowd.

As they passed through the throng, people stopped them to chat, all beaming. They discovered Lady Herscult on a chaise; she twitted Harry and Lucinda both before letting them escape. Throughout, Harry watched Lucinda carefully; with unshakeable serenity, she turned aside any questions too probing, her smile calmly assured.

The first waltz interrupted their meanderings—Em had chosen to enliven her soirée with three dances, all waltzes.