“As you wish.” He nodded and strode away.
Liliana blew out a breath, relieved to be rid of him.
Which was quite unfair. Aveline had proven to be a most ideal and fortuitous escort. Though he’d released her from their wager, he’d arrived every morning and breakfasted with her, a situation Aunt Eliza found very encouraging. He’d partnered her in a morning game of bowls. He made light, pleasant conversation and had even charmed Aunt Eliza on several occasions, which did much to relax the strain between aunt and niece.
Best of all, Aveline departed after lunch, claiming estate business, not to return until dinner—leaving Liliana to her own devices all afternoon without making anyone suspicious.
A perfect arrangement, given her circumstance. And she’d been most grateful to have missed Lady Stratford’s more ridiculous frivolities, which tended to happen after lunch—though she might have paid to see the line of women wrangling to have their hooks baited by Stratford in yesterday’s female fishing derby.
But her time at Somerton Park was dwindling.
She turned on her heel and made her way to the ladies’ retiring room. She slipped in quietly, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The hum of feminine murmurings disconcerted her, as always, bringing back unpleasant memories of the three seasons she’d been forced to endure before Aunt finally gave up on her.
Liliana scanned the parlor, spotting her quarry. Emily Morton’s sage skirts blended into the green satin striped chaise on which she half reclined, one arm thrown over the back of the lounge.
Liliana looked at the girl’s other hand, which rested splayed across her stomach. Only a shimmering emerald bracelet adorned her wrist.
Moving into the room past two primping ladies, Liliana casually skirted the headrest of the chaise. She slanted her eyes downward. A pretty green ribbon tied the dance card to Miss Morton. She had to get a look at Stratford’s signature.
She bent at the knees, squatting as she pretended to fiddle with her slipper. She turned her head toward the dangling card. Blast. It faced the wrong direction.
She reached out and gripped the paper, tilting it.
Holbrook…strong masculine scratching. Banbury…rather loopy on the B.
A rustling sound came from above.
Thornton…horrible penmanship. Ah, here was Wentworth…but that would be Josslyn Wentworth, Stratford’s uncle, as Stratford himself would use his title. Still, it was not even close, the writing much too effeminate to match. Next was Str—
The card slid from her grasp. She instinctively clamped her fingers together, giving it an inadvertent tug.
Emily Morton shrieked and sat up, yanking her arm and the card completely out of Liliana’s reach. The sudden movement startled Liliana so, she jerked backward and toppled, landing solidly on her rear.
“What…?” came Emily’s bewildered voice. Liliana glanced up as a blond head appeared over the back of the chaise.
Liliana’s cheeks heated. “I’m sorry. I…” She clamped her lips. She could hardly say “I just need your dance card for one more moment, please.”
The girl frowned and narrowed her eyes. Liliana braved it out with a tight smile. Better to be thought clumsy than to be caught red-fingered, as it were.
Emily turned her back with a humph and hurried out of the room.
Muffled sniggers came from behind her. Liliana’s shoulders slumped. How she wished she could vaporize like mercury over a hot flame. She shuddered to think what story Miss Morton would be spreading about the ballroom this very moment.
The door clicked open as someone else entered the room. Wonderful.
“Dare I ask?” Penelope stepped around the chaise and reached down to her.
The two primpers edged past them and left the room, probably off to add their accounts to the tale. She could only hope Aunt Eliza didn’t hear of it.
Liliana accepted the hand up and dropped onto the chaise. “I’m stymied, Pen,” she sighed.
“Mmm,” Penelope murmured over the swish of her skirts as she lowered herself to sit beside Liliana.
“I just tried to lift a cursed dance card simply to get a look at Stratford’s handwriting.” Liliana slapped her palm sharply against her thigh, but the thick satin muffled the sound—leaving her quite unsatisfied.
“Whyever would you want to see Stratford’s handwriting?” Penelope asked, bemused.
“Because I’m utterly desperate,” Liliana admitted. “Presumably it was the late earl who corresponded with my father and who drew him out on the night he was murdered, as the letters were marked with his seal, but without a handwriting sample, I can’t be absolutely certain of that. I haven’t found a journal, correspondence, household accounts—anything that I can compare those letters to.” She dropped her head. “It’s as if everything of a personal nature has been stripped from this house with military precision.”
“Oh,” Penelope said, her winged blond brows pulling slightly together. She patted Liliana’s hand. “But if you’re looking for the dead earl’s handwriting, why do you need to see Stratford’s? Wasn’t he already off to war when Uncle Charles was killed?”
“I’m not sure, precisely, when he left England. And besides…” Liliana sighed. Pen had done everything she’d asked of her in this charade, asking very little. It was only right to share her suspicions that her father had been involved in some sort of espionage and what logical implications sprang from that. Pen’s eyes widened with the telling. “So you see?” Liliana finished. “I need to rule Stratford out as the author of the letters. I also need to learn where both he and his father were during the months they were written, and particularly in December of 1803, but I’m coming up empty.”
Her feelings of defeat must have shown in her face, because Penelope put a consoling arm around her shoulder. They sat together in silence a moment before Pen said, “Servants! They know everything that goes on in a house, particularly when you wish they didn’t.”
“I thought of that,” Liliana said, “but Stratford’s brother turned the staff over completely during his tenure.” As she’d learned from the current housekeeper.
“I see,” Penelope said, touching a pink-gloved finger to her lip. “Perhaps some of those older servants still live in the village and would remember that winter.”
Liliana nodded, hope stirring to life. Improbable, maybe, that she would develop a lead from such a visit, but one thing her father taught her—keep experimenting until you find an answer. “But the village is not within walking distance, and I am at the mercy of Stratford’s stable.” How she hated this helpless feeling. “How would I get there?”
“Hmm…” Penelope seemed to deflate, echoing Liliana’s feelings. Then she brightened. “Well, if anyone can find a way, you will. You have always been one who works doggedly for what you want. I remember how many nights you stayed awake until your candles were nubs to study your sciences. All because Mother thought she could force you to forget the idea if she insisted you complete her approved course work first.”
Liliana smiled reluctantly at the memory. Aunt Eliza had tried ceaselessly to mold her into the perfect English lady. She’d been adamant that Liliana study the typical feminine pursuits—French, literature, music, deportment. Even though Papa’s will had provided for her to study the natural sciences with a colleague of his, she was allowed to only after she finished her other studies. Liliana had slept very little. But she’d refused to give in, to lose what part of her father she still had by wasting her life on frivolity. To not use her intelligence to carry on his work would have been like him dying all over again. Like his life had meant nothing.