Damon had every intention of spending the entire afternoon with Eleanor, and the evening as well. When he'd informed her that she would sleep in his bed tonight, she made no demur. Yet when they returned home to Rosemont, outside events conspired to interfere with his plans to romance his wife and make a real marriage with her.
After leaving Elle at her bedchamber door to change out of her riding habit, Damon went to his own rooms, only to find Cornby eyeing him with a look of severe disapproval.
“This was delivered by messenger an hour ago, my lord,” the valet said stiffly, handing him a folded note of lavender-scented vellum with the words “Viscount Wrexham” neatly penned across the front.
Damon frowned upon recognizing the familiar handwriting and form of communique.
What the devil? Why would Lydia Newling be writing him just now? And why would his former mistress come back into his life just when he had resolved to build a future with Eleanor?
Damon felt his gut clench. Was Lydia's last sentence a veiled threat to barge in on him at the house party if he refused to comply with her request? Or merely her attempt to be considerate of the social consequences? A Cyprian knocking on the door of a noble estate searching for her former patron would horrify the company and create fodder for scandal.
But scandal be damned, it was Elle's response that concerned Damon. At the very least she would be shamed and hurt if his former paramour made such a brazen appearance.
Ordinarily he wouldn't suspect Lydia of resorting to blackmail, since she was kindhearted and generous and not the scheming sort. Yet he couldn't take the chance of destroying Eleanor's fragile trust so soon after vowing to win it.
Cornby, however, clearly did not approve when Damon said he would be going out again for an hour and would change when he returned.
“Are you certain you wish to take this step, my lord?” the valet asked unhappily as Damon turned to leave.
“What step?”
“Visiting Miss Newling. Is that not what you intend? If so, I feel compelled to observe that Lady Wrexham could take your assignation as an insult. I should not like to see a repeat of two years ago when she terminated her betrothal to you because of Miss Newling.”
“Neither would I,” Damon said emphatically.
The age lines in the valet's face deepened with his frown. “Then why would you risk incurring her ladyship's wrath? Particularly now so shortly after your nuptials? You have not been in the petticoat line since returning from Italy.”
Cornby was well aware that Damon had spent all his nights since at home, alone, in strict celibacy. He also knew that Lydia had been the catalyst in Elea nor's explosion two years ago, and he was evidently worried that a similar furor would result if Damon chose to visit his former mistress now.
But explaining the delicate state of his marriage to his valet was not something he wished to be drawn into just now. “You are being irritatingly close to avuncular, Cornby.”
“Perhaps, my lord, but I see it as my duty to champion Lady Wrexham's interests. Also, I confess, I do not wish anything to bring her pain or sorrow.”
“Nor do I. But better that I meet Miss Newling elsewhere than have her show up here uninvited.”
“I do see your point, my lord.”
In truth, Damon was pleased that his longtime manservant felt protective of Eleanor. But he meant to meet Lydia as she'd requested to forestall any visit here. Moreover, he couldn't just glibly dismiss her request for help. After their long relationship, he probably owed it to Lydia to at least determine why she needed him, in her words, so “desperately.”
“Tell Lady Wrexham I will be delayed in joining the company for a while since I must see to a business matter.”
“Very well, even though it is unlikely to be a
“It will be,” Damon assured him. “I mean to keep my visit strictly business.”
Seeming slightly comforted, Cornby remained silent as Damon let himself out and headed back out to the stables.
He had just reached the stableyard when he encountered the Earl of Haviland.
“Well met, Wrexham,” Haviland said at once. “You saved me the trouble of searching for you. We need a moment of your time.”
Damon noted both the seriousness of the earl's expression and that he was accompanied by Horace Linch, one of the Bow Street Runners hired to see to Prince Lazzara's welfare.
“Yes, of course,” Damon replied.
“There has been an interesting development in the case,” Haviland said quietly as he led the way along one stable block. “Mr. Linch believes he has identified a possible suspect in the accidents that befell the prince. I shall let him explain.”
When they halted at the far end of the stables, Damon regarded the Runner with a quizzical look.
Linch kept his voice low as he spoke. “Milord, you asked me to keep an eye out for any suspicious characters. I think per'aps I found one. See that Italian cove over there?” Surreptitiously, Linch pointed around the corner of the building to where an ebony-haired, wiry-looking fellow with an olive complexion was grooming a pair of carriage horses.
Damon's gaze narrowed as a spark of recognition struck him. He was almost certain he'd seen the man before-on a crowded street outside the Pantheon Bazaar. After staring another moment, Damon drew back, out of sight, so he wouldn't be recognized in turn.
“That chap is Paolo Giacomo,” the Runner murmured. “This morning I caught him skulking about the grounds, there is no other word for it. But when I confronted him, he demanded to speak to Signor Vecchi-claimed to be in his employ. The signor was not happy to see him, that much was clear. I couldn't get close enough to overhear since I'd been dismissed, but they looked to be arguing. So naturally I thought it odd when Signor Vecchi arranged for Giacomo to be lodged in the grooms’ quarters here above the stables.”
Giacomo could very well be the pickpocket who'd assaulted Lazzara and pushed him into the street before fleeing from sight, Damon decided.
When he said as much to his colleagues, Haviland eyed him sharply. “It's doubtful Giacomo acted on his own.”
Damon nodded slowly. “Vecchi is likely behind the attacks. Even before this I wondered if he might be the culprit. He was nearest the prince when his highness took a tumble down the stairs of the Opera. And he was present the night the prince's punch was drugged. Vecchi could easily have relied on his minions to execute the other incidents such as sabotaging Lazzara's carriage wheel.”
“You will need to find proof of his guilt,” Haviland said. “It wouldn't be politic to accuse a high-ranking diplomat of nefarious deeds without evidence, let alone of attempting to murder his cousin.”
Damon couldn't dispute the observation. At the moment it was sheer speculation to suspect Vecchi of masterminding the mishaps. Yet all of Damon's instincts told him he wasn't mistaken.
“Any suggestions on how to find proof?” he asked Haviland.
“An obvious one. We should begin by searching the signor's rooms.”
Linch spoke up then. “Begging your pardons, milords, but I wouldn't care to attempt such a search. If I was caught out, it could go very ill for me. I could be taken for a thief and sent to prison or worse.”
“I will be happy to do it,” Haviland volunteered.
Damon considered the earl's offer briefly before declining. “Thank you, but I don't want you to risk discovery
