A Marquess, A Miss And A Mystery. Annie Burrows

might as well have been shoe leather she was chewing. Lord Devizes was just like every other man she’d ever known, apart from Herbert. They thought she could not possibly be of any help with their manly, important work. He’d walked away with a sort of sneer, though how on earth anyone could express disdain by the way they walked she could not say. And then she’d watched him discussing her with his scarily dainty, fashionable sister, to judge from the way they kept glancing at her and laughing nasty little laughs.

      The rebuff was doubly hard because at one point he’d more or less acknowledged the contribution she’d made, just before he’d dashed her hopes by pointing out how unfit she was for the kind of work Herbert had undertaken. And then rounded it all off by saying that Herbert would want her to stay out of it.

      Which was true, of course. Herbert had been terribly protective of her. He’d stressed how dangerous the people were he hunted down and how important it was that nobody ever find out she was involved in bringing them to justice.

      And he’d been right. They were so dangerous that one of them, sensing Herbert was getting close to exposing them, had killed him. But did that mean she was going to just sit back and let them get away with it?

      She dragged her eyes away from Lord Devizes, and his titled sister, and gazed round the room, wondering which of these lofty personages could possibly be not only a traitor, but also responsible for the death of her brother. Not that they would have soiled their aristocratic fingers with the dagger themselves. They’d have hired some low, common person to do the dirty work. But somebody here was the one who signed his notes by the code name of The Curé. The presence of Lord Devizes had at least confirmed that much, even if he wasn’t going to share any other information with her. His animosity for his half-brother the Duke was so tangible nothing else could possibly have induced him to attend the wedding.

      Just as her thoughts turned to him again, he started stalking in her direction, eyeing her the way she’d imagine a lion would look at its next meal.

      ‘The chicken not to your liking?’

      ‘Um,’ she said stupidly, her mouth suddenly running dry. What was he playing at? And why was he looking at her like that? As though...as though he’d like to sink his teeth into her.

      ‘Come, come, Miss Carmichael, if you are going to mix with the great and good of the land, you are going to have to come up with a wittier response than um when somebody makes a conversational gambit.’

      ‘Oh...er...’

      ‘That is even worse. You are making it obvious to all that my presence overwhelms you. And now you are blushing,’ he said mockingly. ‘Gauche. That is what you look. Gauche and ill dressed, and totally out of place.’

      Well, she might be a bit gauche, but he was being extremely rude. Deliberately. As though he was trying to upset her. ‘You are not going to scare me off,’ she said fiercely, having suddenly seen what he was about. ‘I have come here to find out who is responsible for...’ She pulled herself up on the brink of saying the words he’d warned her were not to be uttered, and changed them to, ‘You know what...and insulting me isn’t going to make me...cry, or run away, or...or whatever it is you are attempting to do.’

      ‘Well, well,’ he drawled. ‘Quite the little vixen, when provoked. Perhaps,’ he said in a voice suddenly turned all...caressing, ‘there is more to you than meets the eye.’

      Now what was he doing? She narrowed her eyes. He was looking at her the way he looked at all those silly women who fluttered round him, hoping to become his next bed partner. With smouldering eyes. And a smile that she could somehow only describe as inviting. ‘It is of no use ladling on the charm,’ she said firmly. ‘Not when it is so patently insincere. Besides, I have a mirror. I know perfectly well what I look like.’

      ‘Ah, but I was pointing out that there is more to you than meets the eye. Things that a mirror cannot show.’

      ‘I am not going to fall for that plumper, either,’ she said. She would have said a great deal more, only Miss Underwood was coming over.

      ‘I do hope you are, I mean, that everything is...’ said Miss Underwood, looking anxiously between her and the lazily smiling Lord Devizes.

      Horatia found that she was clutching her plate in such a tight grip it was a wonder the fragile porcelain had not snapped. Her irritation must be obvious to everyone in the room, while Lord Devizes was lounging against the side jamb of the window, the epitome of cool, calm masculinity. No, no, not cool and calm. Smouldering and confident, that was what his stance portrayed. As if he was sure she was going to be his next conquest.

      ‘What can you possibly be implying?’ he said, folding his arms across his chest and raising one eyebrow.

      Exactly! He could not possibly be attempting to make a conquest of her, no matter how it might appear.

      So what was he about? Did he just delight in making sport of poor little dabs of females? Or was it Miss Underwood and his brother he was trying to provoke?

      ‘Oh, well,’ said Miss Underwood, ‘I am sure it must be very hard for Miss Carmichael to cope with...um, having been so recently bereaved, I mean she must be...and really, we ought to be trying to be more...’

      He straightened up. ‘Are you trying to teach me my manners?’ His smile had gone. ‘Miss Underwood?’

      ‘Of course she isn’t,’ said Lady Elizabeth, who must have also approached while she’d been talking to Lord Devizes. Or at least, fencing with him verbally. ‘Horatia, I can see you have finished with your food. Shall we retire to our rooms now?’

      Lord Devizes was smiling again down his perfectly formed nose at her. And no wonder. Not just her hostess, but also her friend, had noticed her mounting annoyance and come dashing to her rescue before she disgraced herself by doing something like flinging her plate to the ground so that she could stand up and launch into a proper duel with him.

      ‘I suppose,’ she said in a voice that was as humble as she could make it sound, ‘that would be best.’ She got to her feet and set her plate on the side table the footman had brought her, before she could change her mind about turning it into any kind of missile.

      ‘Best for whom?’

      To her surprise, it was Lord Devizes who’d spoken.

      ‘You may be pretending to be concerned for her welfare,’ he continued, eyeing Miss Underwood in a very disdainful manner, ‘but isn’t it the truth that you want to shuffle her out of the way? So that she cannot bring a shadow to your glittering show?’

      Miss Underwood and Lady Elizabeth both gave gasps of outrage.

      ‘Indeed it is not,’ said Miss Underwood. ‘I could see that you were making her uncomfortable and...’

      ‘Was I making you uncomfortable?’ He turned to her and gave her one of those knee-melting smiles. And in spite of knowing he was up to something, a part of her, a very small, yet wholly feminine part of her, wanted to sigh and smile back, and say Of course you were not making me uncomfortable. So, of course, she clenched her knees and flung up her chin.

      ‘I think you were deliberately baiting me,’ she replied.

      ‘Ah, yes, but after only a very little of that you ceased drooping over your plate, looking as though you wished to shrink behind the curtains, didn’t you?’

      Miss Underwood and Lady Elizabeth both looked at her. And then at him.

      ‘It occurs to me that you are both being overprotective,’ he said. ‘What Miss Carmichael needs is not cosseting and being hidden away, but something to do. Something useful. Something that will occupy her mind. Is that not so, Miss Carmichael?’

      The ladies looked at her again. She could see them both reaching the same conclusion. Though they both disliked Lord Devizes, and the way he went about things, on this occasion, he just happened to be correct.

      ‘I did bring you here hoping that a change of scene would