“Isuppose this club is why he murdered Lord Harbor,” Sera remarkedsardonically.
Elizabethgrinned. “Perhaps indeed. My brother has offered to smuggle me in atime or two. I am tempted to agree.”
Shaking herhead, Sera said, “Your brother is an anarchist.”
Elizabeth’s grinwidened. “I know.” Her smile faded. “What do you seek withhim?”
“Pardon?”
“Lord Stephen. What is it you seek from him?”
Maria paused inher annihilation of the gingernuts, her gaze darting betweenElizabeth and Sera.
She sat back.She...had no idea. She’d had the vague notion of toying with him,watching gleefully as Lydia Torrence spluttered impotently, butnow...well, now Lord Stephen himself intrigued her. She had nonotion of what she sought, but perhaps that would be part of thefun. “I am not certain. At this stage, let us gather informationand see what we can see.”
Outside thedoor, a loud clatter sounded. Jerking her head, she watched asJohnson arm-wrestled the blackboard through the door. “Excuse me,my lady. Apologies for the noise, and the lateness. Was a rightstruggle getting this here blackboard down from the nursery. Wherewould you like it?”
“Bythe mantle, Johnson.”
Nodding, heshoved and stumbled the blackboard into position and, with anothernod, left them. “Maria, do record all we have learnt about LordStephen,” Sera said.
Ridding herhands of crumbs, Maria stood and started scribbling on theblackboard. Once all the information had been recorded, Sera staredat it while Elizabeth took a sip of tea and Maria dusted chalk fromher hands. Lord Stephen made no sense. There was little reason tosuppose their paths would cross in a seemingly natural manner atany point in the near future. She would, it seemed, have to seekhim out. But where? How?
It seemed theywould have to think on this further.
“Settle in, ladies,” she said. “We still have much todo.”
Chapter Four
MAKING HIS WAY AROUND the side of his family’s Londontownhouse, Stephen entered Roxegate through the servant’s access.The door opened to the kitchen, where the family cook stood at thewooden bench with her back to him, rolling some sort of dough. “MrsParsons, how are you?”
“Lord above!” Whirling around, Mrs Parsons’s hand flew to herchest, leaving a floury imprint upon her dress. “Lord Stephen, whatare you doing, coming in this way?” she scolded.
“Iwanted to see you,” he said, eyeing the pastries set to cool onmetal racks. They looked to be lemon tarts, hisfavourite.
“Well, you should be coming through the front door, as befitsa man of your station.” She pointed her rolling pin at him. “Isuppose you’ll be wanting a pastry.”
“Yousuppose right.”
“Well then, take one. I don’t have all day to entertainyou.”
Pilfering apastry from the smart row, he took a bite. Flaky, buttery, with thesharp tang of lemon. Delicious.
“Isuppose also you’ll be wanting to see your brother,” Mrs Parsonssaid as she returned to rolling dough.
The pastryabruptly tasted like ash on his tongue. “Again, you suppose right,”he said, lowering the pastry.
“Don’t be vexing him. He’s had a hard day—a hardweek—the poor love.”
Stephen made anon-committal sound. As if his brother had ever had a hard day inhis life.
From the side ofher eye, Mrs Parsons looked at him. “Now, don’t be like that. Iknow you and he have your troubles, but he tries his best and theweek has not been kind. You know Lady Lydia hasreturned.”
“Iknow.”
“That girl’s been gone over a year, and he’s been missing hersomething fierce. He’s been on edge ever since she set foot onEnglish soil again.”
“Iknow, Mrs Parsons.”
