mottled with bruises, and blood trickled from his nose, his mouth, even an ear.
“—street thugs, sir?” Carsons was asking.
Papa’s head jerked in a diagonal motion. “Be.” He gasped for breath, a rattling sound that sent chills down her spine. “Trade,” he mumbled.
“Papa?” she cried, not knowing what else to say, what to do, how to help.
His hand snaked out, grabbing her wrist. He squeezed hard and she moaned, a hot tear slipping down her cheek. The one eye he was still able to open bored into her. “Find them. At summer.”
Summer?
Terrified and confused, all she could say was “W-what?
“At…summer.” His grip slackened, and he slipped into a coma from which he never woke.
“Be. Trade,” she murmured. It had sounded so nonsensical at the time. But…she looked down at the letter she still held in her hand.
We have been compromised. Meet me two days hence.
Liliana tested the words on her tongue again. “Be-
trayed
.” Tears sprang to her eyes. Her father’s death hadn’t been a random tragedy. He’d been lured to it. By this note.
She stared at the offensive paper, grabbing the English packet of letters. The handwriting was the same. While they weren’t signed, this last had been closed with a seal. A noble seal.
She rushed to her shelves, searching…searching. There! She found a dusty old copy of
Debrett’s
. Its spine likely hadn’t been cracked in fifteen years or more, but it should still contain what she needed. She laid the heavy volume on the desktop and flipped it open, scanning the histories of the noble families of England, looking for the seal that matched the one she held in her hand.
Tonight she’d learn
who
betrayed her father. Then she’d find a way to make sure they paid.
Chapter One
Shropshire, April 1817
H
e’d never wanted to be the earl, but the one thing Geoffrey Wentworth had learned since becoming such was that an earl could get away with practically anything.
He sincerely hoped that included matricide.
“Let me understand you plainly, Mother,” he growled, resisting the urge to brush the road dust from his coat onto the pristine drawing room floor. “You called me away from Parliament claiming dire emergency…” He swallowed, his throat aching with the need to shout. By God, he’d nearly run his horse into the ground to get here, aggravating an old war injury in his haste. His lower back burned almost as badly as it had when he’d been run through. He breathed in, striving to keep the irritation from his voice. “Because you would like to host a house party?”
Genevieve Wentworth, Lady Stratford, sat serenely on a floral chaise near the fireplace, as if he’d politely dropped in for tea instead of racing at breakneck speed to answer her urgent summons. Geoffrey eyed her suspiciously. His mother was typically a calm woman, but he’d been known to send seasoned soldiers scurrying with nomore than his glare. She hadn’t so much as flinched in the face of his anger. No, in fact, she looked strangely triumphant. His stomach clenched. Mother was up to something, which rarely boded well for the men in her life.
“Geoffrey, darling, do sit down,” she began, indicating the antique caramel settee across from her. “It strains my neck to look up at you so.”
“I should like to do more than strain your meddlesome neck,” he muttered, choosing to remain standing despite the ache that now screamed down his leg. He turned his gaze to the older gentleman standing behind her.
“Et tu, Brute?”
His uncle, at least, had the grace to look chagrined. Geoffrey shook his head. Uncle Joss always had been easily led. Geoffrey knew his mother played Cassius. This conspiracy had been instigated by her.
Joss squared his shoulders. “Now, m’boy, I must agree with your mother. It’s high time you accepted your responsibilities to this family and provided an heir.”
Hell. So
“—street thugs, sir?” Carsons was asking.
Papa’s head jerked in a diagonal motion. “Be.” He gasped for breath, a rattling sound that sent chills down her spine. “Trade,” he mumbled.
“Papa?” she cried, not knowing what else to say, what to do, how to help.
His hand snaked out, grabbing her wrist. He squeezed hard and she moaned, a hot tear slipping down her cheek. The one eye he was still able to open bored into her. “Find them. At summer.”
Summer?
Terrified and confused, all she could say was “W-what?
“At…summer.” His grip slackened, and he slipped into a coma from which he never woke.
“Be. Trade,” she murmured. It had sounded so nonsensical at the time. But…she looked down at the letter she still held in her hand.
We have been compromised. Meet me two days hence.
Liliana tested the words on her tongue again. “Be-
trayed
.” Tears sprang to her eyes. Her father’s death hadn’t been a random tragedy. He’d been lured to it. By this note.
She stared at the offensive paper, grabbing the English packet of letters. The handwriting was the same. While they weren’t signed, this last had been closed with a seal. A noble seal.
She rushed to her shelves, searching…searching. There! She found a dusty old copy of
Debrett’s
. Its spine likely hadn’t been cracked in fifteen years or more, but it should still contain what she needed. She laid the heavy volume on the desktop and flipped it open, scanning the histories of the noble families of England, looking for the seal that matched the one she held in her hand.
Tonight she’d learn
who
betrayed her father. Then she’d find a way to make sure they paid.
Chapter One
Shropshire, April 1817
H
e’d never wanted to be the earl, but the one thing Geoffrey Wentworth had learned since becoming such was that an earl could get away with practically anything.
He sincerely hoped that included matricide.
“Let me understand you plainly, Mother,” he growled, resisting the urge to brush the road dust from his coat onto the pristine drawing room floor. “You called me away from Parliament claiming dire emergency…” He swallowed, his throat aching with the need to shout. By God, he’d nearly run his horse into the ground to get here, aggravating an old war injury in his haste. His lower back burned almost as badly as it had when he’d been run through. He breathed in, striving to keep the irritation from his voice. “Because you would like to host a house party?”
Genevieve Wentworth, Lady Stratford, sat serenely on a floral chaise near the fireplace, as if he’d politely dropped in for tea instead of racing at breakneck speed to answer her urgent summons. Geoffrey eyed her suspiciously. His mother was typically a calm woman, but he’d been known to send seasoned soldiers scurrying with nomore than his glare. She hadn’t so much as flinched in the face of his anger. No, in fact, she looked strangely triumphant. His stomach clenched. Mother was up to something, which rarely boded well for the men in her life.
“Geoffrey, darling, do sit down,” she began, indicating the antique caramel settee across from her. “It strains my neck to look up at you so.”
“I should like to do more than strain your meddlesome neck,” he muttered, choosing to remain standing despite the ache that now screamed down his leg. He turned his gaze to the older gentleman standing behind her.
“Et tu, Brute?”
His uncle, at least, had the grace to look chagrined. Geoffrey shook his head. Uncle Joss always had been easily led. Geoffrey knew his mother played Cassius. This conspiracy had been instigated by her.
Joss squared his shoulders. “Now, m’boy, I must agree with your mother. It’s high time you accepted your responsibilities to this family and provided an heir.”
Hell. So