Lady Victoria's Mistake (The Archer Family Regency Romances Book 7) Read online

  “So few moments?” Victoria repeated.

  “Well, we should never have suited one another, Lady Victoria. Surely, you have realized that,” the colonel stated. The skin around his deep-set eyes crinkled as he looked at her, his gaze begging for understanding. “And my children need a mother—they have gone too long without the tender maternal influences of a woman.”

  “But… but, my maid? Rose?”

  He coughed and stood, if possible, even straighter. “I have seen too much and am too old to worry about what others think. We suit one another.” He glanced at her, his face softening with affection. “Miss Redding is a decent woman, and it will be my honor if she agrees to be my wife.”

  “But…” Victoria clamped her mouth shut before she wailed, but what about me?

  A shiver ran down her back. For one second, she wanted to demand her puce pelisse back, just to feel the comfort of the warm folds surrounding her. All her suitors were deserting her. And John… Her jaw ached as she strained to keep from glancing at him.

  He’d betrayed her. She couldn’t forget—or forgive—that. A familiar anguish welled up in her, tightening her throat. Her hands clenched at her sides. She’d thought she’d been hurt when Laverick abandoned her, but that was nothing compared to the wrenching feeling tearing her apart now. A raw wail filled her head, and only the most rigid self-control kept her from sobbing aloud.

  “Then that mystery, at least, is resolved,” Sir Arnold said with a smile, rubbing his hands together.

  Sir Arnold! Victoria looked at him, his cheerful round face and stout body, and realized with dismay that he was her only hope, the only one who hadn’t rejected or betrayed her.

  But I don’t love him! A small voice wailed. She took a deep breath. At least she would eat well in his household and have no complaints about his disposition. She could do worse.

  Or a great deal better. If only… No. She couldn’t think like that. She couldn’t forgive him. She was only a wager to him—a chance to win one hundred pounds from Mr. Wickson.

  One didn’t wager about things that were important—things that meant a great deal to one. She’d been a game—nothing more. She had to remember that, no matter how much it hurt, even if it felt like she’d been hanged and was twisting in the wind, slowly strangling to death.

  Forcing herself to pay attention, she realized that Sir Arnold was still talking. “…Perhaps we should forget the entire matter. Least said, soonest mended, eh?” He rubbed his hands together again, smiling at his guests.

  “But Sir Arnold, my tiara…” Mrs. Stedman objected, standing. “It is one of the few things I have left to remind me of my late husband.” Her gaze, sad and slightly accusatory, fell on Victoria. “We cannot simply forget about it.”

  “Well, no,” Sir Arnold agreed, shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “But if this girl had nothing to do with it, well, we can’t go about accusing our guests of such a thing! You must agree. It simply isn’t done!”

  “It may not be done, but we must do it,” Mrs. Grisdale stated as she, too, rose to stand next to Mrs. Stedman.

  The two ladies stared at Victoria, Mrs. Grisdale with thin lips and accusations hardening her gaze, Mrs. Stedman with a fretful, anxious look wrinkling her face.

  Sir Arnold looked from one face to the other, rubbing his hands together and a conciliatory smile trembling on his lips.

  Conscious of a growing warmth at her side, Victoria glanced to her right.

  John stood next to her. “May we have a moment?” John bowed to the ladies. “Lady Victoria and I must have a brief word.” He waved negligently, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond Mrs. Stedman. “A minor matter of little import.”

  “To concoct some tale, no doubt.” Mrs. Grisdale’s chin rose.

  “No, no—certainly not,” Sir Arnold said hurriedly. “Of course, Mr. Archer. Nothing easier. Ladies? Perhaps a glass of madeira?” He opened his arms to herd Mrs. Grisdale and Mrs. Stedman toward the sideboard, though neither one of them appeared to desire a glass of the sweet wine.

  A cold silence settled around Victoria. Despite her best effort to appear natural, she couldn’t look at John, couldn’t bring herself to gaze into his warm, brown eyes, knowing about his humiliating wager.

  “Would you care to have a seat?” John asked, moving closer to a nearby cushioned settee.

  “No, I would really rather stand.”

  Despite his cool air of assurance, she could feel his questioning gaze fixed on her face. She turned her side to him, facing the door.

  “This problem has proved more intricate than expected,” John said. “Did you have any luck?”

  Her gaze roved around the room, moving from one gentleman to the other. She shrugged. “I questioned everyone, but I can’t see how any of this could have happened.” Noting Lord Taggert idly leafing through a pile of newspapers left on a small, round piecrust table near a comfortable reading chair, she stiffened. She’d forgotten all about Miss Urick’s brother. Frowning, she said, “I failed to question Lord Taggert, however, though I doubt it matters.” She rubbed her temple absently. “This notion that I should recognize the answer plagues me, but I can’t see what it is.”

  “We will get to Taggert in a moment,” John replied. “Do not lose hope, Lady Victoria. We shall prove your innocence without a doubt.”

  “I can’t see how.” The bitter words escaped her before she could stop them. Weariness washed over her as the clock on the fireplace mantle chimed a mellow hour, the echoing bell-like tings sounding twelve times. She crossed her arms and held her elbows tightly, wishing she could simply walk out the door and return home.

  But even that would not mean peace. She would have to face the disappointed look in her parents’ eyes and know that they believed she was a thief. They’ve always thought that I was a thief, she corrected herself, the metallic taste of her bitterness harsh on her tongue.

  “The colonel—”

  “I believed him,” she interrupted John. “He was horribly embarrassed to admit that he’d been clandestinely courting my maid. He would never have admitted such a thing if it weren’t true.” Her mouth twisted. “I would never have believed such a rigid man would admit to loving a woman he would normally describe as a mere maid, but there you are.”

  “Or perhaps the tale provided a splendid excuse for meeting her to have her spirit away Mrs. Stedman’s headdress,” John commented with a cynical chuckle.

  Victoria shrugged, still unable to meet his gaze. The pain of standing next to him was tearing her apart. Her fingers tightened around her elbows. His pretense that everything was fine and that he admired her sufficiently to help her ate at her pride, at her very self. Her stomach clenched, leaving her skin feeling damp and her limbs shaky.

  “He did not steal it, of that I’m certain,” she said at last to break the awkward silence and shake off the betraying weakness.

  “It would be very agreeable if we could prove Mrs. Grisdale did it.”

  A hysterical giggle surged up Victoria’s throat, but she swallowed it and shook her head at John’s wry remark. “Do you really believe a woman would steal such a unique piece of jewelry? What would she do with it? She could never wear it—the piece would be immediately recognized.” She sighed. The more she thought about it, the more puzzling the theft became. “And a man, well, a man might do so in hopes of breaking up the tiara and selling the stones.”

  “Might not a woman do the same?”

  A grim smile stretched her mouth. “Perhaps, but I can’t see a woman wanting it for any reason other than to own—and wear—such a lovely thing. Which would be impossible in London. I can only believe that the thief is already regretting her impulse, if she took the tiara to wear it.”

  “Are you saying, then, that Mrs. Grisdale is out of the question?” John grinned at her.

  “Much as I would like to accuse her, I can’t see how she could have.” Victoria sighed. “I can’t see how any of them could have. Mrs. Grisdale’s
reticule is too limp to contain much more than a handkerchief and bottle of smelling salts, and the same can be said for the other ladies’ reticules.” Looking around, she gestured toward Mr. Fitton. “And the men, well, you need only see how neatly their jackets fit to know they have nothing as awkward as a tiara stuffed in their pocket.”

  “I agree. Which can only mean that the headdress must have been secreted away someplace convenient.” John pulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. “And it is my guess that it will either be in the hallway or in this room, in a place that anyone might easily brush by and extract the thing on the way home.”

  Hope fluttered in her heart. If she could find it… “We could search for it,” she blurted out.

  He caught her gaze, his brown eyes growing dark. Her breathing stopped as she studied him hungrily. The shadow of his beard gave him a rakish air that made her long to step closer. His neckcloth was even more rumpled now, and his thick hair curled over his head, one lock hanging over his left brow. Her hand twitched, wanting to brush it back and feel the softness between her fingers. A hint of brisk sea air, with its suggestion of saltiness, clung around him, in sharp contrast to the overboiled chicken scent she’d noticed around Sir Arnold.

  This will never do. Without thinking, she blurted out, “I can’t be the one to discover it—everyone will believe I knew where it was all along.”

  “I—”

  “No, you can’t be the one to discover it, either,” she said in a rush. “They will think I told you where it was, or that you were helping me.”

  “There is that,” he agreed, his brows drawing together. He pulled his lower lip again. “A bit of creativity may be required.”

  “Creativity? What kind of creativity?”

  He smiled blandly, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. “Never mind, my dear.”

  Her temper flared at the careless endearment. How dare he call her dear? She stiffened, her mouth tightening. However, although her jaw muscles ached with the effort, she managed to control the flash of hurt anger.

  She smiled sweetly and said, “I will leave it to you, then, and speak to Lord Taggert.” Her gaze drifted past John’s shoulder to the crimson embers in the fireplace. “Though I’m sure you are far more creative than I, there is at least one shockingly convenient way to encourage everyone to take their belongings and go home.”

  Chuckling, a slow, sardonic grin twisted John’s mouth. “Oh, there are several ways. We shall see which one is the most effective.”

  With a shallow dip of a curtsey, Victoria turned. Fixing her gaze on Lord Taggert, she slipped across the room to join him.

  Face slack with boredom, Lord Taggert sat in the chair by the window, idly rifling through one of the newspapers from the table next to him. His gestures were slow, and his elbows rested heavily on the arms of the chair. As Victoria watched, his head bobbed down to his chest and then popped up. He shook out the newspaper and frowned at it, clearly trying to fight off his drowsiness. Finally, he took a sip from a glass of brandy and set it down on top of the papers at his elbow.

  “Lord Taggert,” Victoria said as she stepped closer. “You must be wishing you had never come tonight.”

  “Not at all, Lady Victoria.” He got to his feet and shook out the newspaper before folding it neatly and placing it under the glass of brandy on top of the stack. “Very nice supper. You cannot fault Sir Arnold for his table.”

  “No, indeed,” Victoria agreed, smiling. She glanced up at him, assuming a coquettish expression. “You are so kind—I do so hope you will assist me.”

  Taking a step back, his legs hit the seat of the chair behind him, and he nearly fell into it. He twisted to grab the chair back, his wary blue eyes fixed on her face. The glass of brandy on the piecrust table teetered and then tipped over, the golden liquid quickly soaking into the stack of newspapers.

  Lord Taggert ignored it. “Assist you? Now see here, Lady Victoria, I—”

  “No, no. You misunderstand.” Raising her hands in a helpless gesture, she laughed. “I foolishly made a wager, you see—how many guests left the drawing room between half past ten and eleven. I have won, but only if you can confirm that you did not leave during your sister’s lovely concert.”

  “Leave?” Lord Taggert stared at her from beneath lowered brows. His freckled forehead gleamed where the thin, sandy hair had receded back an inch, giving him the aesthetic appearance of a solemn monk deliberating over a particularly troublesome point of theology.

  “Yes.” She nodded vigorously, feeling like an empty-headed fool. “Your sister plays beautifully, does she not? She must practice a great deal.”

  “Too much,” he grumbled, glancing over his shoulder to frown at the pianoforte.

  “Then you didn’t enjoy her concert?”

  “She plays Bach well enough, I suppose, but she should never have attempted the Haydn.”

  “But why?”

  “Are you tone deaf as well as a—” he broke off. “She should never have tried to play the Haydn.”

  As well as a thief. He didn’t need to say it—Victoria knew what he’d been thinking. Her left hand tightened where she held it against her waist. At least she knew he hadn’t left the drawing room, even if he hadn’t specifically said so.

  “Never mind.” Victoria smiled graciously. “I am sure everyone enjoyed the music, and it was kind of her to play for us.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “We have hardly had a chance to speak this evening, and I was so looking forward to it.” She forced a bright expression. “It is so rare to find someone with whom one can feel completely comfortable, is it not?”

  “I suppose so.” He examined her with wary eyes, as if expecting her to do something unpleasant.

  “And your sister is so delightful. You are very fortunate.”

  “She is obedient. Most of the time,” he replied heavily.

  When she isn’t playing Haydn, I suppose. Victoria’s determined smile was beginning to stiffen.

  She eyed the soggy newspapers and then glanced over her shoulder.

  John leaned against a tall-backed chair, one arm looped casually over the back, looking at ease and yet somehow dangerous. A leopard at rest, eyeing a herd of unsuspecting gazelles through hooded eyes. Her traitorous stomach fluttered when he looked her way and gave her a lazy smile.

  Well, whatever he planned to do, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—wait for him. Her chin rose. “Oh, dear, Lord Taggert! Those papers are quite ruined! Let me dispose of them before Sir Arnold notices.” Without waiting for a reply, she swept up the pile of soggy newspapers and strode over to the fireplace.

  The lovely, painted fireplace screen yielded easily, and despite the threat of soot, she leaned forward, reached up, and closed the flue. Her white evening glove was covered with black when she withdrew her arm, but thankfully, the fire had diminished to a few coals, so her dress was in no danger of catching fire.

  Without a backward glance, she threw the wet papers onto the coals. It took a moment for the flames to catch hold, and when they did, they were icy blue from the alcohol.

  She frowned. It’s not going to work! There was no smoke at first as the hot, blue-white flames consumed the brandy. The fire almost went out when it reached the bulk of the papers, but suddenly, it flamed and smoke billowed up. With the flue closed, thick clouds swiftly filled the chimney and curled out into the room.

  Victoria leapt to her feet and stepped back, holding her fist to her mouth. “Oh—I’m so sorry! Fire!”

  The high squeal of alarmed women filled the room. Feet thundered toward the door as the men gathered the ladies in front of them to guide them out.

  “Out! Everyone out!” John called from near the door. He ushered the Owsley twins out in front of him, nodding at Sir Arnold as their host hurried through the drawing room, flapping his hands to shoo his guests forward.

  Victoria paused to glance around to ensure no one was left behind and found Sir Arnold at her elbow.

  “Y
ou must leave, my dear,” Sir Arnold said hurriedly. “No blame, of course. Shouldn’t have left the papers—housekeeper always babbling about tidiness.” He chuckled, only to break into a hacking cough. Eyes watering, he waved one hand in front of his nose and gave her a small push with the other.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated as she navigated a path through the islands of furniture. The smoke burned her eyes, making them tear. Regretting her actions—the lovely furnishings would be ruined and smell forever of burning papers—she coughed and escaped from the room.

  The other guests were clustered around the staircase landing. A few of the ladies had already descended several steps, along with two gentlemen, while the rest of the men milled around, looking variously confused and angry. Her parents had almost reached the bend in the staircase, and her mother’s elaborate hairstyle and the top of her father’s head were all she could see.

  Thank goodness, they were safe and in relatively clean air. Victoria hurried across the polished wooden floor to join them. Catching Lord Taggert’s glance, she stumbled to a halt. He stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. A thunderous frown crushed his brows together, and he gripped the orb adorning the top of the newel post with one hand.

  “Careless little fool—” He cut off his words with an obvious effort, his hand clenching the globe even more tightly. “You have endangered all of us.” He coughed into the handkerchief held in his free hand.

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean any harm,” Victoria croaked, her throat already sore from the acrid smoke.

  Before she could say more, a scuffle a few yards away stopped her. She turned, her mouth gaping in surprise.

  Chapter Fifteen

  John’s gaze roved over the guests milling around the head of the staircase like a confused bunch of sheep awaiting orders from a sheepdog.

  Ah, there she was at last. Red-eyed and pale, but safe, despite the smoke billowing out of the drawing room doorway behind her.

  Brilliant notion, that fire. But then, it had always been clear to him that Lady Victoria was exceptionally intelligent.