Beyond A Wicked Kiss Read online

  "They say that very thing from time to time."

  The colonel did not doubt it. "Tell me about Miss Ashby," he said. "How did you come to learn about my visits to the duke from her? I have never had occasion to meet her."

  West related what Ria had told him. "Does she sound as if she is not a handful? She listens at doors, if you can credit it. That is just the sort of thing that causes no end of problems."

  Since West was called upon to do it frequently in the course of his work, the colonel thought he was being somewhat harsh in his assessment of Miss Ashby. "I doubt it is her practice to engage in eavesdropping."

  "I couldn't say. She only apprised me of this one instance."

  The colonel coughed to cover his chuckle. "Careful, West, your tone puts me in mind of Northam at his most priggish. You would do well to avoid that comparison. Even his own mother can't stand him when he adopts that tone."

  West was much struck by that. "Then you see firsthand what Miss Ashby is capable of, for no one has ever accused me of priggishness."

  "Indeed," Blackwood said softly. "Your ward has had an unsettling influence."

  That described it very well, West thought. He returned to his chair and hitched one hip on the arm. He waited for the colonel to turn himself around before he spoke. "You might well wonder how we had such a conversation at the service. In truth, we did not exchange a single word there. Miss Ashby arrived on my doorstep last evening—sans chaperone."

  "The devil you say." The colonel did not try to conceal his surprise. "I confess I know little enough about your ward, but it seems unlikely the duke would have countenanced such behavior."

  "The duke is dead."

  "Ah, yes—well, there you have it."

  "There can be no getting around the truth of that." West's chest rose and fell, his sigh inaudible. He decided then that he would tell Colonel Blackwood everything.

  * * *

  Ria hugged Amy Nash to her breast. The girl was inconsolable, and it did not help that Ria felt very much like giving in to a frenzied bout of weeping herself. Instead her expression was bleak, although this was only evident while little Amy's face was buried against her. Each time the girl looked up to gauge Ria's reaction, Ria masked her anxious concern with a fair approximation of an encouraging smile.

  "You did the right thing by coming to me, Amy." Ria stroked Amy's untidy russet hair with her fingertips. "It is better late than never. You were very brave to step forward when you thought there would be a punishment." There was so much more Ria could have said—an entire lecture was unfolding in her mind—but she bit it back. Amy knew very well that she should have stepped forward immediately with her information. She also knew she could have offered that same information at any time in the last six weeks. Ria decided it made no sense to belabor those points. Amy had finally come to her, and this was cause for thanksgiving, nothing less.

  "Come," Ria said. "Have done with these tears and show me your pretty face."

  Amy raised her face and allowed Ria to examine it. Her tears were gently wiped clean with a handkerchief that smelled of lavender. When she was ordered to blow, she resisted soiling the linen and sniffed loudly instead.

  Ria chided her. "It can be washed, Amy. Blow, please. Let me hear Gabriel's trumpet." She covered Amy's watery smile with the handkerchief and held it there while the girl blew hard. "That's so much better, isn't it?" She folded the linen and pressed it into Amy's hand. "You may keep it, and if you feel as if you must cry, you will squeeze it very hard and it will stay the tears."

  Amy's dark chocolate eyes were both luminous and vaguely suspicious. "Shouldn't I press it to my eyes?"

  "Only if you want to catch the tears. If you want to stop them, you should squeeze. It's rather like magic." Ria was grateful Amy was still young enough that she could be appeased by magical handkerchiefs. "Good girl. Now, from the beginning. I must have it again, without sobbing this time. I want to be certain I understand everything."

  Nodding, Amy closed her fingers tightly around the handkerchief. It really did seem to help. "Jane said I mustn't tell. We made a blood oath." She held up her forefinger to show Ria where she and Jane had each pricked themselves with a needle from their sewing baskets. There was no scar, but she offered the finger for inspection anyway. "I promised her, Miss Ashby. It was a solemn vow."

  "I understand, but you are not wrong to break your promise. It is very important that we find Jane." Ria thought that if Amy had been but a few years older, she might not have held so strongly to her vow of secrecy. At eight, the girl was too young to weigh the consequences of keeping a promise against the consequences of breaking one. Even when Amy could see that so many others were worried about Jane, she clung to Jane's words that all would be fine and that she musn't give up the secret. Ria wondered why Jane had shared any part of her plan with Amy, then acknowledged another prayer of thanks that she had. Perhaps Jane had found the adventure she meant to take as simply too exciting to be kept to herself; perhaps it was only that she wanted to impress Amy with her self-importance.

  Ria gave Amy's fingers a squeeze and prompted her. "You said that Jane told you she was going with a gentleman."

  "A proper gentleman."

  "Yes, a proper gentleman." Ria could not imagine what that meant to either of the girls. Jane's idea of a proper gentleman might very well be one who cleaned the dirt from beneath his fingernails or carried a walking stick with a crystal knob. Jane had not the breadth of experience with any gentleman from which to draw upon. "What did she say about her proper gentleman?"

  "She said very little, Miss Ashby. Very little."

  "But something, Amy." Ria wanted to shake the girl, rattle her hard and make the words spill out of her like coins from a bank. "Think. Think hard."

  Amy Nash's brow furrowed deeply. "She said he was handsome. He wore a fine coat, soft as brushed velvet, she told me, with brass buttons."

  "What about the color of his eyes? His hair?"

  The little girl merely shook her head.

  "His age?"

  Amy's lower lip trembled. She bit down on it and clutched the handkerchief more tightly. "She didn't say."

  Jane probably had no idea, Ria thought. It was equally useless to inquire about the man's height. To Jane, petite as a doll, every man she encountered was likely to assume the proportions of a Titan in her mind. "Did Jane ever say where or how she met him?"

  Amy shook her head again.

  "It's all right. Don't fret yourself. Tell me what you do know."

  "She loves him truly, Miss Ashby. They are married now. I am sure of it. Jane wanted ever so much to be married."

  "Did Jane ever mention Gretna Green? Can you remember that, Amy? Gretna. Green."

  "No. She never said a word about that. Where is it? Shall we look for her there?"

  Ria heard the hope in the child's voice, and it squeezed her heart. "Gretna is in Scotland. You have seen the map in the classroom. Do you recall where Scotland is?"

  "On top."

  "Something like that. It requires a journey of many days to go there, and it is not likely that we would find Jane or her beau in residence." Ria leaned against the rails of the stiff ladderback chair. Amy was a small armful, but she managed to occupy all of Ria's lap. After almost one-half hour of securing her, Ria's legs had little in the way of feeling. Still, she didn't ask Amy to move to the stool at her side, and she didn't deceive herself into believing that her decision was only for Amy's sake. "Jane took no clothes with her," Ria said. "What do you make of that?"

  "Oh, but I know. Jane said she was to have a new wardrobe. He would take her to the dressmaker's on Firth Street and order her—"

  "On Firth Street, Amy? Is that what Jane said? Are you quite certain?"

  Amy's brow furrowed again, then cleared. "Why, yes. It is precisely what she said."

  The candle on the dish beside them began to sputter. Without jostling Amy, Ria reached for another on the table and lighted it before the first went out. S
he set it carefully in a ball of warm wax, holding it there until it could stand without support. It was not accomplished without difficulty. Her fingers trembled.

  Ria watched the play of shivering shadows and light caused by the flickering flame. Could it be true? she wondered. Had she finally come upon a detail that might lead her to Jane? "Firth Street is in London, Amy. Perhaps there are other Firth Streets, but I know there is one in London."

  "Then it is good that I remembered?"

  "Very good." She gave Amy's shoulder a light squeeze. "Let us see what else you can recall, shall we?"

  Although Amy was game, she was unable to produce anything Ria defined as significant. When the little girl began to yawn in earnest, Ria knew she had pressed as much as she dared. She rang for assistance, and Miss Jenny Taylor appeared within moments to escort Amy to her bed.

  "Poor dear," Miss Taylor whispered, lifting Amy into the comfortable shelter of her plump arms. "She's worn herself out crying."

  Ria nodded. "But she's provided a clue, I think."

  "How clever you are, Amy." Miss Taylor's voluptuous figure cushioned the squeeze she delivered. "Off to bed with us, then." Over the top of Amy's dark head, she asked, "Is there anything you require, Miss Ashby?"

  "Nothing. I am also for bed. In the morning I shall have to consider whether to go to London myself or send Mr. Lytton in my place."

  "London? Is that where this little one says our Jane has gone?" Miss Taylor's bosom rose and fell dramatically in concert with her heavy sigh. "London's terribly big. And Mr. Lytton hasn't been very helpful, has he?"

  Both of Miss Taylor's observations were true enough. "Firth Street is not overly long. There cannot be more than a score of shops there and less than half of those are dressmakers. I should think that narrows the possibilities so that even Mr. Lytton can discover something that will satisfy." Ria noted that Miss Taylor remained skeptical. Thus far, Mr. Oliver Lytton had not impressed with his investigative skills. Miss Taylor, in particular, was disappointed with his lack of success. She had been the one to suggest Mr. Lytton when Ria returned from the duke's funeral service and announced her intention to hire someone to find Jane.

  "We shall see, Miss Taylor," Ria said. "I have not yet made my decision."

  Miss Taylor's smile evinced confidence that Ria would do what was best. "Good night, then, Miss Ashby."

  "Goodnight."

  * * *

  Ria spent the next twenty minutes making notes about the day's activities, in particular the revelations Amy Nash had disclosed following vespers in the chapel. She couldn't be certain what had touched Amy so deeply that the child could no longer keep her silence, but she had started sobbing as soon as they formed the line to file out of the chapel, and none of the usual tricks worked to quiet her.

  They had all tried. The board of governors for Miss Weaver's Academy employed three teachers in addition to Ria. They each took a turn at trying to calm Amy. Mrs. Abergast, the most matronly among them, found her advances spurned. Miss Taylor, with her plump arms and ample bosom, was similarly rejected. Even Miss Webster, well known among the girls as the teacher most easily softened by a pitiful smile, found that her own tears could not halt Amy's. It had been left to Ria to bring the thing about.

  Ria closed her journal and began making preparations for bed. As headmistress, she was given use of a suite of rooms, none of which was large, but all of which were comfortably appointed. In addition to the bedchamber and adjoining dressing room, she had a sitting room for receiving guests to the school and a study where she could meet privately with teachers and students and make her reports to the board. There was no part of this last that she particularly enjoyed, but she suffered it in order to influence the operation of the academy.

  Since Jane Petty's disappearance, Ria thought she had good reason to wonder how long she could expect to continue her employment, at least as headmistress, but the governors continued to evince their support of her management. Not only did they acquit her of responsibility for Jane leaving the school, they seemed to be no more than mildly concerned by the incident. Ria supposed it was the insulating effect of distance that moderated their response. The governors made only the occasional visit to the school, choosing instead to provide oversight of their charitable work from London or their country estates. It had the consequence of giving Ria free rein in many decisions affecting the academy, but provided little in the way of direction when she required such.

  The governors had, however, and with nary a dissenting vote, approved her suggestion to hire Mr. Oliver Lytton to investigate Jane's disappearance. It was, perhaps, the most she could hope for in the way of involving them. She understood very well that they were protecting themselves from the possibility of scandal. The very last thing they desired was to find their names connected with something considerably more substantial than a nine days' wonder.

  Sighing heavily, Ria dropped to the edge of her bed and began pulling a brush through her pale hair with unenthusiastic strokes. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her movements reflected in the cheval glass. She avoided looking in that direction. Nothing about her appearance at present inspired confidence, and she could find no purpose in making yet another inventory of all the things that were wrong.

  "You look like the very devil."

  Ria did not startle immediately. Given the direction her thoughts had just taken, it merely seemed that she had spoken them aloud. A moment was required for comprehending the fact that the voice was very much unlike hers. Her head snapped up, swiveling toward the door in the same motion.

  West chuckled at the delay in her response. She put him in mind of a marionette whose strings were being inexpertly pulled. Even as he thought it, he watched her brush fall through nerveless fingers and drop to the bed. He did not mind her staring at him, for it gave him opportunity to return her regard—and he did not like what he saw. She was as insubstantial as a wraith, an observation that could not wholly be accounted for by her white cotton nightdress. It was West's opinion that she had dropped nearly a stone in weight, none of it that she could properly afford to shed. Her face was thin, with the cheekbones achieving an unattractive prominence. Violet shadows beneath her eyes made them appear sunken. Her unbound hair held little luster, in spite of the fact that candlelight from the bedside table washed over it. Perhaps if she had been dressed in the same serviceable bombazine mourning gown she'd worn in London, he might have been fooled into thinking she had some shape to her, but he didn't think so.

  "The very devil," he repeated for good measure.

  "I quite heard you the first time." Ria snatched up her flannel robe lying at the foot of the bed and threw it around her shoulders.

  West stepped fully into the room but did not close the door behind him. "By all means, take time to put it on. It is not very warm in here. I suppose that is because you were preparing to nest under all those covers." Without invitation to do so, he went to the fireplace and added a log. Brushing off his gloves, he turned to her. "That will keep the chill in abeyance until your return."

  "My return?" Ria found it more than passing strange that she could offer any speech at all. She felt as if she were running to catch up with him, and her oddly breathless response and racing heartbeat seemed to confirm that this was true. "Where am I going?"

  "To your sitting room, I hope." West took off his hat and coat, folded the latter over his arm, and then began removing his gloves. "Unless it is your habit to conduct interviews in your bedchamber. That presents a bit of a dilemma for me, though, and surely you must see it. While I am often at the forefront of any movement or protest that will give society's conventions a proper tweaking, I find that as your guardian I cannot support you entertaining gentlemen in such an intimate setting. Furthermore, I cannot even recommend myself as a gentleman. The nutshell of it is this: if you do not remove yourself to the sitting room with due haste, I shall be forced to consider whether I can throw myself out."

  Ria wondered that she
could be so befuddled, yet know without a doubt that she was not dreaming. She could not even find the wherewithal to be affronted or to offer a defense. Rising to her feet, she slipped into the flannel robe, belted it, and then made one point for clarification. "You do realize, don't you, that I did not invite you in?"

  "You're rather late coming to that. You might have said something when I was still standing in the doorway."

  It was difficult to argue that particular objection. "This way," Ria said, extending the invitation she had not made earlier. Taking up the candlestick, she led him back into the sitting room and lighted the candelabra on the mantelpiece. West assumed the duties of bringing the dying flames in the fireplace around to a full blaze. He stood in front of the hearth for some moments, seemingly in contemplation of his handiwork, while Ria placed his coat, hat, and gloves on a rack inside the door. She thought he had no notion any longer that she was in the room, yet the moment she sat on the sofa behind him, he pivoted on his heel to face her. Though he stood several feet away, she still had to look up at an uncomfortable angle.

  "Is it your intention to keep the benefits of your labor to yourself?" she asked.

  West frowned, trying to comprehend her meaning before he came to the realization that his presence squarely in front of the fire was blocking its heat.

  Ria was grateful when he stepped aside. More important than the obstacle he presented to her, the light coming from behind him had thrust his features into deep shadow. When he had announced that she looked like the very devil, it was most definitely the pot calling the kettle black. "Thank you," she said. "Will you not sit? It is preferable to hovering, I think."

  The suggestion of a smile played about his mouth. "Preferable for whom?"

  "I can own that it is more to my liking."

  West looked around and chose the chair with the emerald brocade seat and back and dark walnut trim. It was by far and away the least comfortable of the upholstered offerings, but at this late hour and after so long a journey, West was not desirous of comfort. He would retire to his room at the inn in Gillhollow for his sleep; he had no wish to nod off here.