Betrayal at Brighton: a Light-hearted Regency Fantasy: the Ladies of Almack's, #8 by Marissa Doyle

Author:Marissa Doyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Book View Cafe
Published: 2022-10-19T00:00:00+00:00

Annabel had not been able to walk in the garden every morning at eleven; the princess occupied more of her time than she’d expected. But when she had, Mr. Almack had been faithfully waiting for her, if only to exchange a brief greeting and pass on what news there was. The morning after her evening at Andie’s, there was news.

“Can ye come to Lady Jersey’s for a meeting on the morrow?” he asked her quietly as she wandered through the small shrubbery at the side of the house, parasol strategically tipped to hide her face from anyone looking out a window. “Her guests leave today, and she’s champing at the bit wanting to discuss the bottle you sent. Lady Cowper sends word that she’ll come for you at eleven and suggests ye tell Lady Frances that you’re away on an outing to Worthing so that no one will think to look for you in town. Or so it’s hoped,” he added dubiously.

“It’s worth a try,” Annabel agreed. “Did you see it?”

“The bottle? Aye, I did. It’s clever, nae doubt.”

They strolled—or at least Annabel did; she had no idea of how Mr. Almack propelled himself—in silence. Annabel broke it first. “I’ve wondered, sir—what if I were to clean away the salt from one of the thresholds? It would give you the chance to look at the bottles in the cellar here.”

“It might, aye enough—but it might be more than only a salt barrier, ye ken. Tampering with one might draw Lady Frances’s notice, and we don’t want that.”

Oh, bother. “I hadn’t considered that. No, we don’t.” She sighed. “It simply feels as if nothing is happening, or that the world is conspiring to keep me from pursuing this investigation. We’d thought my coming here would better allow me to watch Frances, but I barely see her. She’s almost always in her room—answering condolence letters, though I’m fairly certain that’s not what’s happening.” She told him about Frances’s reaction to the black-bordered paper she’d bought for her and the duke’s mention of the letters she was poised to write the other night in the library. “And anyway, more often than not if I knock on her door, there’s no answer. I barely have an opportunity to speak with her at dinner as there always seem to be guests joining us.”

“Hmmph,” Mr. Almack rumbled. ’Tis odd for them to be entertaining so often if they’ve suffered so recent a bereavement.”

Annabel gave a faint snort. “If you were there, you would scarcely think they had. Frances may wear black gloves, but her gowns are not mourning ones. And the duke’s waistcoats are anything but somber.”

“Verra odd indeed.” He was silent for a moment. “Do ye know who they are, these guests?”

“They’re an odd assortment. Scottish, mostly; the duke says they’re visitors from home, whatever that means, as they seem to come from all over Scotland and the north. There’s been everything from earls to bankers to clergymen. Some lawyers and judges. A few scholars, even.

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