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“It’s not London, certainly, but it has its own simple charms. I’m quite enjoying the escape from the mad crush.”
Gordon Shaw. His brother, Marcus. Brendan’s knees stiffened, his shoulders tightened, but he dared not move now.
“Charms aside, you can’t convince me you’re truly happy kicking your heels in this backwater while the London Season progresses at full swing. And what does Lord Prosefoot say about your absence during the session?”
“He was most agreeable. And it’s not as if I didn’t bring work with me. I’ve gotten quite a bit done too. Don’t fret. A week more and we’ll be on the packet for Holyhead. In London by the end of the month”
A dramatic groan. “I don’t think I can survive another week tethered to this provincial idea of entertainment. I never told you, but yesterday at dinner I was caught by Miss Fitzgerald’s cousin, Mrs. Tolliver of Bedfordshire. I had to sit through an interminable recitation of family connections between the Shaws and the Tollivers stretching back to the Conquest. Filial duty only goes so far.”
“Yes, but at that same dinner I was in conversation with Elisabeth’s guardian, Lord Taverner. He’s offered to have a word about an ambassadorial posting with Stuart in France. From there, who knows how far I might rise. I knew this Fitzgerald alliance would be the making of me,” Shaw announced proudly.
“I’m not sure which you’re more excited about—the wife or the political connection.”
“Do you know? Neither am I.”
Cynical brotherly laughter followed.
Poor bloody Lissa. She had horrible luck in picking husbands.
Elisabeth brushed her hair long after every tangle had been ferociously removed. Usually the steady even strokes soothed her. Tonight the jumbled tumult of her thoughts overpowered every attempt at relaxation. Why had Brendan come back from the dead? Who was he hiding from? Was he in trouble? Why did she care?
Placing the brush back upon her dressing table, she noted with a frown the slight tremble of her fingers, the riot of nerves jumping in her stomach. Wedding jitters. That was all. Excitement. Anxiety. A little fear. All of it normal. Expected.
Her anxiety had nothing to do with the return of a man she’d thought dead and buried.
She should have known better. He was far too clever to end unmourned in a pauper’s grave.
Her fear was in no way connected to the surprising presence of a man rumored to have conspired in the death of his own father.
She’d never believed those stories. Brendan might be a lot of things, but not a murderer.
And her excitement was definitely not a surge of girlhood crush.
She cared for Gordon. Gordon cared for her. In an adult, mature, respectable way.
Carelessly, she reached up to finger the stone at her throat, resting dark and cool against her skin. Brendan cared for no one but Brendan. Never had. Never would.
Yet, when she slipped beneath the sheets and blew out her candle, it remained his gift about her neck. And his face imprinted upon her mind.
She didn’t know who she hated more at that moment. Brendan for coming. Or herself for being excited by it.
Elisabeth’s dressing-room door opened on silent hinges. Thick rugs muffled his every footfall. Thank heavens for the luxury of wealth. It made breaking and entering so much easier.
Her bedchamber door was closed, allowing him the freedom to light the stub of a candle. He sat at the dainty rosewood dressing table, her jewelry case conveniently at hand. Rummaging through the contents, he pulled free a heart-shaped locket containing miniatures of her parents, a small amber cross, two lavish strands of pearls, a topaz choker, and a dazzling necklace containing a rajah’s ransom of sapphires. Earrings and bracelets. Gold and silver combs. Rings and brooches.
But no pendant.
Rifled drawers revealed jars of cosmetics and lotions, bottles of scent, packets of pins and ribbons. Handkerchiefs and boot laces and a broken embroidery hoop.
But no pendant.
He huffed an exasperated sigh. Where the hell had she put it?
He began again. Searching more carefully. Reaching back into the corners of each drawer. Pulling piece by piece out of her jewelry case, then returning it in what he hoped was the correct place.
The room held a million places a woman could hide a necklace. Cabinets, tables, a desk. He searched each piece thoroughly. He even shoved his hand beneath the chair cushions and pushed against fireplace tiles, seeking a hidden panel.
If you didn’t count two chewed-on pencil nubs, four missing buttons, a crumpled laundry list, and a handful of hairpins, he found absolutely nothing.
