“More often than not.” Lincoln rose and strolled closer. “The earl is always working, needing a letter sent off at any time of day. And he needs….” He twisted his ring again.
“Managing?” she suggested.
Mr. Lincoln smothered a snort then hastily cleared his throat. “My employer’s estates are vast and he holds a prominent position in the House of Lords. Anyone in his situation would require my level of assistance.”
“A very diplomatic answer.” She smiled up at him. “Are you sure you are not the politician?”
“Well…I mean….”
Cassie took pity on him. She’d also thought of a way to phrase her questions innocuously. She hoped. “I did hear that Lord Wiltshire was quite ill five years ago. You must have had your hands full assisting him then.”
He frowned, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“I had my season in ’14 and don’t remember seeing him.” She drew her eyebrows together, pretending to think hard. “In fact, there was one ball I was at, it was Lady Stockton’s, I believe, where there was much talk of his continued absence.”
Lincoln blinked. “I don’t understand. I believe Lord Wiltshire was very active that season, as he is all seasons.”
“Perhaps I am thinking of someone else.” Would it seem too strange to ask if Wiltshire had been at that particular ball? Would his secretary even remember?
“There you are, dear sister.” Mr. Strait stepped from the copse behind her, and she started. Was everyone becoming more adept at concealment than her? He tossed a pall-mall ball up and down in his hand. “What are you doing hiding over here with Mr. Lincoln?”
“I can assure you,” Lincoln stammered, “there was nothing improper—”
“Of course not.” Strait waved his hand through the air, as if the very idea of his “sister” doing anything improper were absurd.
Cassie pursed her lips. For some reason, his attitude annoyed her.
“Well, I must be going.” Mr. Lincoln stumbled back, nodding. “Mrs. Alberto. Mr. Sargent.” He turned and fled.
Cassie sighed. “If you play an overprotective brother, I’ll not hear anything of interest at all.”
“It didn’t seem as though you were hearing anything of interest regardless.” Mr. Strait rested his booted foot up on the rock beside her hip. “Why were you asking about a season five years past?”
Damnation, he’d heard. She turned her blandest expression up to him. “One of the ladies mentioned in passing a theft she’d heard about during that season. I was wondering if they might be related.”
“Such a crime occurring five years ago would be unconnected to today’s thefts.” He frowned, his dark brown eyes severe.
“Of course,” she agreed readily. His thigh flexed, the motion drawing her gaze. He was quite close again, the toe of his leather boot disappearing under the ruffle of her skirts. He filled out his breeches in a most satisfying manner, his legs well-muscled and long. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch that thigh muscle, see if it felt as hard as it looked.
She looked past it instead. Lord Wiltshire had drawn Lady Redgrave off the pall-mall course and was whispering in her ear.
“Do you have reason to believe Wiltshire is involved in the thefts why you asked about him?” He bent closer to her, the fabric of his falls stretching.
She snapped her gaze back to the earl in question. He was much safer to look at. “No, not at all. But as Mr. Lincoln is the earl’s secretary, I wasn’t about to ask him the whereabouts of Mr. Rhodes five years ago.”
Lady Redgrave removed a cameo that had been pinned to her bodice and pressed it into the earl’s gloved hand.
One edge of Cassie’s mouth lifted. And the earl didn’t need to steal baubles, not when women seemed eager to give them to him on their own accord. He was handsome, she supposed. If one liked the showy, peacock sort of man.
“Have you learned anything?” she asked.
Strait inhaled sharply. “Not yet. I’m beginning to think the thief isn’t here. He can’t attend every house party, after all, It would have been the greatest stroke of luck if he happened to chance the event we targeted.”
A woman rushed from the house onto the stone veranda. The wife of a windmill manufacturer, if she remembered correctly. “Clarence!” She looked around for her husband and called his name again.
The man in question hurried towards her. “Whatever is wrong?”
“Clarence.” She fell into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder. “My mother’s emerald pin. It’s gone.”
