Outshine Page 2

  In gratitude for his service to the Crown, Mr. Ashton had been elevated to Baron Whitmoor. The society broadsheets had been rapturous about the new Lord Whitmoor—the elegance of his person, the intelligence of his parliamentary speeches, the largess of his fortune. It was said debutantes swooned when he passed them at Almack’s.

  The man had become a verb, for heaven’s sake.

  The news rags, of course, loved depicting him. Lord Whitmoor regularly appeared in the political cartoons of Mr. Cruikshank. The Lord Whitmoor of those drawings was an autocratic figure, meticulously dressed in the latest fashion, staring down the opposition with icy eyes. In one memorable sketch, Lord Whitmoor rises with collected superiority from the hatch of a large wooden horse, surprising disheveled Trojan soldiers who look remarkably like his political opponents.

  The cartoon, of course, was the very definition of being ‘whitmoored’—an unexpected act which caught one by surprise and changed the outcome of events.

  Daniel Ashton, Lord Whitmoor was a master of secrets and surprises.

  But why had he concerned himself with her secrets? Had he deliberately stolen her theorems? And if so, why spy on Fossi Lovejoy?

  Whitmoored, indeed.

  Fossi had no previous experience with the upper echelons of the aristocracy. While her mother was yet alive, they had on occasion called upon Sir Peter Nobly, a local baronet of some (self-declared) importance. He had enjoyed practicing his schoolroom Italian with her mother, and she had enjoyed speaking the language of her maternal grandparents. That was the beginning and end of Fossi’s interactions with the peerage.

  But her father had ensured she was well-educated in the vagrancies of the aristocracy. The depths of their depravity. The heights of their pride. The loftiness of their self-regard.

  To say that Daniel Ashton, Lord Whitmoor, was out of her sphere of social interaction was a gross understatement.

  Fossi had no delusions as to her own importance. Life had never allowed her such luxury.

  Lord Whitmoor would see himself as a shining star to her pathetic grain of sand.

  She knew herself to be completely invisible. Brown hair, brown eyes, a height that was neither too high nor too low, a figure that ran neither too lean nor too plump . . . though a friend of her mother’s had once remarked that Fossi’s complexion was quite fine.

  Externally, Fossi was utterly forgettable.

  But inside . . . oh, inside she was color. Vibrant reds and oranges and blues. Poppies and bluebells. A blistering summer sunset after a glistening rain.

  A pity her inside had never made itself known upon her outside.

  Lord Whitmoor would view her as a chafing bit of grit, one to be hastily dispatched.

  But—here she gripped the magazine clipping more firmly—she couldn’t let this pass. Even a tiny speck of sand, when correctly placed, could make itself felt. And if she had to stubbornly scrape at Lord Whitmoor until he explained his actions to her . . .

  Well, she was prepared to be an irritant.

  Chapter 3

  Ashton House, Mayfair

  London, England

  A while later on July 24, 1828

  Fossi tapped her booted foot, watching as the bustle of the inner city gave way to the wider streets and calmer atmosphere of, what she could only assume, was Mayfair. Elegant people in elegant clothing walked elegantly down streets which were . . . elegant, of course.

  Fossi had landed in one of the fairy tales she told her nieces and nephews. Only she was certainly no Cinderella and fairy tale dreams were a luxury she had relinquished long ago.

  Her muscles felt stretched thin, taut and jumpy. She found herself humming an Italian aria . . . one of doom and despair.

  It was more than just nerves, this restless energy. Since receiving the clipping and deciding on this course of action, her emotions had gone topsy-turvy and she hadn’t a clue how to right them.

  The hackney finally creaked to a stop in front of an imposing town house—three stories of marble columns topped by a large pediment.

  She paid the cab driver after a brief haggle over current versus historical values of the shilling and how that related to hackney cab fares—the man was not amused and drove off with frightening alacrity.

  Fossi waited for one of those elegant couples to pass her before facing the looming front steps.

  Purposefully, she reached into her reticule and swapped the magazine clipping for a smaller piece of thick white paper. Armed as much as she could be, she sucked in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and marched up the stairs, rapping the knocker with a firm hand.

  A decidedly top-lofty butler opened the door and peered along his prominent nose at her. He raked her up and down with a dismissive sniff.

  “The servants’ entrance is around the left, opposite the mews.”

  The door slammed in her face.

  Right.

  She had hardly come this far—braving onions, wandering male hands and outrageous cab fares—to be kept out by a condescending butler.

  Gritting her teeth, Fossi rapped again.

  Mr. Top-Lofty opened the door, scowl deepening.

  “I am here to see Lord Whitmoor,” Fossi said in her most educated accent. She swept past the man into the cavernous entrance hall.

  Fossi might be poor, but her mother—God rest her soul—had insisted she behave like a lady. Not that her mother would have approved of Fossi barging into a gentleman’s home unannounced but, oh bother, she was determined—

  “His lordship is not at home to visitors, madam.” Mr. Top-Lofty’s scowl morphed into a full-on glower.

  His unspoken words being, His lordship is not at home to visitors such as yourself.

  Perseverance, Fossi.

  “I have endured the travel of one hundred twenty-seven point three miles—nearly two hundred thirty-five thousand wheel rotations—not to mention the consistent friction between the forward momentum of the carriage and the counter up-down propulsion of rutted roads resulting in a nearly constant jarring war of forces—” Fossi stopped. The butler’s eyebrows had merged with his hairline. Focus. “Basically, I am a person of great patience, sir. I am happy to wait in this vestibule until his lordship is at home to visitors such as myself.”

  Fossi knew something that perhaps eluded Lord Whitmoor in his gilded palace—when you had so little in life, you defended the few things that were yours with ferocious tenacity.

  No aristocrat would take her theorems from her. Not even the infamous Lord Whitmoor.

  Fossi extended the slip of paper to the butler. “My card for his lordship.”

  Mr. Top-Lofty took the calling card she had prepared before leaving home and turned it over, reading what was written on the opposite side.

  The man froze, eyebrows still standing at attention. She had wrested his interest, at least.

  Mr. Top-Lofty raised his head, mouth drawn down. “It will be some hours yet before his Lordship returns.”

  “As I said, sir, I am prepared to wait. This chair here will suit my needs.” Fossi gestured toward an ornate side chair flanking an equally ornate side table just inside the front door.

  The butler’s expression froze. “Lord Whitmoor will not be amused by your waiting in his entryway, Miss Lovejoy.”

  Fossi was quite sure that was code for Mr. Top-Lofty would not be amused by her waiting in his entryway.

  She took two steps to the side and sat down on one of the chairs. “I do not particularly care what Lord Whitmoor thinks.”

  She fixed him with her best school-marm look. When one was a spinster, one had to use the weapons at one’s disposal.

  Before the day was out, Lord Whitmoor would rue trying to steal from her.

  Given how Mr. Top-Lofty’s lips twitched, she thought he might actually agree with her on that point.

  A townhouse near Piccadilly

  London, England

  Around the same time on July 24, 1828

  Daniel stood tapping a top hat against
his leg in the well-appointed front parlor of Mr. Edward Stewart, Esquire. Garvis leaned against the mantel, face grim and threatening.

  After his questioning of Captain Adams, Daniel had stopped by one of his halfway houses and shed the trappings of Fanny McCusker. He was now attired as Lord Whitmoor from the shoulders of his meticulously brushed coat to the bottom of his glossy, champagne-shined Hessian boots.

  Unlike Mrs. McCusker, Lord Whitmoor exuded wealth and power wrapped in unemotional ruthlessness. A man of legendary exploits who had the ear of the King himself and excelled in ‘whitmooring’ the unsuspecting.

  Lord Whitmoor was someone to be feared.

  And given what Daniel now knew about Mr. Stewart’s nightly visits to the Royal Mint, courtesy of Captain Adams, the man had every reason to be terrified.

  Which explained why Mr. Stewart was on his knees, begging for clemency.

  It was an unfortunate pose for many reasons, the least of which being the unobstructed view it afforded of the man’s sparsely-populated hairline.

  “My wife, my young son . . . what will become of them?” Mr. Stewart darted terrified glances between Daniel and Garvis. “Have mercy.”

  Daniel merely raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Lord Whitmoor was not known for his mercy.

  Garvis cracked his knuckles to emphasize the point.

  Edward Stewart blanched.

  Daniel tugged on his left coat cuff, face an impassive mask. “I am not the originator of your punishment, Mr. Stewart. I am merely its executioner.” The man flinched at the word, as Daniel intended. “You should have considered the matter before deciding to embezzle funds from the Crown.”

  Perspiration glistened on the top of Mr. Stewart’s bald head. “I had no choice. Creditors were on our doorstep day and night. My poor wife couldn’t sleep.”

  “Insomnia is hardly justification for theft, Mr. Stewart.”

  Garvis cracked another knuckle, giving his not-smile smile.

  Mr. Stewart whimpered.

  Daniel repressed a sigh. When had he tired of playing the persona of Lord Whitmoor?

  He longed for simplicity. For the rolling Gloucestershire hills and Whitmoor House lit with the first rays of sunrise as he galloped up the gravel drive.

  The vision . . . hurt. A visceral pang.

  Daniel had taken Whitmoor as his title, but the name had already long been associated with him due to his large estate, Whitmoor House.

  How he ached for his home.

  Though not as it was currently. Right now, the thought of returning was so unbearable—

  Guilt punched through him, blinding in force.

  No! Don’t go there.

  He pulled his thoughts back from the brink of that abyss.

  Two years he had been trying to right his wrong only to be thwarted at every turn. He had to find the man he sought and together they would fix the mistake Daniel had made.

  It was almost impossibly ironic . . . the master of espionage himself unable to solve a personal problem of this magnitude.

  If only! If only he hadn’t done what he had—

  Daniel brutally pushed aside his bleak thoughts.

  Distract yourself.

  “P-please,” Mr. Stewart blubbered. “My family will be cast out!”

  “That is not my problem.” Tone utterly frigid.

  Assuming Edward Stewart’s wife wasn’t involved in her husband’s clandestine activities, Daniel would secretly ensure the woman and her son came to no harm. But her husband didn’t know that.

  “You cannot be so heartless.”

  Daniel fixed him with a look that clearly communicated that he could and would be exactly that.

  Not so much heartless as stone-cold.

  He was Whitmoor, after all. His reputation and verb-ish designation had not risen from fluff and hearsay.

  “I suggest packing a few things, Mr. Stewart.” Daniel checked his pocket watch. “Your stay in Newgate Prison promises to be a lengthy one.”

  Ashton House, Mayfair

  London, England

  Late afternoon on July 24, 1828

  Fossi shifted her feet again in the front hallway. The chair had been comfortable enough for the first four hours, but a slow burning sensation had started on her outer right thigh about an hour ago.

  Her stomach growled. Unfortunately, she had not thought to pack any food when she left the inn. She had prepared for a straight-forward frontal attack, not a drawn out siege.

  Was this prolonged wait part of Lord Whitmoor’s psychological game when dealing with lesser mortals?

  Well, she was no stranger to hardship.

  Fossi studied the space again. A side table flanked by two chairs. Another small table across the way. An urn on a pedestal. Three paintings (two of hunting dogs, one ocean scene, all three uninspired). Patterned, baroque wallpaper. An imposing staircase sweeping up to the receiving rooms on the second floor.

  And footmen. Thirteen of them at last count. They passed through the hallway with startling regularity, dapper in their green and gold livery. It was only when the sixth one passed that Fossi had realized—

  They were all the same height. Every last one.

  And now, thirteen footmen later, she was stumped.

  What sort of man hired human beings in matched sets of thirteen?

  Why thirteen? Were footmen better as a prime number?

  A sound to the right of the staircase drew Fossi’s attention. A figure emerged from a back room, carrying a bucket of water around the corner.

  Ah.

  She had been wrong.

  Make that fourteen footmen.

  She shifted her poor leg again, trying to get comfortable.

  Lord Whitmoor could have fifty-one footmen of precisely seventy-two inches in height for all she cared.

  She would still be here, laying siege to his entry hall, waiting for her chance to speak to him.

  An hour later, the front door heaved open.

  The abrupt noise jerked Fossi awake, her head whipping to attention.

  Heavens. Had she fallen asleep then?

  A large man swept inside, his back to her.

  She stared at his broad shoulders and dark head as he set down his walking stick and doffed his top hat, placing it on the table opposite her. He then proceeded to pull off his gloves.

  “Collins!” The man’s voice boomed through the large hall. He craned his neck looking up the grand staircase.

  Surely this was Lord Whitmoor himself, correct?

  Only a lord could enter a house with so much . . . presence.

  Fossi clenched her hands around the reticule and bonnet in her lap.

  A smell tickled her nose. What was it? Unwashed bodies? Excrement?

  Fossi took a deeper breath. And promptly gagged.

  Definitely all that and more.

  For not the first time, she pondered the irony of taking her deepest breaths when the air was at its foulest.

  Wherever this man had been, it had not been a pleasant place.

  It seemed an ironic analogy for her current situation—confronting a glittering lord who reeked of decay and filth.

  She fumbled for her handkerchief, pressing it over her mouth and nose.

  “Collins!” The man called again, muttering something under his breath. Was there a fly buzzing above his head?

  The man turned and promptly froze.

  Impossibly blue eyes met hers with chilling force.

  Fossi instantly straightened her spine and stood up, the energy of his gaze drawing her to her feet. She slowly lowered her handkerchief, breathing in shallow breaths.

  He stared with intense stillness, eyebrows drawn down, dark brown hair shot with strands of gray at the temple. He was clearly older than her, though not by much—a powerful man in the prime of his life.

  It was definitively Lord Whitmoor himself. She hadn’t known until that very moment how thoroughly broadsheet cartoons captured their subjects. Spot on, in this instance.

  More to t
he point, she had vastly underestimated his potency.

  Lord Whitmoor was somehow worse and yet more than her imaginings. In all her mental ramblings, she had pictured a man like Sir Peter Nobly—corpulent, indolent and foppish. A condescending fool she could mentally mock and bring down to size.

  But as she watched him continue to tug off his gloves with meticulous precision before tossing them on the table with his hat, she sensed that Lord Whitmoor was many things . . . but a fool was clearly not one of them.

  They stared at each other for a long moment.

  What was the social protocol when confronted with the lord of the manor after laying siege to his entryway? Did she speak first? Or should she wait—

  “For you, my lord.” Mr. Top-Lofty suddenly appeared at Lord Whitmoor’s elbow, saving her from mishap. He extended a silver platter toward his employer.

  Goodness! Her card was upon the platter, like a petition presented to the king.

  Her heart triple-skipped and the moisture in her mouth instantly fled.

  Lord Whitmoor moved his attention from Fossi and picked up her card from the platter.

  Mr. Top-Lofty—Collins, she supposed—shot a quick glance at her.

  Fossi held her breath.

  Lord Whitmoor studied the front and then flipped the card over. He read what was there, all of him going impossibly still.

  This was it. This was the moment.

  Would his lordship grant her an audience?

  Fossi took a half-step forward, intent on pressing her case should Lord Whitmoor decline to see her. He would have to call on a pair of those matching footmen to toss her out if he refused to hear—

  Collins’ glance turned from polite to quelling.

  Know your place, Miss, it sternly said.

  Lord Whitmoor’s shoulders sagged, almost like a sigh of relief.

  “Did Mr. Lovejoy say how I could reach him?” Lord Whitmoor tapped the card. “I see no return address here.”

  Mister Lovejoy?

  Fossi froze.

  Collins blinked. He looked at his employer. Then to Fossi. Back to Lord Whitmoor.