A Brazen Curiosity Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Beatrice Hyde-Clare Mysteries

  Love Takes Root series

  A BRAZEN

  CURIOSITY

  LYNN MESSINA

  potatoworks press

  greenwich village

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 BY LYNN MESSINA

  COVER DESIGN BY JENNIFER LEWIS

  ISBN: 978-1-942218-21-0

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  Published 2018 by Potatoworks Press

  Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or my any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  To Joyce, without whose careful copyediting I would have embarrassed myself again and again. (Tumbridge Wells!)

  CHAPTER ONE

  All through dinner Miss Beatrice Hyde-Clare imagined tossing food at Damien Matlock, Duke of Kesgrave. The projectiles varied depending on the course—fish patties with olive paste, stuffed tomatoes, veal cutlets, poached eggs, fillets of salmon, meringues with preserves—but the impulse remained steady. At one point, while he was correcting their host, Lord Skeffington, on the number of ships under Nelson’s command during the Battle of the Nile, she envisioned hurling an entire plate of eels à la tartare at his head. The thought of him shaking parsley loose from his golden curls amused her greatly, and she smothered a grin at the image of bread crumbs affixed to his sternly set square jaw.

  Everything about the duke was sternly set, from his broad shoulders shown to advantage in superfine cut so perfectly even Weston would stare to his opinions, frequently expressed with a faint sneer he didn’t condescend to hide. His height was imposing—a few inches above six feet—and he looked down on his fellows with bored indifference, as if scrutinizing a particularly uninteresting colony of ants.

  His attitude was hardly astonishing, given the way the beau monde bowed and scraped in his lordly presence. A man of his circumstance—handsome demeanor, elevated status, inordinately fat purse—was allowed any trespass, and Bea had little doubt that if he suddenly ran his host through with a sword, Skeffington would promptly apologize for bloodying the blade.

  Truly, Bea had never met such an insufferable creature in the whole of her life, and it had taken but a few minutes in his presence for him to become the focus of her most ardent dislike.

  Forty-eight hours later, it required all her self-control not to fling a spoonful of lemon ice in his direction.

  ’Twas an unusual experience for her, for, if anything, Beatrice Hyde-Clare was a mild-mannered young lady whose emotions rarely strayed outside the accepted boundaries. She lamented the death of her parents when she was barely out of leading strings, honored her aunt and uncle for taking her in and treating her with generosity if not kindness, and respected her cousins, whose youth and enthusiasm she sought to temper with her age and experience. She’d never taken an instant dislike to anyone before, not even to Miss Otley, a classic English beauty—pale skin, rosy cheeks, pouty lips and light-blue eyes defined by dark lashes—who had entered the drawing room two mornings before like a queen greeting her subjects. As the young woman, reputed to be an heiress of significant worth, made sniping comments about Bea’s unmarried state at the ripe old age of six and twenty, her victim merely smiled warmly and complimented her on the sweeping confection she balanced on her head. Indeed, the towering achievement of millinery perfection, bedecked in feathers and swathed in silk, was far too grandiose to simply be called a bonnet. Bea, whose own collection of hats did not extend beyond practical mob caps, wondered aloud if there remained on the isle any ostriches with plumage left.

  Delighted with the profuseness, Miss Otley assured her there were not.

  Naturally, such extravagance appealed to Flora, who instantly offered herself up as factotum, volunteering to fetch and carry anything the young lady might require.

  Bea was hardly surprised, for her cousin was only nineteen and easily impressed by displays of both wealth and confidence. Flora’s brother, older and wiser by two years, found this sudden devotion to be laughable and made a series of cutting remarks about his sister’s obsequiousness that put her on the defensive.

  As the two started to bicker, Bea had thought, Oh, yes, it’s going to be a delightful week in the country at the Skeffingtons’, with Flora toadying, Russell mocking, and Kesgrave condescending.

  When she’d agreed to accompany her aunt to her old school friend’s house for a gathering in the Lake District, she’d anticipated a relatively quiet week of reading and long walks though the countryside in the cooling warmth of mid-September. She’d known her cousins’ fondness for squabbling but had assumed Russell would be too busy fishing or shooting to tweak Flora’s ego.

  Although her reasoning was sound, it had failed to allow for the possibility that it might rain for three days straight. If she’d realized she would be at the mercy of unfavorable weather, she would have politely declined the invitation like her uncle, who claimed to have a prior commitment.

  To be fair, Lakeview Hall was supremely comfortable, with its opulent Jacobean architecture and refined colonnades, and she had thoroughly enjoyed her tour of the manor, almost as much for Lady Skeffington’s amusing stories about the various rooms as for the grandeur of the structure itself. And she could not have wished for more hospitable hosts, as his lordship was an amiable man of fifty-five years whose impressive height and intimidating black brows belied a kind heart, and her ladyship—only a few inches shorter and dauntingly poised—was charmingly self-deprecating and generous with both her time and her home.

  But these advantages did not compensate for the weather, which seemed to be taunting the guests, as the skies had cleared that afternoon just long enough for the gentlemen to gather their gear, arrive at the lake, cast their rods and catch but a single fish among them before clouding up again and raining torrents. As the only bounty of the day belonged to Kesgrave, it appeared as if even Mother Nature was conspiring to confirm the duke’s estimation of himself, a development that peeved Bea greatly.

  Her refusal not to attend the house party, however, would not have carried any weight with Aunt Vera, whose sharply pointed chin, off-center nose and cloud-gray eyes gave her a perennially disapproving air. As the impoverished relation, Bea went where she was directed and did what she was told. Naturally, if she wanted freedom and independence, she was welcome to make her own way in the world.

  Her aunt and uncle were fond of her, of course, in the way obligated by the familial bond, but they would never stand the expense of a separate establishment, and Bea would never expect them to. An unmarried woman of her advanced age was uncontestably a failure and did not deserve to be rewarded with comfort and quietude. Rather, she was duty-bound to make amends by offering herself as a companion to her aunt or governess to her cousins’ children.

  Bea knew both prospects to be unappealing, and yet the threat of such a future had not been enough to shake her free from the crippling shyness that had made her first season such a disaster. Like any miss fresh from the schoolroom, she had approached her social debut with a mix of anxiety and excitement. Having no illusions about her appearance—plain features, dull hair, slim build with unexpectedly sharp shoulders that her aunt sometimes described as ideal for fencing—she nevertheless believed the spray of freckles across her nose lent her otherwise ordinary face an appealing whimsy.

  How wrong she had been!

  It had taken only a few weeks for her to realize that her charming freckles were as drab as the rest of her.

  Yes, drab.

  That was the word most frequently applied to her during that debut season, first uttered by Miss Brougham, an insidious heiress whose vanity demanded sacrifices, and quickly adopted by the ton. Already prone to diffidence, she’d found herself entirely tongue-tied and incapable of speaking without a humiliating stammer. It didn’t matter the quality of reply that was required of her: Benign observations befuddled her as much as bon mots.

  Even now, years later, she was still stunned to realize the depth of her insipidness, for in her own head she was quite interesting: clever, decisive, adroit. The difference between who she perceived herself to be and who she actually was was vast, and if she had any fight left i
n her, she would resent how easily she’d succumbed to everyone’s low expectations, including her own. Alas, she’d long ago used up whatever portion of willfulness she’d inherited from her parents, which was why she was sitting in Lady Skeffington’s elegantly appointed dining room glaring daggers at the pompous Duke of Kesgrave and imagining coffee custard à la religieuse dripping down his handsome face.

  She assumed she wasn’t the only person in attendance who wished she was somewhere else. Lord Skeffington’s son, Andrew—possessed of his father’s ferocious brows and his mother’s gentle green eyes, an attractive but disconcerting combination—had been tapping his fingers against the tablecloth from almost the moment they’d sat down, as if counting the seconds until he could leave the room. His friend Amersham, an earl whose soft features and distracted air hinted at a compliant nature, was also eager to retire, although he revealed his impatience in a more subtle way, every so often darting his eyes to the door.

  By contrast, Lord and Lady Skeffington were delighted by the turn of the events, for they loved showing off their hospitality and the rain provided them with constant opportunities. Just that afternoon, they had taught the party how to play a new card game based loosely on baccarat that his lordship had devised and proposed the performance of a play that her ladyship had written.

  Beatrice had cringed inwardly at the prospect of an amateurish production performed by the guests of the house party. Flora and Russell would be useless, for their voices froze up and their words became stilted whenever they tried to tell a lie. Their mother, though better suited to obfuscation and half-truths, had the disconcerting habit of chortling with discomfort whenever a gentleman gave her his complete attention. The ravishing Miss Otley seemed to possess just the right amount of drama, but Beatrice suspected she was too pleased with herself to ever consent to be someone else. It was unlikely that her parents would agree to it either, for the only reason Mrs. Otley had attended the event was to form a connection with the family. Her husband, a pinched-faced gentleman with a penchant for bright colors—tonight he sported an emerald-green waistcoat—and a hint of commerce beneath his fingernails, for he had made a vast fortune in the spice trade, was equally single-minded. The Skeffington heir would propose to their daughter if they had to stay in the soggy countryside for the next ten months.

  Beatrice could hazard no guess about Mr. Skeffington’s thespian talents, nor that of his friend’s, but it struck her as implausible that either young man would willingly acquiesce to a theatrical presentation. That afternoon, they had forcefully pooh-poohed any suggestion that they play a ramshackle version of baccarat and had set up their own game in the study across the hall from the front parlor. After an interval, they were joined by his lordship’s cousin Michael Barrington, Viscount Nuneaton, a dandy with exquisite taste and an affect of disinterest so finely honed Bea wondered if he knew he was in the Lake District at all. With his impeccable Bedford crop, high shirt points and satin breeches, he seemed rather convinced he was still in Mayfair, and the surprise of discovering he was not only in the wilds of Cumbria but also expected to participate in a performance there would be an exceedingly unwelcome one.

  That left only the Duke of Kesgrave to assume multiple roles, a prospect that was very much beneath his dignity. Indeed, his contempt for the endeavor was so keenly felt, Beatrice was inclined to promote the project just to watch him suffer. She didn’t doubt he would perform horribly in his role, and she delighted in the possibility of the company hurling rotten tomatoes at his head in disgust.

  Beatrice was so diverted by the idea of sour tomato juice trickling into the duke’s eyes, she didn’t realize the meal was over until the ladies stood up.

  The drawing room at Lakeview Hall was as opulent as the dining room, and Lady Skeffington gracefully presided over the tea service while accepting compliments on her elegant furniture.

  “The sheen on this brocade is wonderful,” Mrs. Otley said as she ran her fingers over the blue settee. Like her ladyship, she was in the middle of her fifth decade of life and rouged her cheeks in hopes of drawing attention away from the evidence. Unlike her esteemed host, she was barely five feet tall and a little plumper than was flattering to her round face and pale blue eyes. “And it’s so silky to the touch, I’m in awe. I must also commend your table, as I recognize quality craftsmanship when I see it. Naturally, I will not embarrass you by asking its provenance, but I hope you know that I, at least, appreciate your willingness to spare no expense to turn a room out in style. So many people feel compelled to pinch their pennies.”

  Although Mrs. Otley did not appear to have a particular person in mind with her comment, Beatrice watched her aunt stiffen her shoulders at the implication that she didn’t appreciate extravagant design.

  As if a grave misunderstanding had taken place, Aunt Vera rushed in to assure their hostess that she, too, valued quality. Nevertheless, she didn’t hesitate to add that she also held comfort in equal esteem. “It would never do to become so luxurious in my notions that I cannot enjoy my possessions. What is the purpose of having a lovely Axminster carpet if you never get to see it beneath the drugget?” she asked, tightening her lips as if such an injustice had just been perpetrated.

  Mrs. Otley agreed and then launched into a catalog of all the beautiful rugs she’d seen debased by mud and rhubarb pie. “Sometimes, a well-placed drugget does not go amiss.”

  Nodding in accord, Aunt Vera suggested that perhaps the solution was to train one’s servants better so that boots were properly scraped before entering the establishment and pie was appropriately served in the dining room or at the breakfast table, where it belonged.

  Around and around the ladies went, agreeing and disagreeing with excessive cordiality, and Beatrice marveled that the two women considered themselves friends when they so assiduously vied for Lady Skeffington’s approval. Had it been like this when they boarded together at Mrs. Crawford’s School for Girls three decades ago or was it a more recent development? Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that Aunt Vera, who lived comfortably on the margins of society with characteristic humility, did not spend as much time with Lady Skeffington as her rival, who had made it vibrantly clear that the two women saw each other frequently in London.

  Now Mrs. Otley was determined to draw the two families even closer with the marriage of her daughter to her ladyship’s son. It made perfect sense, of course, for nothing was more natural than joining wealth and beauty with wealth and rank. That Aunt Vera’s intention in accepting the invitation to Lakeview Hall had been exactly the same—the two new, entirely superfluous gowns she’d bought Flora for the visit stood as testament to her commitment—in no way mitigated her disgust at what she considered Mrs. Otley’s blatant attempt to social climb. Her mother had been the daughter of an earl, which was considerably more impressive than the lowly baron who’d sired her school friend, and if anyone was going to secure a titled husband, it would be Flora, not Emily.

  As far as Beatrice could tell, Mr. Skeffington, who had just entered into his four-and-twentieth year, was not aware of his prize status, for he seemed neither interested in the two young ladies nor afraid of them. Beatrice rather thought a little healthy fear would serve him well, as her Aunt Vera wasn’t beyond a spot of thoughtful manipulation if it would bring about a consequence much to be desired. She didn’t know to what level of infamy Mrs. Otley might sink, but given the competitive streak she’d demonstrated thus far, Beatrice imagined it would equal or exceed her aunt’s.

  Although their mothers sought to pit their daughters against each other, Flora and Emily refused to comply with their wishes. Flora, who was pretty in an understated way, with straight auburn hair, hazel eyes, even white teeth and a dowry that could be described as liberal if not lavish, was far too much in awe of Emily to do anything but admire her silently and wait to be addressed. At that very moment, she sat on the settee, across from the fire, in full anticipation of what the other girl would say next. When Miss Otley finally did say something, it was to confirm that the shade of blue in the room was as flattering to her complexion as she suspected.