This was the third letter that had been returned unopened. Was her father’s butler in on the plot, too? His new secretary? Someone was preventing her letters from getting to her father, even when she’d gone through the subterfuge of making it look as though the letters came from a third party.
She took the missive, tracing the letters of her father’s name. It had been written in her friend’s hand, and if Mr. Butters questioned why he was franking letters from his daughter to the Earl of Withington, he had not yet spoken of it.
“Thank you, Maisey.” Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed. Her father was in danger. She felt it in her bones. But what good was her certainty when no warning could reach him?
Not that he’d heeded her previous warnings. He’d laughed when she’d pointed out his horse’s girth strap had been deliberately cut, causing him to tumble. Chucked her chin when she’d urged him to send for the magistrate after a section of parapet had fallen from the roof of Bluff Hall, nearly killing him as he walked below. And the last attempt on his life…
She pressed her hand to her abdomen. He had been so ill, she hadn’t thought he would survive. She’d said he was poisoned. He patted her hand and said Mrs. Bailey hadn’t cooked the lamb sufficiently.
But now that his secretary had been arrested, surely he’d heed her warnings. It was true that Mr. Pickens had yet to confess to any attacks against her father. From the little she’d read in the papers, the blackguard had only been charged with assaulting her, because she’d uncovered him stealing from her father the theory went.
But her evidence was mounting.
If only her letters would reach her father.
She tossed the missive down on the side table. She should travel home, speak to her father in person. Icy dread filled her at the thought. It was the same feeling that had gripped her each time she stepped across Bluff Hall’s threshold in the past year. Something was deathly wrong in her home. She didn’t know whether she’d survive her return.
“Do you want to send another note?” Maisey asked. “I can tell Bobby to give it to a maid instead of the butler. I’m sure she could get it to your father. We know how to get things done.”
Juliana smiled. “Yes, probably.” What other choices did she have? “But not tonight. Go. I know the servants are having a party of their own down in the kitchens. Enjoy yourself.”
Maisey gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Bobby did promise me a dance. But are you all right up here? Can I bring you anything?”
Juliana waved her away. “I’m fine. Enjoy a drink for me.”
The girl turned for the door. “I’ll enjoy one for myself, as well. And one for Miss Hyacinth, and one for—”
“Don’t get too carried away.” Juliana chuckled. Though maybe Maisey had the right of it. A bottle of wine to drown her worries tonight wouldn’t go amiss. Or even a dram of whiskey. Her father kept the best whiskey, and never scolded his children for indulging in a glass or two.
“Have a good evening, miss.” Maisey silently pulled the door open an inch, peered out, then slid through the opening, closing the door behind her.
Juliana sank onto the bench at the foot of the bed. She couldn’t remain hiding in her friend’s bedroom. Hy’s parents were bound to find out, sooner or later. And she was merely delaying her problems by remaining hidden instead of resolving them.
The string quartet Hy’s parents had hired turned their instruments towards a waltz. The music was muted but skillful, and the wistful melody had her feet sketching the dance’s pattern on the carpet.
Yes, she needed to determine if someone still wanted her father dead, but it wasn’t going to happen tonight.
She rose and faced her friend’s floor-length mirror. She imagined a tall, burly figure, and dipped a deep curtsy. “Why yes, I would love to dance.”
A hard blue gaze flashed across her imagination. Those eyes belonged to someone completely inappropriate, but this was her fantasy, so she let them linger in her mind. She closed her own eyes and began to sway to the music. She raised her arms, as though holding her imaginary man, and fell into the rhythm of the dance.
The hem of her skirts whisked across the carpet. She hummed along with the music and wondered what it would feel like to have such strong arms wrapped around her body. The men of her acquaintance were all slender and sensitive.
Perhaps she should expand her acquaintance beyond philosophical societies. The male members were all kind and intelligent, but none of them sent a shiver straight down her spine with merely one glance. Perhaps—
One thick band, hard as iron, wrapped around her waist. One rough hand gripped her own, engulfing it.
Her eyes flew open.
The pair of piercing blue from her imagination met her gaze.
A shiver raced down her spine.
“My lady.” Mr. Brogan Duffy, inquiry agent and the man featuring much too prominently in her dreams, inclined his head. “I’ll take this dance.”
Chapter Two
She was soft in all the right places. A fact that was of no consequence to his purpose, but still, Brogan noticed.
