Much later in the day, Verena returned from Lady Jessup’s. The poor woman had been horrified to hear of Humford’s death. Horrified, but not so distraught that she couldn’t take the time to garner every available detail.

Unfortunately, Verena had no real information to share, a fact Lady Jessup took as a challenge. She plainly thought Verena was holding back the juicier tidbits, hoarding them as if they were gold nuggets and nothing Verena did or said could make her change her opinion. Verena was forced to sit through what seemed like a horrid interrogation, interspersed by maudlin remembrances of Humford’s many kindnesses and a litany of recalled conversations, none of which seemed to have the least purpose.

By the time Verena made good her escape, she was exhausted. Her carriage pulled up to the front stoop just in time to see James on the steps.

He stopped on the lower stair and waited for her to join him. “Well?”

“Number 12, Dray Street.”

“Excellent. We’ll take my carriage. I’ve ordered a change of horses and then we’ll be off.” He took her arm and walked up the steps beside her.

“What did you find out?”

He gave a secretive smile and rapped the brass knocker sharply on the door. “Not as much as I’d hoped, but—”

The door opened and Herberts beamed at them pleasantly. “There ye be, m’lady and m’lord! Ah, I mean ‘sir.’” He took Verena’s cloak while a rather rough-looking man with shaggy blond hair and an astonishing number of freckles took James’s coat and hat.

“Who’s this?” Verena asked.

The man bowed, flashing a wide smile that revealed crooked teeth and a cleft in his chin.

Herberts cleared his throat. “He don’t speak much, which oiye think is a benefit. But his name is Peters. He’s the new footman.”

Verena frowned. “I didn’t hire a new—”

“Weel there, missus. Thet’s whot oiye told him, oiye did, when he walked up and begged fer a position. ‘Peters,’ oiye said, ‘oiye’m not the one as hires footmen. But oiye can tell ye thet we needs ye in a very bad way.’ Isn’t that right, Peters?”

Peters nodded his head emphatically.

“He’s in trainin’, he is,” Herberts said, casting a critical eye at the man. “Oiye think he can be a good ’un with a little practice.”

James snorted.

Herberts leaned toward Verena and said in a conspiratorial voice, “An’ he don’t cost hardly at all.”

“Oh. Really? Perhaps, I—but no. Herberts, you can’t just hire—”

“Here now, Peters!” Herberts said sternly. “Don’t be holdin’ his lordship’s coat so that it trails the ground! Do ye want to spend the rest o’ the afternoon brushin’ it?”

“Aye, sir!” Peters’s good-natured grin never faded, though he did lift the coat a bit higher.

“That’s the natter! Now off with ye,” Herberts said, shooing the man away. “Take it to the kitchen and spread it afore the fire, just like I tol’ ye.”

Peters obediently marched down the hallway.

“And see that ye don’t wears it, neither,” Herberts yelled after him. “Thet’s agin the rules.”

James had stopped trying to withhold his laughter.

Verena sighed. “Herberts, I cannot afford another—”

“Shush, now, missus. Oiye know how things is. Thet’s why Peters will work out wonderfully. You see, oiye tol’ him a little fib. Oiye tol’ him that most footmen don’t get paid until they’ve served fer a half a year at least. A trainin’ period, as it were.”

“A half a—Herberts! The man will starve.”

“Nonsense. He gets room and board, jus’ no more. Whot more can a feller want than that, oiye ask ye? An’ if ye’re worried ’bout his trainin’, oiye’ll do it meself, oiye will.”

“That,” James declared, “I must see.”

“I don’t like this,” Verena said.

“Oh come on, Ver. You’ve a new footman and it will barely cost you a pence. Come, let’s retire to the morning room. I want to know what Lady Jessup had to say.”

Verena sighed and pushed her hair from her neck. She supposed there wasn’t any harm in trying Peters out. After all, she’d already hired a thief for a butler. “Very well. Herberts, let us know when Mr. Lansdowne’s carriage arrives.”

“Yes, ma’am! Oh, and whilst ye were gone, ye had a gentleman caller.” Herberts began to dig in his pocket. “A real nice gent it was, too. Same one from the other day, it were. Tall and black-haired, though he seemed a might upset ye weren’t in and—Ah! Here ’tis.” The butler produced a bent and crumpled card. “He said to give this to ye.”

Verena took the card. The St. John crest rode high on the heavy vellum, a single phrase scrawled below Brandon St. John’s name. Six o’clock.

James plucked the card from her hand.

“James, really! Give that back. It’s just—”

“I can see what it is. I don’t like that bounder—” He glanced at Herberts, who stood listening, nodding his agreement.

James scowled and then grabbed her elbow and pulled her into the morning room. “That will be all, Herberts. Thank you.” He shut the door and looked at the card one last time before tossing it onto a small table by the settee.

Verena picked up the card, noting how forcefully the words “six o’clock” were written. Brandon must have been in quite a temper. That was yet another reason she should end this little flirtation. She had a horrid enough temper herself without complicating her life with his.

James turned to face her. “Ver, I’ve been thinking. We have to find that list.”

“But we don’t even know what this list looks like!”

“Bloody hell,” he said, his face falling. Then, because it wasn’t strong enough, he followed with a worse curse in Italian, then French, and last German.

Verena eyed him with a lifted brow. “Are you through?”

“Not yet.” He added a curse in Russian. “There. Now I’m done.”

“Wonderful.” Verena set Brandon’s card on the table before her. “What did you find out?”

He was silent a moment, then he sighed. “I thought to see what I could discover about Humford. I made a guess at one thing…that since he was a bit of a gambler, I thought Lady Farley might know him.”

“Did you discover anything interesting?”

“Yes. He’d been playing at Hell’s Door quite frequently in the weeks before his death. Or he was until she refused him entrance.”

“Debts?”

“Over ten thousand pounds.”

Verena gave a silent whistle. “That’s interesting. So he needed money and badly.”

“Which brings me to my other conclusion. You said that he was always bragging about his connections to the Home Office.”

“Oh, he always said that. He’d been mocked quite heavily for it, too.”

“I think he was telling the truth.”

She frowned. “Humford? Working for the Home Office? Don’t be silly. The man was a very nice person, but hardly what I’d call well informed.”

James shook his head. “I don’t think he was doing anything of import. But perhaps he was doing enough that he managed to get his hands on something of value.” He rocked back on his heels. “A list, for example.”

Verena tilted her head to one side, considering this. After a moment, she nodded. That was a possibility. “If that’s true then this is serious, indeed.”

James nodded grimly. “That’s what I fear. If the list came from the Home Office, then there may be foreign elements involved. And someone thinks that Humford left that list here.”

“Oh my God. James, you are right. We do have to find this list.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “But…how big is this thing? And how long? And what’s on it? Are there ten names? Or a hundred buildings? It could even be in code so that it looks like a laundry list. Or the contents of the prince’s cravat drawer, for that matter. Or even—”

“Easy!” James gave a wry smile. “Don’t let your imagination get carried away. Our situation is difficult enough.”

“We must try and find it.” She looked around the room. “I suppose we should start here.”

“My thinking exactly.”

“I’ll tell Herberts to have your carriage returned to the stables for now.”

“Very well. I’ll start in the front hall.”

“I’ll start in the dining room. That’s where he was when he realized this list was gone.”

James went to the door and held it open. “After you.”

Two hours later, they were back in the sitting room, this time Verena sat on the chair near the fire while James lay on the settee. They’d searched the house top to bottom, even peering into the attic. They were both disheveled, dust on their shoulders. A cobweb hung from James’s left ear. They’d combed the house as thoroughly as possible. They’d even involved the servants, though Verena hadn’t been able to tell them more than she’d lost a piece of paper.

She sighed wearily and stretched her feet before her, noting that her left slipper was scuffed. A loud knock heralded the entrance of Herberts who carried a tray containing scones and a gently steaming pot of tea.

Verena straightened thankfully. “Lovely! I am so hungry.”

“So oiye thought, m’lady,” Herberts said setting the tray on the small table. “Oiye said to Cook, ‘None o’ us know whot they’re lookin’ fer, but take me word, they’re workin’ up a hunger.’”

“Well, you were quite right,” Verena said.

Herberts nodded, watching as she poured two cups of tea. He leaned toward James and said in a confidential voice, “There’s brandy in the top right-hand drawer o’ the desk. Not much, mind ye, but enough to put some flavor in that dishwater her ladyship favors.”

James grinned and got up from the settee. “Herberts, you’re worth your weight in gold.”

The butler’s thin cheeks stained a pleased pink and he puffed out his narrow chest. “Weel now, oiye tries me best, oiye do.” He beamed pleasantly. “Did ye find what ye were lookin’ fer, m’lady?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Can oiye ask whot it is thet ye’re missin’? Bein’ a collector o’ sorts, there’s little thet gets by me eye.”

Verena sent a glance at James. Should she tell the butler? James answered with a faint shrug. She looked down at the gently steaming cup and sighed. What could be the harm? “We’ve lost something very important. It’s a list.”

“A list, eh? Of whot?”

“I don’t know.” At his confused glance, she hurried to add, “It’s not my list, it belongs to someone else. But they lost it here and I cannot find it.”

“Oiye take it thet this list is valuable?”

“Very. More than I can say.”

“Never fear, m’lady. Oiye’ll find yer list or me name ain’t Henry Harold Henry Herberts.”

James, who was in the middle of sipping his doctored tea, choked.

The butler nodded sagely. “’Tis a muddled name, isn’t it guv’nor? ’Tis why oiye wanted to become a butler. No one cares ’bout me Christian name—everyone jus’ calls me Herberts. ’Tis a relief in a way.” He made sure Verena had enough crème for her scone and then he went back to the door. “Call if ye needs me. Oiye’ll be in the hallway with Peters, trainin’ him on the correct way to open the door.”

James chuckled as the butler left. “I wish Father could meet your Herberts.”

“I don’t. Father might corrupt him.” She sank her teeth into a buttered scone, sighing with pleasure as the cake filled her mouth. It was some few moments before she could speak again. “I wonder if there aren’t some other clues to be found.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know…somewhere. Maybe at the dinner party.”

James finished his scone, nodding thoughtfully. “Do you have a guest list for the night of the dinner party?”

“Certainly.” She rose and went to the escritoire that rested in one corner of the room and opened it to reveal a messy pile of papers. She fished for a moment, then held up a much crossed piece of foolscap. “Here it is.”

James took the paper and read through the names. He raised his brows. “Impressive. You move in exalted company.”

She curled her nose. “Tell Mr. Brandon St. John that, will you? He thinks me little better than a common doxy.”

James frowned. “What are you going to do about him and the kiss you owe him?”

Verena choked. “Good God, how did you come to hear—” She clamped her mouth closed.

“Lady Farley,” he said succinctly.

“I should have known. That woman is a horrid gossip.”

“Ver, what were you thinking? I cannot believe you were so naive as to wager a kiss.”

“I know, I know. I was a little—” She bit her lip. She was not about to admit to James that she’d had too much port. Especially not after she’d warned him so many times to be on his best behavior.

James shook his head, a frown on his brow. “I hate to admit it, but you don’t have a choice now. St. John is the type of man that the more you thwart him, the more determined he’ll be to have you.”

“I don’t want to kiss him.” She’d already done that. What she really wanted was for him to kiss her. But James wouldn’t understand that any better than she understood it herself.

James regarded her for a moment, his gaze examining her narrowly. “Are you certain?”

“Of course. Although we must discover what he knows about this. There has to be a reason he mentioned Humford’s death in such a way. It was almost as if it was a test of some sort.”

James rubbed his chin. “You’re right. Meet with him then, but wait until I’m present.”

“Very well. It doesn’t matter to me if, or when, I ever see him again,” Verena lied. She was fascinated and she knew it. “I have to wonder what he really wants.”

James snorted. “I can tell you that.”

Verena’s cheeks heated. “Nonsense. He has access to far too many women to be interested in me. No, I think he has another reason. I wonder if he suspects us of being involved in Humford’s death.” Which was a very lowering thought indeed.

“Nonsense. He just wants an excuse to be with you. You underestimate your attractiveness, Verena. You always have. You look just like Mother.”

“Thank you. There’s no greater compliment.”

He smiled quizzically. “Do you miss them?”

“Our parents? Of course. But I wanted a different way of life and Father—” She shook her head. “He never approved of my marriage to Westforth.”

“He has high expectations. I don’t think he’s approved of my way of life, either.”

“That’s not true. He’s always said you were merely looking for the right enterprise and that once you found it, you’d excel as no one has ever excelled before.”

“I certainly hope he’s right about that.” James tucked the guest list in his pocket. “I should be on my way. Humford’s lodgings may yield more clues.”

“I’ll go with you.”

James glanced at St. John’s calling card, which she still held in her hand. “What about your meeting at six? We may not be back by then.”

“That’s quite all right. I want to meet with him again, but on my terms.” She smiled to think of his irritation on returning to her house and finding that she’d just left yet again. Whatever the outcome, she was enjoying this little game. She caught James’s worried expression and grinned. “Never fear. I may have married Westforth, but I was born a Lansdowne.”

“Don’t make St. John wait too long. He is not the kind of man to take such maneuvering kindly. But one kiss, Verena…one very short kiss.”

Verena looked down at Brandon’s calling card, the smooth texture delightful on her fingertips. His signature was very like the kiss he’d given her—bold and sweeping. She wondered idly if he was even capable of something less…a warm, gentle kiss perhaps. Feathery light and—She almost smiled. She couldn’t imagine Brandon St. John doing anything so tame.

She caught James’s curious stare and blushed. “I suppose I could give him a very short kiss, though I fear it will make him angry. Although since people tend to blurt out the first thing on their minds when they’re angry, this could work to my benefit. If he’s primed just right, he’ll tell us how he’s involved with this mess, and then I can send him on his way.”

His brow cleared. “You remind me of mother when you talk like that.”

“Father doesn’t call her his Bastion of Logic for nothing.”

James put his arm about her and gave her a hug. “You’re just like her. I’d kiss your cheek but you’ve a smudge.”

“And you’ve a cobweb on your left ear.”

He wiped his ear and grinned. “I’ll comb my hair if you will comb yours.”

“Done.”

Within moments, they had cleaned the cobwebs and dust the best they could.

Then they called for a carriage and embarked for Humford’s lodgings, leaving Herberts and Peters to keep all intruders at bay.

 

At exactly six o’clock, Brandon St. John presented himself at the front door of the Westforth residence. He was already in a foul mood—not only had Verena not appeared this morning, but he’d had no luck in discovering anything more about Wycham’s situation. He’d gone over every scrap of information Wycham had given him. He’d even attempted to contact Sir Colburn, a gentleman Devon knew from the Home Office.

Brand glanced up at the silent house before him and frowned. It seemed quiet—almost too quiet. He sent his groom to walk the horses and then ran up the stairs. Once he reached the landing, he tucked his gloves into his pockets and rapped the knocker.

To his surprise, the door was opened before the first rap had even faded into silence. Herberts didn’t answer the door, but a rather freckle-faced behemoth with a gap-toothed smile. He straightened importantly and cleared his throat. “Here, now. Whatcha wantin’?”

Brand paused. “Where’s Herberts?”

“Roight here, oiye am,” Herberts replied, beaming around the giant’s shoulder. “Oiye’m trainin’ the new footman. Here now, Peters, stand back a bit so as oiye can see the gent.”

The footman stepped back and Herberts smiled benignly. “How’re ye doin’, Mr. St. John? Weather’s a bit dicey, ain’t it?”

The weather was no more uncertain than Brandon’s temper. “I’ve come to see Lady Westforth.”

“Did ye now? Whot a pity.”

“A pity? Why’s that?”

“She ain’t here, not properly speakin’.”

Brandon’s foul mood soured even more. “Did you give her my card as I requested?”

“O’ course oiye did! Handed it roight to her when she and Mr. Lansdowne come home.”

Mr. Lansdowne. Brandon decided that he hated that name. Hated it with a passion. “I take it that Lady Westforth left after Mr. Lansdowne.”

“Oh no! They went together, they did. They’ve important business to attend to, ye know. Horrible business.”

Brandon frowned. “What are you talking about? What horrible business? Has something happened or—”

“Oops!” The butler bit his lip. “Oiye don’t think oiye was a’posed to say anything about thet, so let’s jus’ pretend oiye didn’t.” He looked over his shoulder at Peters, who still hovered in the background. “Ye see how oiye did thet? Oiye let some of Lady Westforth’s private business out in public? Don’t ever do thet. It’s agin the rules.”

Herberts turned back to Brandon. “Oiye’ll tell Lady W ye was here. Ye’d best get on yer way.” He peered over Brandon’s shoulder at the sky and shook his head. “It do look like rain, don’t it?”

Brandon followed the man’s gaze to the darkening sky. “I doubt—”

Thud! The door closed firmly, leaving Brandon standing on the landing.

By God! He was a St. John. People did not treat him this way.

He sucked in his breath, raked a hand through his hair. Damn it, he’d discover whatever secrets Verena was hiding, claim his bloody kiss, and show her that he was not a man to be trifled with.

Verena was about to discover the price of playing with a man born with an ill temper. He was certain it was far higher than she was willing to pay. Far, far higher.