Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(39)

“No,” Kate said, imbuing her voice with all the reassurance she felt. “Not at all.”

He let out a breath.

“There were other descriptions,” she said cheerily. “All equally memorable.”

He stared, appalled, at the inch-and-a-half gap between her fingers. “Well. This is what you’ve done with your…groundless speculation. You helped lay the groundwork for a good woman—an obedient woman—to question her marriage. You raised doubts in her, about her lawful husband. And no doubt it was the uncertainty that you engendered that fevered her mind.” This track, apparently, took his mind off vegetables. Once removed from the horrifing thought of his inadequacy, he remembered his tirade. “You women, with your disgusting analogies—you caused her to forsake me.”

“Analogies! Oh, not at all, sir! They were more in the nature of metaphors.”

He was still underestimating her, and inside, Kate felt faint with relief. He imagined only that she’d encouraged Louisa’s complaints. If he knew that Kate had planned every step of the journey that had stolen his wife from her home in broad daylight, he would have used a stronger word than disgusting.

“Stop looking at me, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “That’s just—it’s just obscene.”

What was truly obscene was what he’d done to his wife. But Kate couldn’t let Harcroft suspect she was capable of actual cogitation—not that he was likely to attribute such a thing to a woman.

“Harcroft, I know you’re upset. But do try to see reason. I never participated in that conversation. You and I have perhaps not been the best of friends, but I’m Louisa’s friend. I want to help her.” All true; she hadn’t participated in the conversation. At the time, she’d been laughing too hard.

He glanced up at her, warily. But before he could respond, footsteps sounded in the hallway behind them.

“Harcroft?” Lord Blakely appeared behind the man. “Good. I’ve been looking for you. In the latest dispatch from London, there’s some rather interesting news. White has uncovered a woman—a nursemaid—who was hired from her home in Chelsea and spirited away.”

Harcroft looked down at Kate, a confused look on his face. “Chelsea? But I was so sure…” He trailed off. “I thought—well. Never mind.”

Kate couldn’t smile now, or they might wonder. And Kate could hardly disclose that she’d hired a nursemaid and a parlor maid answering to Louisa’s description, to take a paid tour of the Peak district. A nice bit of misdirection; now, if only the men would oblige her by being otherwise directed.

“It’s a very interesting report,” Lord Blakely repeated, “and we must decide what to do about it.” He turned back down the corridor.

Harcroft cast one glance backward at Kate. “I apologize,” Kate said in a low voice. “The laundry maid comparison was most unfair. I should never have repeated it.”

He nodded, jerkily, once. “Apology accepted.”

Kate held her tongue until the two men left, until their steps receded down the polished corridor and a door closed softly on their conference.

“A most unfair comparison,” she said to the empty hall. “After all, a scullery maid beats her laundry for longer than two minutes.”

“WHAT DO WE DO NOW? Do Jenny and I go to Chelsea, while you stay here, Harcroft?”

As his cousin spoke, Ned shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The council had convened fifteen minutes prior, right after Ned had come in from the field. Jenny, Harcroft and Gareth had all taken places at the long wooden table.

Notably missing from the conversation was Ned’s own wife. Harcroft hadn’t spoken of inviting her, and given what Ned now knew, he was happier not to have her present.

Across the table from him, Jenny shifted on her seat, her lips pressing together. She glanced down the table where Harcroft sat. Harcroft was—had been—Ned’s friend, not Jenny’s and Gareth’s. Ned had made the introduction. At his request, Harcroft had welcomed Gareth and his new wife into polite society. What might otherwise have been a difficult matter for them had turned into a few months of discomfort, forgotten once the gossip had been eclipsed by the newest scandal. Still, for that, Jenny was obligated to Harcroft, and no doubt thought her assistance on this matter would even out that old score.

But it was just obligation.

And perhaps that was why Jenny shook her head. “Gareth,” she said quietly, “it has been several days. If we venture into Chelsea…”

In front of them, papers lay piled. Reports from Gareth’s man of business were stacked neatly to the side of Harcroft’s map, complete with its prickle of straight-pins.

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.