Val snorted.

“I appreciate that, Mother,” Derek said under his breath.

“And I assure you, my aunt and I will have a long chat about this very thing the moment I return to London. If I have been lax in my obligations toward her, have no doubt, I will rectify that.” Mother’s tone hardened. “I’m certain we can devise a plan to provide her—”

“They,” Derek said.

Mother frowned. “They?”

“They—Aunt Guinevere, Mrs. Higginbotham and Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore.” Derek shrugged in a helpless manner. “They are like sisters.”

“Like the Three Musketeers.” Val nodded. “One for all and all for one, that sort of thing.”

“I suspect, whatever financial support we are able to provide, Aunt Guinevere will share it with the others.”

“Of course, I should have realized that. The three of them are indeed bound together by affection and history. They have been close for as long as I can remember. Quite a daunting and yet amusing trio. Ophelia and Persephone are every bit as unique in character as Guinevere. I find them all quite enjoyable.” She paused. “Perhaps something can be done with this Lady Travelers Society of theirs.”

“Something legitimate,” Derek said quickly.

“Without question.” Mother frowned. “And I don’t know why you think it was necessary to point that out. I should hate for dear Aunt Guinevere or her friends to be incarcerated.” She considered the matter for a moment. “I shall have to talk to Stephen about this. I daresay he’ll come up with some sort of clever idea. He’s quite brilliant, you know.”

Derek and Val traded long-suffering glances.

“Where is Lord Westvale?” Derek asked.

“He had business to attend to. Stephen has some sort of business very nearly everywhere we go.” Mother rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. She had never been tolerant of business. “He should return shortly. You’ll see him at dinner.” She finished her sherry and held her now-empty glass out to Val. He dutifully took it and crossed the room to refill the glass. “Now, what are you doing to find your Lady Heloise? I assume you’re not simply waiting for your uncle’s efforts to bear fruit.”

“No, we most certainly are not.” Derek swirled the whisky in his glass. “We are continuing to canvass those places Lady Heloise intended to visit. And, as one of her letters referred to the Grand Hotel she was staying in, Miss Prendergast and I have been checking all the hotels in Paris with the word grand in the name—”

Mother stared. “All of them? That must have taken forever.”

“Very nearly.” Val returned and handed Mother her glass.

“Indeed it has, but Uncle Edward thought it best to keep Miss Prendergast in Paris as long as possible while his investigators try to find her cousin. We’ve not had any luck yet.” He took a thoughtful sip. “But I have noticed the oddest thing.”

“Apart from the sheer number of Grand Hotels?” Val grinned.

Derek ignored him. “I have reread all of Lady Heloise’s letters to her cousin. They are quite interesting and full of the details of travel but...” He wasn’t sure how significant it was but it was certainly of interest. “Everything she writes, every description, every detail is taken practically word for word from one of the Baedeker guidebooks.”

“So, one could have stayed in the comfort of one’s own home and written the letters?” Mother asked. “What an intriguing idea.”

“Except for the postmarks, of course. And the fact that Lady Heloise has long wanted to travel and was extremely excited about finally doing so. But one would think she would have used her own words, her own way of relating what she was seeing. As she is something of an artist, I would think her observations would be a bit more descriptive, more colorful, if you will, than what I’ve read in her notes. Still...”

“Still, one does have to wonder if she was ever in Paris at all. Or France, either, for that matter.” Val raised his glass. “The plot thickens, as they say.”

“Indeed, it does,” Mother murmured. “Have you checked Galignani’s?”

“Galignani’s?” Derek shot his brother a questioning look.

Val shrugged. “It’s a bookshop.”

“Goodness, Percival,” Mother chastised. “It’s much more than that. Galignani’s publishes a paper—Galignani’s Messenger—that has daily lists of all the English and American visitors to Paris. It also publishes a weekly list of all English and American visitors to the other major cities of the continent.”

Derek stared. “So this paper would tell me when Lady Heloise arrived and—by extrapolation—when or if she left?”

Mother nodded. “Without question.”

Derek gritted his teeth and glared at his brother. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“I didn’t think of it. Sorry.”

“I’ll stop at Galignani’s after I’m done with the detective tomorrow.” Derek nodded. “It would have been beneficial to have known this sooner.”

Val shrugged.

“And how do you plan to explain your absence to the always suspicious Miss Prendergast?” Val smiled in a smug manner. “It’s obvious she doesn’t trust you.” He paused. “But I think she likes you.”

“Not that I’ve noticed.” Derek heaved a frustrated sigh. Although she did say she was beginning to like him. Not enough to marry him of course—not that he had asked. “I daresay she’ll be grateful for a morning apart. Our day together did not go well.”

“Because she won’t marry you.” Sympathy sounded in Mother’s voice.

“I never asked!”

“Well, now you know the answer should you ever decide to ask.” Val sipped his whisky. “I’d say that’s most convenient. Saves you a great deal of trouble.”

“I have no intention of asking India Prendergast to marry me,” he said in a hard tone, wondering why his words didn’t ring entirely true.

“Regardless, I wish to meet her.” Mother studied her younger son thoughtfully. “I don’t believe I have ever heard you proclaim with such vehemence that a woman was driving you mad before.”

“I daresay, I’ve said that about any number of women.”

Mother smiled in an altogether too-knowing manner.

Derek groaned to himself. The last thing he wanted—the last thing he needed—was his mother’s interference. Whatever he felt about India, whatever this was between them, his mother had no place in it. Not that a simple fact like that would stop her.

“Percival.” Mother directed her attention to Val, and Derek breathed a sigh of relief. “We do need to discuss the arrangements for the ball. I shall confer with the cook and the rest of the staff tomorrow, although I am certain all is in order.”

Val shrugged. “One can only hope.”

“One can do more than merely hope,” she said in a no-nonsense manner and rose to her feet. “Travel is always so tiring. I believe I shall retire to my rooms before tea. Percival, please tell the butler I expect tea to be served promptly at half-past four, here in the parlor.” She paused. “No, I’d rather have tea in my rooms, I think. I believe I would prefer privacy. And would you please inform Miss Prendergast I would be honored if she would join me.”

“Why?” Derek said without thinking. Any brief sense of relief was dashed aside and replaced by a large, heavy weight in his stomach.

“Why? Come now, dear. Why wouldn’t I want to meet the woman who does not wish to marry my son?”

“Why indeed,” Val added. Derek considered the possibility of thrashing him when the opportunity arose.

He forced a weak smile. “Of course.”

“I am quite looking forward to it.” That predatory light was back in her eyes. “I suspect we have a great deal to talk about.”

Precisely what Derek feared.


CHAPTER NINETEEN


Regardless of where wanderlust leads a lady traveler one should not discount the pleasure to be found in acquiring native goods as souvenirs of travel as well as gifts for those left behind. They are usually quite reasonably priced.

—The Lady Travelers Society Guide


“SO, MISS PRENDERGAST.” Lady Westvale set down her cup, folded her hands in her lap and smiled pleasantly. “Do tell me why you won’t marry my son.”

India choked on the bite of biscuit in her mouth, a bite that had been quite tasty a moment ago and now was reminiscent of sawdust. She covered her mouth with her hand. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh dear.” Her ladyship refilled India’s cup. “I’ve startled you, haven’t I? A bit more tea perhaps?”

“Thank you,” India gasped out the words and accepted the cup.

“Tea is often helpful when one has choked on something, oh, unexpected.”

India sipped the tea and struggled to regain her composure.

It wasn’t easy. She’d been more than a little apprehensive ever since she’d received the invitation—although summons was more accurate—to join Derek’s mother, the Marchioness of Westvale, in her rooms for tea. The suite of rooms Lord and Lady Westvale occupied was even larger than Derek’s and decorated in a manner less feminine than India’s but quite lovely, with darker carved wood furnishings and light, pastel fabrics. If one had to imagine the sort of rooms suitable for a marquess and his wife, this suite would not be far off.

No one had mentioned the marquess and marchioness were expected, and India suspected his mother’s appearance was a surprise to Derek, as well. Surely he would have said something otherwise. Prepared India in some manner. Not that her preparation was necessary. In spite of everything that had passed between them, she was nothing more than his friend. Nor would she ever be.

Within minutes the marchioness had alleviated India’s misgivings. She was surprisingly friendly, engaging and quite lovely. Somewhere past her fiftieth year India surmised—a guess based more on Derek’s age than his mother’s appearance—she was no taller than India, with pale blond hair and eyes the same shape and color as her son’s. India found herself enjoying their light conversation about Paris and the challenges of travel.