A Lady Never Surrenders Part 2

"In the dream, I a.s.sume it's Mama, but even there she doesn't behave right."

"In what way?"

"Papa used to call Mama 'mia dolce bellezza,' and she would blush and tell him he was blind. Well, in the dream the man called the woman 'mia dolce bellezza,' and she got angry. She told him she hated it when he did that. Don't you see? She probably resented being called the same thing he called his wife."

"I don't suppose you could tell who she was from the voice."

She sighed. "Unfortunately, they were both whispering. I only know it was Papa because of the 'mia dolce bellezza.'"

"I see."

"If it really happened, it means Mama somehow found out about Papa's a.s.signation. That's why she asked Benny not to tell Papa where she was going. Because she wanted to catch him and his mistress in the act. And whoever Papa was going there to meet arrived first and shot Mama."

"Then when your father showed up, she shot him, too?" he said skeptically. "Now that she'd ensured that her lover was free to marry her?"

Lady Celia's expression turned uncertain. "Perhaps Papa was angry that she'd killed Mama. Perhaps they struggled for the gun and it went off."

"So she reloaded the gun after shooting your mother. She lay in wait for your father-her lover-with a loaded gun."

"I-I don't know. All I know is what I heard."

"Which might have been a dream."

She sighed. "It might. That's why I came to you with it rather than mentioning it during our family meeting. I didn't want to get everyone excited about it until we were sure."

"We?"

"Yes. I want you to investigate and find out if it might have been real."

The plea in her lovely hazel eyes tugged at him, but she was asking the impossible. "I don't see how I can-"

"Other things happened in the dream," she said hastily. "Gabe's tutor, Mr. Virgil, came in later, and my nursemaid sang to me. I overheard things." She drew a folded sheaf of paper from her pocket and held it out to him.

Reluctantly, he took it.

"I wrote down everything I could recall," she went on. "I figured you could talk to Mr. Virgil and Nurse and find out if I'm remembering that part correctly. If not, then the rest doesn't matter. But if I am..."

"I understand." She might have stored something important in her memory. But which parts? How could he sort the wheat from the chaff?

He skimmed the neatly penned words, and something leapt out at him. "Your nurse gave you medicine?"

Lady Celia nodded. "She calls it paregoric elixir. I suspect that Annabel and Maria's discussion about it yesterday was what prompted my dream."

"You do know that paregoric contains opium."

"Does it?" A troubled frown crossed her brow. "My sisters-in-law did say they would never use it on their own children."

"I'm told that doctors disagree on its usefulness." He weighed his words. "You may not realize this, but opium can sometimes provoke-"

"I know," she said tersely. "Dreams and phantasms and things that aren't real." She met his gaze. "But I feel in my bones that it was real. I can't explain it, and I know I might be wrong, but I think it at least deserves attention, don't you? If we discover it really is a memory, we might piece together who was missing early that morning and figure out Papa's mistress by a process of elimination." Her chin came up. "Besides, Nurse gave me the paregoric after I overheard the conversation."

"Unless she gave you some to sleep the night before," he said gently.

Her face fell, and he felt her disappointment like a punch to the gut.

He cleared his throat. "I agree it's worth pursuing. Your nurse is on my list of people to track down anyway, and Mr. Virgil is certainly of interest. I'll speak to them both and we'll continue from there." He shoved the paper in his coat pocket. "You were right to come to me with this."

She smiled at him then, the first smile she'd ever given him. It brought life to her face and a softness to her features that blazed a path through to his very soul.

"Thank you," she said.

G.o.d save him, he must keep his wits about him. "You're welcome." He turned for the door. He had to get out of here. If she ever guessed what she did to him, she'd mock him mercilessly for daring to raise his gaze so high. "If that's all-"

"Actually," she said, "I need something else from you, too."

Confound it all, he'd nearly escaped. Slowly he faced her once more. "Yes?"

She took in a breath, then lifted her chin. "I need you to investigate my suitors."

Chapter Two.

Celia realized she'd shocked Mr. Pinter when his thick black brows drew together in a frown. His lean form seemed even more rigid than usual, and his angular features-the arrow of a nose and bladed jaw-even more stark. In his severe morning attire of black serge and white linen, he radiated male disapproval.

But why? He knew she was the only "h.e.l.lion" left unmarried. Did he think she would let her brothers and sisters lose their inheritance out of some rebellious desire to thwart Gran's ultimatum?

Of course he did. He'd been so kind and considerate during her recitation of the dream that she'd almost forgotten he hated her. Why else were his eyes, gray as slate after a storm, now so cold and remote? The blasted fellow was always so condescending and sure of himself, so ... so ...

Male.

"Forgive me, my lady," he said in his oddly raspy voice, "but I was unaware you had any suitors."

Curse him for being right. "Well, I don't ... exactly. There are men who might be interested but haven't gone so far as to offer marriage." Or even to show a partiality to her.

"And you're hoping I'll twist their arms so they will?" he drawled.

She colored under his piercing gaze. "Don't be ridiculous."

This was the Mr. Pinter she knew, the one who'd called her "a reckless society miss" and a "troublemaker."

Not that she cared what he thought. He was like her brothers' friends, who saw her as a tomboy because she could demonstrate a rifle's fine qualities. And like Cousin Ned. Scrawny b.i.t.c.h with no t.i.ts-you don't have an ounce of anything female in you.

Curse Ned to h.e.l.l. Surely she'd filled out a bit in the ten years since their ... private encounter. Surely her sharp features had softened into more womanly ones.

But she still had Papa's unfas.h.i.+onable olive skin and ungainly height, and Mama's boyish frame. She still had deplorably straight brown hair, not to mention the most boring hazel eyes.

Celia would give anything to look like her sister. To fill out gowns in all the right places. To have wavy tresses with streaks of gold in them, eyes of brilliant jade, and features as cla.s.sically perfect as a porcelain doll's. Celia was sometimes described as pretty, but next to Minerva ...

She swallowed her envy. She might not have her sister's looks, but she did have other appealing qualities. For one thing, men were comfortable around her because of her interest in guns and shooting.

"You may find this hard to believe, Mr. Pinter," she went on defensively, "but some men enjoy my company. They consider me easy to talk to."

A ghost of a smile touched his handsome face. "You're right. I do find that hard to believe."

Arrogant wretch. "All the same, there are three men who might consider marrying me, and I could use your help in securing them."

She hated having to ask him for that, but he was necessary to her plan. She just needed one good offer of marriage, one impressive offer that would show Gran she was capable of gaining a decent husband.

Gran didn't believe she could, or she wouldn't be holding to that blasted ultimatum. If Celia could prove her wrong, Gran might allow her to choose a husband in her own good time.

And if that plan didn't work, Celia would at least have a man she could marry to fulfill Gran's terms.

"So you've finally decided to meet Mrs. Plumtree's demands," he said, his expression unreadable.

She wasn't about to let him in on her secret plan. Oliver might have employed him, but she was sure Mr. Pinter also spied for Gran. He would run right off and tell her. "It's not as if I have a choice." Bitterness crept into her tone. "In less than two months, if I remain unmarried, my siblings will be cut off. I can't do that to them, no matter how much I resent Gran's meddling."

Something that looked oddly like sympathy flickered in his gaze. "Don't you want to marry?"

"Of course I want to marry. Doesn't every woman?"

"You've shown little interest in it before," he said skeptically.

That's because men had shown little interest in her. Oh, Gabe's friends loved to stand about with her at b.a.l.l.s and discuss the latest developments in cartridges, but they rarely asked her to dance, and if they did, it was only to consult her on rifles. She'd tried flirting, but she was terrible at it. It seemed so ... false. So did men's compliments, the few that there were. It was easier to laugh them off than to figure out which ones were genuine, easier to pretend to be one of the lads.

She secretly wished she could find a man she could love, who would ignore the scandals attached to her family's name and indulge her hobby of target shooting. One who could shoot as well as she, since she could never respect a man who couldn't hit what he aimed at.

I'll bet Mr. Pinter knows his way around a rifle.

She scowled. He probably thought he was a grand shot, anyway. For a man whose lineage was reputedly unsavory, Mr. Pinter was so high in the instep that she privately called him Proud Pinter or Proper Pinter. He'd told Gabe last week that most lords were good for only two things-redistributing funds from their estates into the gaming h.e.l.ls and brothels in London, and ignoring their duty to G.o.d and country.

She knew he was working for Oliver only because he wanted the money and prestige. Secretly, he held them all in contempt. Which was probably why he was being so snide about her marrying.

"Be that as it may," she said, "I'm interested in marriage now." She strode over to the fireplace to warm her hands. "That's why I want you to investigate my potential suitors."

"Why me?"

She shot him a sideways glance. "Have you forgotten that Oliver hired you initially for that very purpose?"

His stiffening posture told her that he had. With a frown, he drew out the notebook and pencil he always seemed to keep in his pocket. "Very well. Exactly what do you want me to find out?"

Breathing easier, she left the fire. "The same things you found out for my siblings-the truth about my potential suitors' finances, their eligibility for marriage, and ... well..."

He paused in scratching his notes to arch an eyebrow at her. "Yes?"

She fiddled nervously with the gold bracelet she wore. This part, he might balk at. "And their secrets. Things I can use in my ... er ... campaign. Their likes, their weaknesses, whatever isn't obvious to the world."

His expression chilled her even with the fire at her back. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Suppose you learn that one of them prefers women in red. That could be useful to me. I would wear red as much as possible."

Amus.e.m.e.nt flashed in his eyes. "And what will you do if they all prefer different colors?"

"It's just an example," she said irritably. "In truth, I'm hoping you can provide me with more substantive information. You might discover that one of my suitors supports a by-blow. I could use that to-"

"Your brother pays me to make sure your suitors are acceptable and eligible," he ground out, "not to help you blackmail men into marriage."

Too late, she remembered that he was a by-blow. "I didn't mean it like that! If I knew a suitor had an illegitimate child that he cared enough about to support, then I'd know he liked children. So I could ramble on about how much I like children. That's all."

That seemed to mollify him only slightly. "In other words, you'll pretend to be someone else in order to snag a husband."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she said defensively, "it's no different than what half the women in society do to catch a man. I don't want to waste my time in pointless flirtation when a little inside knowledge will improve my aim on the targets."

He flashed her a condescending smile.

"What is it?" she snapped.

"Only you would approach courts.h.i.+p as a marksman approaches a shooting match." He licked the tip of his pencil. "So who are these hapless targets?"

"The Earl of Devonmont, the Duke of Lyons, and Fernandez Valdez, the Visconde de Basto."

His jaw dropped. "Are you insane?"

"I know they're rather beyond my reach, but they seem to like my company-"

"I daresay they do!" He strode up to her, strangely angry. "The earl is a rakeh.e.l.l with a notorious reputation for trying to get beneath the skirts of every woman he meets. The duke's father was mad, and it's said to run in his family, which is why most women steer clear of him. And Basto is a Portuguese idiot who's too old for you and clearly trawling for some sweet young thing to nurse him in his declining years."

"How can you say such things? The only one you know personally is Lord Devonmont, and you barely know even him."

"I don't have to. Their reputations tell me they're utterly unacceptable."

Unacceptable? Three of the most eligible bachelors in London? Mr. Pinter was mad, not her. "Lord Devonmont is Gabe's wife's cousin. The duke is Gabe's best friend, whom I've known since childhood, and the viscount ... well..."

"Is an oily sort, from what I hear," he snapped.

"No, he isn't. He's very pleasant to talk to." Really, this was the most ridiculous conversation. "Who the devil do you think I should marry, anyway?"

That seemed to take him aback. He glanced away. "I don't know," he muttered. "But not ... That is, you shouldn't..." He tugged at his cravat. "They're wrong for you, that's all."

She'd fl.u.s.tered Mr. Pinter. How astonis.h.i.+ng! He was never fl.u.s.tered. It made him look vulnerable and much less ... stiff. She rather liked that.

But she'd like it even better if she understood what had provoked it. "Why do you care whom I choose, as long as you're paid? I'm willing to pay extra to ensure that you find out everything I want to know."