The news of Mrs. Randall’s death spread through London like a wildfire. Regan had learned of the widow’s death when she, Thea, and Nina had called on Sin’s wife, Juliana. The marchioness had not been alone in the drawing room. Reign’s wife, Sophia, was present with her infant daughter, Lily Grace. The Rainecourts had recently arrived in town to join their friends.
From the window, Regan watched Sin and Reign fence in the Sinclairs’ back gardens. Stripped down to their white shirts, both gentlemen were fine specimens of masculinity. Regan would have called Thea and Nina to the window if the gentlemen’s wives had not been present. To do so would have been rude.
“I cannot fathom it,” Regan said, shaking her head. Like everyone else in town, the women had been discussing the murder. “I saw Mrs. Randall last evening at Lord and Lady Trussell’s ball.”
Although she carefully omitted that the widow had quit the ballroom with Dare, there had been too many witnesses for that fact to be overlooked for long.
Dare. Was he aware of Mrs. Randall’s death?
Regan stilled as she recalled her exchange with her brother that morning. Of course, Frost had known that Mrs. Randall had been murdered. It explained why he had been eager for her to leave the morning room. He had wanted to be the one to break the news to Dare.
“This is a tragedy, indeed,” Thea said, her voice quivering with emotion. “No lady is safe in her bed while a murderer prowls London’s streets.”
“Thea, I do not believe Mrs. Randall was slain in her bed,” Nina interjected. “I heard one of the servants say that she was found dead on the floor of the drawing room.”
Flustered and annoyed by Nina’s correction, Thea shifted on the cushion so she did not have to look at her friend. “Mama said at breakfast that some villain broke into Mrs. Randall’s residence in the middle of the night, and throttled the poor woman as she slept.”
Nina frowned. “But—”
Sensing that a quarrel was imminent, Juliana tried to ease the tension by saying, “Ladies, please. There is so much idle speculation flying about London that it is difficult to discern rumor from truth. There is no reason to contribute to it by scaring one another.”
“You know something about the murder,” Sophia said in such a matter-of-fact manner that everyone, including Regan, stared at her.
Juliana grimaced. Cradled in her arms was Reign and Sophia’s daughter. The marchioness seemed quite at ease with the babe. It boded well for the future since she herself would be delivering Sin’s heir in September. “No more than you, and we can thank our husbands for our ignorance. Sin has already threatened to send me to the country. He is worried about my nerves.”
“What nonsense,” Regan murmured as she turned back to glare at the overprotective male through the glass. She winced as Reign planted his boot in Sin’s stomach.
In deference to Juliana’s delicate condition, Regan refrained from mentioning the violence just beyond the terrace.
“I wager, at this point, he is thinking more about his own fragile nerves” was Sophia’s dry retort. “Reign was so protective of me during my confinement that I think he would have delivered Lily Grace to spare me the agony.”
Regan walked away from the window and joined the women. Since Thea and Nina were seated on the settee opposite Juliana and Sophia, Regan sat down in one of the empty chairs.
“Was Mrs. Randall a close acquaintance, Regan?” Juliana asked, happy to direct the conversation away from the agonies of childbirth.
Regan tugged at the edge of one of her limerick gloves. “No. Our first introduction took place at Lady Harper’s literary salon.” She delicately cleared her throat. “Was she a good friend of yours?”
Juliana carefully handed Lily Grace back to Sophia when the infant began to fuss. It was then that Regan was struck by the physical similarities of the two women. Side by side, Juliana and Sophia could have passed for cousins. “No. Mrs. Randall was an acquaintance of Lady Harper’s.”
“Forgive me,” Sophia said, signaling for her maid to take the child. “I believe my daughter is hungry.”
Once Lily Grace was in the arms of the maid, the countess reached for her walking stick and climbed to her feet. A childhood accident had damaged the countess’s eyes, and she needed the walking stick to move about unfamiliar rooms. Her visual limitations were not overtly obvious to the casual observer, and the lady was content to keep it that way. Still, Sophia took no chances when it came to her daughter. With the maid at her side, she left the drawing room.
With the countess’s departure, Thea and Nina resumed their speculation on how the murderer had entered the widow’s residence undetected. Regan allowed her thoughts to wander back to Dare.
As much as she loathed admitting it, he had an intimate connection to Mrs. Randall. He had escorted Mrs. Randall home the night she had died. Had the lady invited Dare inside? Regan scowled. Of course she had. Worse still, Regan was not the only one who had noticed Dare’s interest in the lovely widow. Had it not been Lady Pashley who had predicted at the Trussells’ that Mrs. Randall and Dare would become lovers this season if they had not already done so?
Regan bit her lower lip as jealousy rose like bile in her throat. It was ridiculous, she thought. Here she was, resenting the poor woman for catching Dare’s eye. She was a horrid, horrid person.
Feeling guilty, she glanced up and started when she noticed Juliana’s sympathetic gaze. Was the marchioness aware of Dare and Mrs. Randall’s friendship? And if so, what else did she know?
Before Regan could inquire, the woman looked away.
“I have not heard any cursing, so I believe it is safe,” Juliana said cheerfully, rising from the settee. “Shall we check on the gentlemen, ladies?”
Regan, Nina, and Thea stood. Regan deliberately lagged behind the others as she realized that Dare was likely the last person to see Mrs. Randall alive.
Well, Dare, she silently amended, and the villain who murdered her.
* * *
In another part of town, Dare’s brooding thoughts mirrored Regan’s. Frost’s startling news could not have been any more shocking than Dare’s midnight mischief with Regan on the library rug. Thankfully, Frost had not believed that Dare had anything to do with Mrs. Randall’s untimely demise. After all, Frost had explained bluntly, if Dare was likely to murder anyone, he would have started with certain members of his irksome family.
Dare could not fault the gent’s uncanny logic.
Unfortunately, he was not feeling as confident about his conversation with the magistrate. When two Bow Street Runners arrived at Frost’s door, Dare realized that his departure from the Trussells’ ball had probably been observed by half of London. The magistrate had informed him when he entered the office that their private interview was merely a formality. It was entirely possible that Dare had been the last person to see Mrs. Randall alive.
Dare snorted. He was not oblivious to the fact that he was a suspect. Oh, the magistrate had been respectful, but his questions had been blunt. Was it not true that Dare left the ball with Mrs. Randall? Did the widow invite Dare inside? Had he entered her residence? Could he explain the intimate nature of his friendship with Mrs. Randall in detail?
He had kept his temper in check. After all, the magistrate and his Runners were only doing their job. They were trying to catch a murderer before he struck again.
Mrs. Randall was dead.
His heart constricted with grief and pity at the thought. Dare still could not grasp that the vibrant, beautiful lady had been murdered.
Perhaps if I had accepted her invitation and had stayed the night…?
No. Regrets were pointless. Dare had made his choice. Although he had not been aware of it at the time, his desire for Mrs. Randall had started to wane the night his gaze had settled on Regan in Lady Karmack’s private box.
Mrs. Randall’s murder was tragic, and he would do everything in his power to assist the Runners as they hunted for her killer. Everything, that is, but blame himself for the poor woman’s death.
The magistrate had thanked him for his cooperation and let him walk out of the office. If the man believed Dare was responsible, he wisely did not voice his suspicions aloud. His father had considerable influence. Charles was proof that officials were willing to look the other way if properly compensated for their blindness.
Dare did not return to the Bishop residence. Unwilling to share his dark thunderous mood with anyone, he had ridden his bay to Hyde Park. The brisk ride should have helped him clear his head and heavy heart, but the unease only increased.
He was not certain why he ended up at his family’s town house. He rarely found comfort within these walls. The Mordare family had its own troubles. When he visited, he faced his brother’s animosity, his father’s overbearing defense of Charles, his mother’s fragile nerves, and Allegra’s neediness. It was an exhausting family.
“Uncle Hugh!”
Dare caught his niece in his arms and spun her about. Laughter filled his father’s library. Their greeting complete, he stepped back and admired the eleven-year-old girl. “Louise, you look so pretty.” He playfully tugged on one of her blond curls. “What do you do with your day when you tire of breaking young noblemen’s hearts?”
On a surface, it was difficult not to see the resemblance between Louise and her mother. His niece had inherited Allegra’s delicate features and bountiful blond curls. Her blue-gray eyes confirmed her Mordare blood. For a time, he had been tormented by the possibility that Louise was his. Allegra had done nothing to allay his concerns. However, Dare, for once, had taken comfort in his brother’s selfishness. Charles would have never married Allegra if he had suspected the unborn child had not been his.
Louise rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Lessons. Why must I study so hard? Botany, geography, Latin and French.” She counted off her subjects on her fingers. “Then later, there are dance and music lessons.”
He grinned, recalling that Regan had also chafed under the strict decrees of her tutors. “And what does the duchess say when you complain?”
The girl sighed. “Grandmère insists that gentlemen loathe empty-headed chits. She fears I will become a penniless spinster if I do not pay attention to my lessons.”
As the granddaughter of the Duke and Duchess of Rhode, Louise’s dowry was secure as long as her father could not gain control of it. “Poor little mouse,” Dare murmured sympathetically. He pulled her to his side and kissed the top of her head. “Do not let the duchess frighten you. Between you and me, I think that you are smarter than all of us.”
“Inciting mutiny in our household, Dare?” his father said, his low raspy voice laced with amusement.
Dare stiffened subtly at his father’s approach. His hand dropped to Louise’s slender shoulder. “Not at all. Merely speaking the truth.”
The duke beamed at his granddaughter. “Maffy told me that your tutor is searching the upstairs for you, Louise. A clever girl would be discovered with a book in her hand. Eh?” He tapped his cheek.
“Yes, Grandpapa.” Louise walked over to his father and dutifully kissed his cheek. She glanced back at Dare and raised her hand. “Farewell, Uncle. Mama will be disappointed that she missed your visit.”
Dare just smiled in response and watched until the girl had closed the door before he addressed his father.
“I thought you were watching Charles,” Dare said, the warmth fading from his voice.
His father’s indignation was not feigned. “What are you spouting about? I have. After this business with his latest mistress, I have expressly ordered him to curtail his night mischief.”
“Then Charles is ignoring your dictates. He has been prowling the streets unfettered, Father.”
The duke’s weathered face reddened in anger. “Not unfettered, damn you,” the duke said, walking over to his desk. His pace was measured as if each step caused him pain.
“He visits his clubs daily.”
“Nothing wrong with that. A man has a right to his pleasures.”
“I am certain that it was not Charles’s notion to attend several society balls with Allegra at his side?”
The duke hesitated. “It was your mother’s suggestion. She thought the ton might forget about your brother’s troubles if he appeared content with his wife.”
“When has Charles ever been content in his marriage?” Dare countered. “If you recall, you and Allegra’s father, Lord Dyton, encouraged the alliance when it was becoming blatantly apparent that your heir cannot keep his bloody cock in his trousers.”
“Funny, the same can be said about you, little brother,” Charles said from the open doorway.
* * *
“It is frightfully exciting!” Nina whispered in Regan’s ear as the ladies watched Reign and Sin fence. With only their impressive skills to protect them, both men displayed their lethal grace as they parried and riposted. “What if one of them misjudges his opponent? Blood could be spilled.”
Amused, Regan glanced at her friend. She had grown up in the shadow of men and the danger they seemed to crave. “Why, Nina, I had no idea that you were such a bloodthirsty creature.”
“Oh, I do not want either one of them to be injured!” the blonde hastily protested. “I just do not understand how Lady Sinclair and Lady Rainecourt can bear it. Their husbands are taking such horrible risks—”
“The risks are part of the appeal,” Regan replied, her gaze returning to the two gentlemen. Perhaps it would have been more sensible for the men to have worn plastrons and wire mesh masks. The quilted padding would have at least spared their shirts, she thought, as she studied them with a critical eye.
Reign and Sin bore the marks of their bout. Sin’s shirt had been sliced open on his left sleeve and Reign had a bloody graze across his ribs. Their shirts were drenched in perspiration but neither seemed inclined to yield. “Do not fret, Nina. Sin and Reign are evenly matched.”
“Besides, both men are aware that they will have to face unhappy wives if they maim each other,” Juliana said, not taking her gaze off her husband.
“The foils have been buttoned,” Regan explained to Nina and Thea. “It will not spare them from injury, but neither one will perish from their bout.”
Sin feinted and delivered the coupé before Reign could parry. In a dastardly move, the marquess swept his leg under his friend. Sophia cried out as Reign landed on his backside. His concentration broken, the earl glanced at his wife. The tip of Sin’s foil pressed into Reign’s cravat.
“Do you yield?”
Reign cursed under his breath and raised his hands. “Aye.”
As the ladies applauded the gentlemen’s efforts, Regan stepped forward. “I challenge the victor,” she announced, ignoring her friends’ stunned expressions.
It seemed unfair for the men to have all the fun.