The Enigma of a Widow Read online

  Or the face.

  Despite what he had realized on his trip home, there was only one place he wanted to spend the night.

  Lydia Barrymore’s townhouse. Or rather, her bedchamber. He had a mission, and he intended to see it through to its end.

  Whenever that might be.

  “Nothing fancy, Fitzroy,” he finally replied. “And have Cook make something I can take with me.”

  Chapter 16

  A Summons is Received

  The following morning, June 20, 1816

  Lydia had just reached the breakfast parlor when Jenkins intercepted her at the door. “This was just delivered, my lady,” he said with an arched brow.

  Examining the missive as she took it from the butler, Lydia realized why he seemed intrigued. “By a footman, I gather?” she replied, turning it over to examine the red wax seal on the back. Given its lack of any embossing, there wasn’t a hint as to whom it was from.

  Except she knew.

  Lord Chamberlain.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Is he waiting for a reply?”

  The butler blinked, which only had Lydia feeling a hint of satisfaction. It was rare when something had Jenkins a bit discombobulated. “He is not. He left after making the delivery.”

  Lydia sighed. “Well, there’s no hurry then,” she said as she tucked the note into a pocket and made her way to her regular seat in the breakfast parlor.

  One of the house’s two footmen—there had been three, but without a husband in the household, the other one had left of his own accord to work for a neighbor—was quick to deliver a plate filled with coddled eggs, toast, and a slice of ham. One of the housemaids followed with a tea tray.

  Once all the servants had left her alone, Lydia surreptitiously pulled the missive from her pocket and popped the seal.

  Perhaps you thought your assignment was optional. It is not. Three o’clock, my office. C.

  Lydia sighed, realizing from the tone of Lord Chamberlain’s note that he was angry with her.

  Or, mayhap just a bit impatient.

  He probably didn’t know about the ride she had taken with Sir Donald to the Serpentine. He certainly wouldn’t know anything about the knight’s nocturnal visits to her bedchamber. Although he wasn’t in her bedchamber when she fell asleep, she had awoken to the sound of his soft snores. No longer alarmed by the thought of the man in her bedchamber, Lydia found she took comfort in his presence.

  How odd. To have been so annoyed by Adonis Truscott only a few days ago, and now ...

  Well, now she had managed to annoy Lord Chamberlain.

  Damnation!

  Lydia wondered how she might start her verbal report. When I discovered Sir Donald had made himself at home in a Greek lounging chair in my bedchamber whilst I was sleeping, I promptly threatened him with my loaded pistol and demanded answers. He was most obliging.

  Except he wasn’t.

  Not really, anyway. He was keeping secrets from her, she was sure. Why, she didn’t yet know.

  After a moment, she decided it wasn’t worth the attempt to shock the poor viscount. On second thought, she remembered Lord Chamberlain was beyond being shocked.

  Well, she had some information to provide at least. Oliver Preston had paid a call, presumedly looking for Jasper’s ring. She knew he wouldn’t find it at the War Office—it was in the top tray of Jasper’s jewelry box—which meant he would probably come back to the house to ask after it.

  Perhaps it was fortuitous that Adonis Truscott had been paying visits to her bedchamber, after all. She at least knew some of what she was supposed to have learned about the man. She could rattle off the various facts and claim she was working on discovering more.

  As for when that might be, she didn’t exactly have another appointment set up with the man.

  Would he show up in her bedchamber again tonight?

  A shiver of something seemed to pass through her body just then.

  Excitement? Anticipation?

  She cursed to herself, annoyed that the man would have such an effect on her when she found him so... annoying.

  As for the knight’s sanity, she was quite sure he was merely misunderstood. His extended periods of staring at nothing at all were a bit problematic—and probably the reason his sister thought him a candidate for Bedlam—but she rather doubted it was a sign he wasn’t in his right mind. If she could just figure out how to pull him back to the present—without having to yell his given name—and discover where he had been, Lydia thought it likely she could determine just why it was he spent so much time lost in thought.

  When a footman reappeared to ask if she wanted anything else, Lydia was stunned to find she had eaten her entire breakfast. “I’d like another slice of ham,” she murmured. “And coffee, if the cook has made any this morning.”

  The footman nodded. “She has, milady,” he answered with a bow.

  “Let Jenkins know I’ll need the town coach at two o’clock.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “And do be sure someone introduces you to Lady Pettigrew’s lady’s maid. She’s really rather pretty and quite over the moon for you.”

  Lydia absolutely adored the way the footman’s face turned a brilliant red and his eyes widened in alarm. She wondered for a moment if he might faint dead away, but the man quickly recovered his wits.

  “Yes, milady,” he said with a deep bow. With that, he took his leave of the breakfast parlor, his steps rather light.

  Knowing she would be alone for only a few minutes, Lydia pulled the missive from her pocket and reread it. Why did he give me this odd assignment? she wondered for the tenth time. There were doctors better suited to determine just what ailed the knight.

  Perhaps they had already been consulted. Perhaps they had employed leeches in an attempt to cure him. Given him arsenic or mercury or laudanum in an attempt to keep him in the here and now.

  Lydia shivered at the possibilities of what might have been done to cure the man of whatever ailed him.

  Poor Adonis, she thought, rather surprised at how she felt sorry for a man she had for the most part, until that moment, only found annoying.

  Once the coffee and ham appeared before her, Lydia announced she would be in the study for the remainder of the morning, and she took her plate and cup with her as she took her leave of the breakfast parlor.

  Downing her coffee with a grimace—Good God, who had ever thought the beastly stuff worthy of drinking in the morning?—Lydia pulled a parchment from a desk drawer and began recording everything she knew about Adonis Truscott.

  Chapter 17

  A Visit to Whitehall

  Later that afternoon

  At precisely one minute to three o’clock in the afternoon, Lydia Barrymore entered the open area outside the office of Lord Chamberlain, reported to his secretary, and took a seat in a rather uncomfortable chair meant for visitors to the viscount’s office.

  It was nearly four o’clock before she was called into Chamberlain’s office. She was being punished, she knew, and decided not to complain.

  “Lady Barrymore,” Chamberlain said. He didn’t get up from his chair, nor did Lydia expect him to.

  “Lord Chamberlain. So good of you to summon me,” Lydia replied in the most pleasant tone she could manage. She reached into her reticule and pulled out the parchment she had filled out whilst in the study earlier that day.

  The viscount frowned when he realized she held more than one sheet. “And what’s this?” he asked as he nodded toward the papers she held.

  “Oh, this?” Lydia asked as she lifted the papers in a silk gloved hand. “It’s what I’ve discovered about Sir Donald during our recent encounters. So far, at least. I expect I’ll learn even more later tonight.”

  Matthew Fitzsimmons, Viscount Chamberlain, leaned back in his chair and regarded the viscountess with an arched, bushy eyebrow. Although he tried hard, he couldn’t hide the surprise he felt at hearing her words. “Let’s have it then.”

&n
bsp; Lydia allowed a nod and began reciting everything she knew about Sir Donald. She never once looked at the papers she held, but she did put the front one behind the second page as she spoke, as if she had memorized every word and knew exactly where the notes continued onto the next page. “Have you any reports from doctors? Physicians?” she wondered when she had completed her report. “That might assist me in this project?”

  Lord Chamberlain sighed and pulled open a desk drawer. A thick stack of papers slammed onto his desk, the force of which had the other papers on his desk lifting up and moving slightly away from the offending pile.

  Not bothering to hide her disappointment, Lydia allowed a sigh. “He is not insane,” she murmured with a shake of her head. “Preoccupied, perhaps. Troubled, certainly. But he is not insane,” she repeated.

  The viscount nodded as he laced his fingers together. “These mostly have to do with his leg,” he finally admitted. “Compound fracture, dressed in the field but not reset until he was in hospital in Brussels.”

  Lydia fought down the urge to wince. The man had to have been in severe pain for hours. Even more so when the bone was forced back into place. “He walks with a cane and usually limps a bit, but when he’s doing something he enjoys...” She stopped suddenly, remembering how Sir Donald had been at the Serpentine, as if he had completely forgotten how to limp. “He walks quite normally,” she finished after a moment. “Imagine that.”

  Lord Chamberlain frowned. “What was he enjoying?”

  Despite her attempt to hide the embarrassment she felt just then, Lydia could feel a blush coloring her face. “Me, I suppose,” she whispered. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” she quickly added with an arched brow. “It was as if he had completely forgotten where he was.” She cursed herself for not having noticed it then. For not having made a conscious effort to determine exactly what they had been discussing when she noticed he wasn’t limping. His cane had even been resting on his shoulder, as if he knew he wouldn’t need it at all during their walk along the water’s edge.

  “Have you made arrangements for a liaison then?” Chamberlain wondered, his eyebrow once again arched up. “At the theatre. In your private box, perhaps?”

  Lydia stared at Lord Chamberlain, just then remembering the newest play at the Theatre Royal had already begun its run. Christ! How could I forget? she wondered in annoyance.

  “Not exactly,” she said with a shake of her head. She wondered if it might be too late to send the knight an invitation to join her. Where would she send it, though? Lord Craven’s residence? Or Sir Donald’s bachelor quarters? “But I suppose it could start there,” she hedged.

  The viscount actually seemed a bit surprised by her comment and then suddenly narrowed his eyes. “If not the theatre...” He blinked and didn’t bother to finish the comment.

  Lydia inwardly sighed. Did she really want to be seen in the man’s company? She was sure there were already rumors about her and the knight, thanks to Lady Pettigrew. When the man was seen entering her box—and he would be seen—the rumors would only get worse. “But should I wish to have him join me, where might I send the request?” She avoided using the word ‘invitation’. She didn’t want Chamberlain thinking she desired the man’s presence in her box.

  “Why, I can pass it along, actually,” the viscount replied lightly. “He’s due to meet me here at five. He’s of a mind to return to service, and despite your report, I still have my doubts as to his usefulness.”

  Lydia blinked, realizing she really had no say in the matter. “Then do so,” she replied, making sure she lifted her head as she said the words. No need having the viscount thinking she was trying to avoid the knight. “If that’s all...”

  Lord Chamberlain angled his head. “I hope you’re right, Lydia. It’s a shame what happened to him over there, but I want him to be right as rain,” he whispered, as if he feared someone might be listening to their exchange.

  “On an another note, I had a visit from Preston yesterday,” she said carefully.

  The viscount gave a start. “Social visit?”

  “He tried to make it seem so, but he’s looking for Jasper’s ring,” she replied. “I told him to check with the War Office, seeing as how I’ve never been given his personal effects.”

  Lord Chamberlain couldn’t help but notice the bitterness in her voice. “Thank you for letting me know. It shan’t be long now. I can’t imagine he would leave Britain before completing that last assignment.”

  Angling her head to one side, Lydia asked, “Who gave him the assignment?” she asked in a whisper. It had to be fairly recent. The man had been in her house several times during their affaire, and not once had he asked about the ring. Not once had he left her side to go searching in the master bedchamber, either. She had made sure the doors to that room were locked after Jasper’s death—she didn’t want anyone disturbing his things. Helping themselves to his bits of jewelry or trinkets or clothing.

  Shaking his head, the viscount didn’t reply right away. “Better you not know, but something tells me you already do.”

  So, Preston’s latest assignment wasn’t from this office, Lydia decided. That meant he probably was a double agent. Probably had been working for the French during those last days before the Battle of Waterloo. It was better that Jasper not know his friend was also an enemy.

  Or perhaps he knew?

  Giving the man a nod, Lydia stood up and gave a curtsy. “I do hope Lady Pettigrew will not be in attendance at the opening of the play,” she murmured in a hint as she took her leave of Chamberlain’s office.

  The viscount allowed a sigh. He rather hoped not as well.

  * * *

  As Lydia made her way back to her town coach, she had the niggling feeling she was being watched. Glancing about as if she were merely watching for traffic in Whitehall as she crossed the pavement to her town coach, she realized just why.

  Adonis Truscott, wearing a cape coat and leaning heavily on his silver-topped cane, was watching her from in the front of his horse. She wondered if perhaps he had followed her to the Foreign Office and rather hoped he hadn’t been standing out in the cold the entire time.

  Changing her steps so she headed in his direction, she gave him a brilliant smile. “Sir Donald!” she called out as she hurried up to him. She gave him a curtsy after he managed an awkward bow.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Barrymore. I hope this day finds you well,” he said as his eyes darted about. He took her gloved hand and kissed the back of it, obviously surprised at being discovered.

  “It does indeed,” she replied, “Now that I’ve found you,” she said sweetly. “If you’re not already occupied Saturday evening, perhaps you’ll join me in my box at the Royal Theatre,” she offered, realizing too late how awfully fast she sounded with the invitation. A reminder that he had been in her bedchamber until earlier that morning helped quell the thought, though.

  The knight blinked twice before finally giving her a nod. “I appreciate the invitation, my lady,” he managed with a nod. “I already have some place I must be later that evening, but I can certainly attend both engagements,” he added with a wan smile and a half-bow.

  Lydia regarded the beautiful man for perhaps a moment too long. “I look forward to it, then. I’m sure you know which box is mine. And if not, Lord Chamberlain can let you know when you meet with him at five o’clock. Don’t be late. He’s rather crotchety today,” she said before bobbing a curtsy and heading back to her town coach.

  Sir Donald watched as Lydia’s driver held the door open for her, the man having already stepped down from the box when she first appeared from inside one of the Whitehall buildings.

  Attending the theatre wasn’t his favorite nocturnal activity, by any means, but Adonis found himself looking forward to a night spent in the company of Lady Barrymore. They would be in public, of course, but in a private box. And afterwards, in her bedchamber.

  She wouldn’t fall asleep at the theatre. At least, he didn’t expe
ct she would. As for later, he just hoped she wouldn’t shoot him.

  Chapter 18

  A Night of Discovery

  Much later that night

  The whisper of a kiss brought Lydia out of a deep sleep, one in which faces of familiar people swam by but no one seemed to recognize her.

  Was a widow really so invisible? Forgotten by those who had been friends before her husband’s death on the Continent?

  Perhaps wearing widow’s weeds really did render a woman forgettable.

  Invisible.

  Blinking away the last vestiges of the dream, Lydia drew in a quick breath and then another when she realized she wasn’t alone. “Jasper?” she whispered, sitting up to glance about the dark room. The lamp on the nightstand had burned out at some point, and the embers of the last lumps of coal were barely glowing in the fireplace.

  The scent of sandalwood lingered in the chilly air, and she realized almost immediately it wasn’t because Jasper was in the room.

  Jasper was dead. Run through by a bayonet somewhere near Brussels. Somewhere on the road between Charleroi and Brussels.

  A year ago.

  The familiar sensation of her chest compressing, of tears about to spill forth, had her swallowing.

  Hard.

  “Should I be?”

  The hoarse whisper had her gasping. The voice wasn’t Jasper’s, but it was definitely male. Familiar.

  “Sir Donald?” she replied, disbelief evident in her voice. She turned to her right and realized the knight was standing at the edge of the bed, his silhouette apparent because his white shirt appeared almost ghostly in the inky blackness. If he had been wearing a waistcoat and topcoat when he arrived, he wasn’t now.