The Misadventures of Lady Ophelia (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 3) Page 6

  “Oh, dear, I have soiled your rug.” Chastity’s face flamed with embarrassment, and she scrambled to her knees to retrieve the sweet treat. “I will make certain—“

  “Do not fret,” Ophelia said with a light laugh. Lord Torrington’s younger sisters were quite persistent when they set their minds to something, and they’d settled on making Ophelia and Lucianna their bosom friends. Edith had escaped the girls’ tireless pursuit, for when she wed Torrington, they’d be more than mere friends, they would be sisters. “I shall tell no one.”

  Chastity regained her seat with a grateful nod.

  “To what do I owe this visit?” Ophelia couldn’t help but ask. She’d arrived home with a plan; however, until Chastity and Prudence took their leave, she could not see it through.

  The pair exchanged a quick glance before Prudence, the dominant of the pair, turned a pitying look on Ophelia. “We presumed since the trio of us were not included in Lady Lucianna and Lord Montrose’s trip, we would take the opportunity to keep you company.”

  Keep her company, or had Edith requested the girls keep watch on her?

  It galled Ophelia to think her friends thought she needed someone to keep an eye on her in their absence.

  “What Pru means is that with Lady Lucianna away, you must be in need of a friend—or two.”

  She was hard-pressed to deny a friend would be appreciated, especially with everything circling Lord Hawke and her father. The time to think through everything and gather her thoughts hadn’t presented itself. Perhaps, Lady Pru and Chastity were willing to lend an ear.

  They may not be as versed in observation as Luci and Edith, but they looked willing as they sat on the edge of the lounge across the table from her.

  “Well, there has been a bit of excitement to be had since Luci and Montrose left town—“

  “Oh!” they chimed at once. These were the type of females she aimed her Mayfair Confidential columns toward—young, innocent women who were susceptible to influence. Both girls perched their chins on her hands, their elbows balanced on their knees. “Do tell us.”

  With Luci and Edith, Ophelia wouldn’t hesitant to share what she’d discovered. She trusted them implicitly. However, sharing Lord Hawke’s family tale seemed a breach of some unspoken pact between Ophelia and the handsome lord. Perhaps she could share a bit about the man without breaking his confidence.

  “I met a lord.” Ophelia paused as both women’s eyes widened. Did they think her incapable of meeting a man, or were they only sharing in her excitement? It didn’t matter. Ophelia hadn’t anyone to confide in when she’d first spotted Lord Hawke at the bookseller’s. “He is very dashing with hair the color of sunshine and eyes as green as Sherwood Forest.”

  When Prudence’s brow furrowed, Ophelia realized she hadn’t thought to consider if they’d read the tales of Robin Hood.

  They recovered quickly and nodded, their wide-eyed stares begging Ophelia to continue.

  “I first saw him at Oliver’s Book Shoppe—a bookseller I frequent often—“ she clarified before continuing. “He was there demanding a book that belonged to his family.”

  She was close to crossing a line, but she could not help herself.

  “He did not notice me then, but he appeared at my home several days later to meet with my father.” Lady Chastity’s mouth hung open, and Pru clutched her sister’s hand in anticipation. “His name is Lord Hawke. Very fitting, I dare say.”

  “Very fitting, indeed,” Chastity murmured. She retrieved her tea from the table and took a cautious sip, never taking her eyes off Ophelia. “What did he come to Atholl Townhouse for?”

  “The same book.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “I mean, I do not know much about it, only that it is old and has to do with Sheerness in Kent. But, you came to visit me, and here I am, prattling on and on about nothing.”

  Ophelia sat a bit straighter when the clock chimed the top of the hour. Her father, with the rest of the Atholl clan in tow, would be home shortly. It would effectively cut her off from any further searching, at least until the morrow.

  The women must have noticed that she made no move to pour herself tea, nor did she offer to freshen theirs because Chastity took one last sip and set her cup and saucer back on the serving tray at the same time Lady Prudence cleared her throat.

  “We very much enjoyed our visit, Lady Ophelia.” The pair stood, issuing the proper curtseys. “We do hope you will visit us when you are about on social calls.”

  A measure of guilt ran through Ophelia at her unladylike manners. These poor girls had been through much in the last several months, losing their stepmother to an illness of the mind and now their brother wedding Lady Edith in a few short months. They were looking for a friend, and Ophelia desperately wanted to be that to them; however, this moment was inopportune to further their kinship.

  “Father is taking us for a ride in Hyde Park this afternoon,” Pru ventured to say. “Mayhap we will see you there?”

  “I’m afraid I have several prior engagements today; however, I will call on you shortly.” Ophelia gave the pair a reassuring smile as they all stood. “Do give my best to your father.”

  “Of course.” Lady Prudence nodded.

  “I shall walk you to the door.” Ophelia ushered the ladies back to the foyer, attempting to keep her pace leisurely and not rushed. “Again, it was lovely to see the pair of you. I do hope your time at Hyde Park is pleasurable.”

  The Atholl butler opened the foyer door, and the women hurried out to their waiting carriage. Glancing beyond, Ophelia saw no other conveyances in the drive. There was still time.

  “Father is still not home?” She smiled, determined not to let this delay set her back in any way or diminish her buoyant countenance.

  “No, my lady.” Andrew closed the door behind Lady Prudence and Lady Chastity. “Is there something I can assist you with?”

  “No, Andrew. I was going to query father about a…” She needed to keep her wits about her and devise a new plan if she hoped to locate and return Lord Hawke’s book. “About a new collection of Colonial volumes at Oliver’s Book Shoppe; however, it is not so important that it cannot wait until supper.”

  The servant eyed her, his gaze narrowing. “I can inform him of the matter when he arrives home.”

  That would be too late, certainly, and it worked best for her if he never found out what she was about to do.

  “No, thank you, Andrew.” Ophelia did not trust her father to be completely honest with her anyways, as he hadn’t been with Lord Hawke. “I believe I will retire to Mother’s sitting room to read.”

  “I will have Ms. Paulson prepare fresh tea.”

  “That is kind,” Ophelia said, touching the servant’s arm before turning back toward her mother’s sitting room, which was directly across the hall from her father’s study.

  She was in search of her own adventures, and while snooping in her father’s study was not the most exciting of activities, it was something she’d never dreamt of doing before.

  And, if she were being honest, her pulse increased at the mere thought of doing something so outlandish.

  Ophelia paused outside her mother’s blessedly empty sitting room and glanced toward her father’s closed study. No one would question her if she were found in his private room as she’d regularly gained access to collect a new book or debate a subject with her father.

  But the duke could arrive home at any moment, putting an end to the opportunity. Ophelia darted across the hall. The latch released without a sound, and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing her father’s most private domain.

  It likely appeared cluttered and disorganized to those who did not know the Duke of Atholl, but to Ophelia, it epitomized her father. Every nook and cranny was filled with objects of worth, though some appeared to be little more than rubbish to an outsider.

  The sheer size of the collection seemed daunting.

  It could take her weeks to sear
ch each shelf, open the many drawers, and examine the cupboards lining the far wall.

  Ophelia could only assume her father was aware of the book’s location and had been taken by surprise by the baron’s appearance. The duke prided himself on cataloguing every item in his study…

  Scrutinizing the room as a whole, Ophelia looked for any item out of place, but everything appeared as it should be—exactly as she’d witnessed since her childhood.

  Ophelia tapped her chin, debating the wisest place to begin her search.

  Certainly, the only logical place was her father’s desk.

  It was where Ophelia kept her most prized possessions—in her writing desk. At least it had been before Luci had invaded her personal chambers and displaced all of Ophelia’s things.

  Hurrying behind the desk, she began pulling drawers open. Riffling through each with an eye for only what she sought before re-organizing the contents. There were no books, only folders with paperwork, maps, quills and ink, and her father’s seal.

  Next, Ophelia pulled on a knob to a small cupboard below the desk drawers. When the door did not open easily, her fingers slipped from the knob, her nail digging into the dark wood.

  Locked!

  If Ophelia had something she wanted to hide, she would surely place it in a locked cabinet.

  Using her fingernails, she pried at the edge of the door, hoping to shift the lock out of place, but the thing would not budge. She leaned close, trying to ascertain what exactly held the door closed. Blast it all, but Edith would know how to fuss with the lock and have it open in no time, or Luci would simply slam the thing with her elbow and it would give way out of fear.

  But it was only Ophelia here. She needed to figure out a way to open the door on her own without assistance from her friends.

  “I need something flat.” Ophelia popped to her feet and surveyed her father’s desk, her eyes alighting on the sharp, short blade of her father’s penknife. It would fit perfectly between the door and the side of the desk—and with any luck, it would be sturdy enough to pop the latch holding the door closed. Returning to her kneeling position, Ophelia slipped the knife into the slot and lifted.

  Sure enough, the latch opened, and she pulled the door wide as she stared into the deep, cavernous cabinet. Reaching inside, she retrieved a stack of books; one on trade winds off the Kent coast, another detailing the journey past Denmark to Prussia, a small pocket volume detailing the landscape of Russia, and finally, the book Lord Hawke had come looking for.

  Smuggling: A Journey from Kent to Denmark by Fair Wind Parnell.

  She turned the book over in her hands, running her finger down the worn, brown leather binding. Someone had spent much time with this tome, judging from the deep creases in the cover. Leaning down, Ophelia took in the scent of a fresh ocean breeze, as if the book had never left its place at sea. The pages were yellowed by many years in the elements.

  The sound of a door closing echoed down the hall and through the study’s open door, followed by the clomp of booted feet as her siblings hurried up the stairs.

  Her father was home!

  Ophelia haphazardly placed the books back in the cabinet, minus Lord Hawke’s book, and closed the door. There was no way for her to re-latch the cabinet without the key, which she most certainly could not locate before her father caught her in his study. There was naught she could do but pray that her father did not remember locking the door.

  She leapt to her feet, clutching the book, and placed the penknife back on the desk before jetting around to the front. Her skirt caught on a drawer she’d absentmindedly left ajar. Pivoting, she tugged at the fabric with her free hand and was rewarded with the telltale sound of her seam ripping.

  “Bollocks,” she hissed, grasping her skirt tighter and giving it one final pull as her mother’s voice floated down the hall on her way to her sitting room.

  The fabric tore completely to the hem, but at least Ophelia was free.

  She dashed to the room’s entrance and peeked out, just as Lady Atholl closed the door to her sitting room, giving Ophelia the opportunity to slip from the study and make her way to the servants’ stairs. Her breath left her on a loud exhale as she fled to safety.

  Chapter 7

  Lady Sissy Cassel glared at her brother across the table as he speared a boiled egg and popped it into his mouth. His jaw worked to chew the large bite, pieces falling from his parted lips as he swallowed. It was a fact that Franny, or Lord Abercorn as he was rightfully addressed by the ton, was most agreeable—and pliable—with his belly full. She’d learned this when he was a young child—and she already near adulthood.

  “My dear brother,” she cooed, setting her knife aside. “Have you heard from that bookseller as yet?”

  His stare snapped from his meal of roasted pheasant, his utensil scratching against the delicate silver plate. Sissy knew the importance of being subtle with the man. A woman—especially an unwed, older, spinster sister of a duke—was not free to speak her mind or question their brother’s handling of their estate and title; however, she was used to taking such liberties with Franny. At least when they were in a private setting.

  “No, I have not, dear sister.” He returned his focus to his meal as if the subject at hand were nothing more important than discussing the weather. “Do collect me another plate of eggs.”

  At her brother’s demand, a servant set a small dish containing three boiled eggs at his elbow.

  “Do you know who I saw again today?” Sissy asked.

  “I must say, I haven’t the faintest notion.” He cut one egg in half, speared it and a piece of meat before bringing it to his mouth. “However, I am certain you will tell me,” he mumbled around his mouthful of food.

  She had absolutely no desire to correct his manners while dining—if it kept away other money-hungry maidens and black-haired sirens, it was all the more pleasing to Sissy.

  “The Dowager Lady Coventry,” Sissy seethed. There was no tamping down her fury at seeing the woman again. “Can you believe she thinks to return to London as if she belongs among the ton? She is naught more than a status seeker—born at the docks, no less. The wife of a—”

  “Sissy, watch yourself,” her brother warned, but his words lacked any backbone. “She is a widow, and your quarrel with her was decades ago. I am certain the entire family has long forgotten what transpired between the pair of you—I think it best you do the same.”

  “My…quarrel… Forget?” Sissy’s blood boiled as she stammered. “You know well and true what that family stole from me—from us! And it is all that woman’s fault.”

  Franny shook his head but kept his stare trained on his plate as he spoke. “I know only that the king did what was in his right to do. Besides, I have little use for what Coventry now possesses.”

  Sissy pushed her chair back to stand. “You are infuriating, Francis.”

  “So you’ve told me day in and day out since I was old enough to know the meaning of the words.”

  “You know that land was to be my dowry. They took it from me.”

  “It was at least thirty years ago, not too many years after my birth,” he argued. “It had nothing to do with me.”

  “Yes, but you have not followed through with your promise.”

  “I am searching for the bloody book, Sissy!” He slammed his knife down and stood, glaring across the table at her. His anger fled quickly as it always did when it concerned his only living family member. “Leave us.” He motioned to the footman to depart.

  When the door closed silently, and they were alone, Sissy said, “Franny, you promised me I’d have my inheritance back; however, you have not been doing enough to see it done.”

  “Did I not agree to entertain your fancy and look for this book that is only fabled to exist?”

  “It does exist,” Sissy whined.

  “Yes, yes, but now you ask that we scurry off to the coast of Kent in search of this or that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “And, of course, my love
for my only sister is great enough to have me leaving London during the height of the Season just to make you happy. I should remain here, in search of a wife, or have you forgotten the Abercorn name could very well pass to some distant, far-removed cousin if I do not produce an heir?”

  “That is why this is far more important.”

  “Returning your dowry?” he sighed. “That helps me in no way whatsoever.”

  “At least you will not have to worry about me if something should happen to you.” She spoke softly, knowing this was always the one thing that solidified his cooperation. “This distant cousin would have no qualms about casting an old spinster out. I would have no recourse but to seek employment in a workhouse.”

  Abercorn chuckled. “As if they’d keep you for long, Sissy.”

  “But you do not deny I could have no home to speak of if we do not find a way to gain back the estate we lost to that shrew of a woman?”

  Her brother sighed and sank back into his chair. “No, sister. I do not deny that fact. I agreed to assist you. That is all I can do.”

  “Then I suggest you pack your things,” she commanded. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  Without another word, Sissy turned and exited the room. It may be a fool’s errand, but she had to see if the dowager’s childhood home held anything that could help her gain back her long-lost legacy—and put the bloody Scrooge in her place for good.

  Colin inspected the report from his steward at Hawke Manor, his small holding near his father’s country estate in Somerset. The crops were thriving this year, no doubt due to the rotation schedule he’d devised two summers prior, which allowed the soil’s nutrients to naturally replenish themselves by the growing of dissimilar crops. His three-field rotation system, while seen as a fool’s waste of viable land by some, was already reaping its benefits, his land’s farmers seeing more food than they had in decades.

  Most assuredly, leaving an entire field fallow for a season was unconventional, but it was proving successful, even as the winter wheat field thrived and the lentils in field two were producing adequately for the spring weather they’d had thus far.