A Lady of His Own (22 page)

He smiled at her. “It’s nearly time for luncheon. I believe, if you consult your stomach, you’ll discover you’re ravenous.”

The look she bent on him stated clearly that she would prefer he kept his so-accurate knowledge of what she was feeling to himself. He laughed, raised her, kissed her soundly, then helped her to straighten her clothes.

She, he was surprised but pleased to note, evinced no shyness; she accepted his help, not as she would from a maid but as she might from a lover, one who had the right to assist and sufficient knowledge of her body to make modesty redundant.

He might have changed, but she had, too. As they strolled down to the house hand in hand, he wondered how, and in what ways, the years had laid their hand on her. What other surprises might she have in store for him?

Luncheon was a quiet affair. Nicholas accepted his presence with nothing more than a nod; he seemed even more withdrawn, more distant—more worried but trying to hide it—than before.

Penny was still recovering; he doubted she knew how much it showed. If Nicholas had been capable of thinking of anything beyond his troubles, he would have noticed her uncharacteristic silence and the softly glowing, telltale smile that on and off flirted about her lips.

She didn’t, of course, feel at all compelled to make polite conversation for him, so the meal passed in a quiet, rather pleasant daze.

At the end, she stirred and glanced at him. He watched her struggle to find acceptable words with which to ask
What next?
—meaning with the investigation.

He grinned; her eyes narrowed. “I thought we could go riding. It’s a glorious day, and there are people I need to speak with in Lostwithiel.”

Penny nodded, set her napkin down, and rose. “I’ll get changed and meet you in the stables.”

Nicholas mumbled something about returning to the library; he barely noticed their departure. Parting from Charles, she climbed the stairs, changed into her habit, then headed for the stables.

He was waiting under a tree outside the garden door.

“So where are we going?” she asked as she reached him.

He took her hand and started toward the stables. “Lostwithiel first, then I want to check at the Abbey. There wasn’t anything from London this morning, but there might be something by late afternoon.”

She tugged him to a stop. “What about watching Nicholas?” She’d thought his suggestion of riding a ruse; she hadn’t expected to leave the estate.

He met her gaze, grimaced. “I’ve suborned Norris and Canter. I told them I’m working on a final mission and Nicholas is in some way under threat—exactly how I don’t yet know. I’ve asked them to keep a close eye on him. Given the way he’s reacting, I don’t expect him to go out, but he can’t, and no one can reach him, without alerting either Norris or Canter. If he receives any message, Norris will know of it; if he leaves, Canter will set one of the grooms to follow him.”

He glanced at the house, then back at her. “Regardless of Nicholas’s involvement, he didn’t kill Gimby. I need to learn more about our potential murderers.”

“The five visitors?”

He nodded. They started walking again. “The best way to learn revealing snippets is to be out and about where we can meet and talk to others, especially the people hosting those five. And it’s market day in Lostwithiel.”

She smiled. “That should be perfect.”

So it proved. They mounted and rode across country until they met the road from St. Blazey and followed it into Lostwithiel. While Fowey with its port and quays bustled with fishing and shipping, Lostwithiel was the district’s commercial hub and had been for centuries. The Guildhall looked the part, the market square before it filled with a bustling, good-natured throng, the gentry rubbing shoulders with farmers and their wives, laborers and field workers, all eyeing the wide variety of wares displayed on the stalls and trestles.

Leaving their mounts at the King’s Arms at one corner of the square, they ventured forth, mingling with the crowd, eyes peeled for their five suspects or any of said suspects’ local hosts.

The first they encountered was Mr. Albert Carmichael, squiring Imogen Cranfield through the crowd. Mrs. Cranfield followed a few paces behind, smiling indulgently, fond hope wreathing her round face. Beside her strolled her elder daughter, Mrs. Harriet Netherby.

They stopped and exchanged greetings. Harriet was a contemporary of Penny’s; although their acquaintance stretched back over decades, they’d never been friends. Charles engaged Imogen, Albert, and Mrs. Cranfield; after according him a distant nod—she had never approved of Charles and his wild ways—Harriet moved to Penny’s side.

“Such a loss to the county.” Harriet sighed. “First Frederick, then James. And now we have Charles stepping into the earl’s shoes.”

Penny arched a brow. “Don’t you think he’ll cope?”

Harriet cast the subject of their discussion a narrow-eyed glance. “Oh, I daresay he’ll manage well enough, but no doubt in his own fashion.”

Finding nothing in that with which to disagree, Penny nodded and tried to listen to the conversation Charles was managing.

“Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t grasped the opportunity to go up to London—Mama mentioned Elaine and her girls are there.”

Barely listening, Penny lightly shrugged. “I was never particularly fond of the giddy whirl.” Charles and Albert were discussing the local crops.

“Oh, you shouldn’t feel discouraged, my dear.” Harriet briefly touched her arm. “You may be getting on in years, but so many ladies die in childbed—there are always widowers looking about for a second wife.”

Penny turned her head, met Harriet’s pale gaze, and let the calculated spite slide past her. “Indeed. How’s Netherby?”

Of average height, with no more than passable looks and frizzy, mouse brown hair, Harriet had always resented her higher birth, her commensurately higher status, and, even more definitely, her more refined features and sleek blond hair. Harriet had snapped up a wealthy landowner from the northern shires in her first Season; that she had succeeded where to her mind Penny had failed had given her reason to gloat ever since.

But Harriet wasn’t interested in discussing Netherby; she turned Penny’s query aside with a dismissive, “Well enough.”

They both gave their attention to the wider conversation, just as it broke up.

Exchanging nods, smiles, and wishes to meet again soon, they parted. As Charles steered her into the crowd, Penny sank her fingertips into his arm. “What did you learn?”

“If Carmichael isn’t seriously considering offering for Imogen’s hand, then he’s the best actor I’ve ever come across. Incidentally, although she didn’t say so, Mrs. Cranfield was grateful to you for distracting Harriet. I gathered Harriet isn’t pleased that Imogen has found such a suitable parti.”

“That’s Harriet. It’s not as if Netherby’s anything to sneeze at, not for the Cranfields.”

“Indeed. However, I think we can drop Carmichael to the bottom of our list of likely murderers. While it’s possible he’s using his pursuit of Imogen as a cover for more nefarious activities, Mrs. Cranfield implied he’d been dangling for nearly a year, albeit at a distance.”

“Ah…that would explain Imogen’s distraction. She’s been dithering on the edge of happiness for months, certainly since late last year.”

Charles nodded and guided her on. A moment later, he said, “There’s Swaley, coming out of the Guildhall.”

From within the milling crowd they watched as the neat, severely garbed Swaley paused on the steps. His gaze was on the crowd, but he didn’t appear to see them. Then, as if making some decision, he went smartly down the rest of the steps and briskly headed down one side of the square.

“I wonder where he’s off to?”

A rhetorical question; they followed him at a decent distance. Both tall, they had little difficulty seeing over heads as without haste they weaved their way to the crowd’s edge.

Swaley continued down the street toward the river.

Charles lifted Penny’s hand and wound her arm more definitely with his. If Swaley glanced back, he would see the pair of them ambling like lovers stealing away to stroll beside the river.

Swaley never looked back. He marched down to Quay Street and turned along it. They reached the corner just in time to see him pause and look up at another imposing building, then enter it.

They halted. “Well, well,” Charles murmured. “That explains Swaley, and also his reluctance to discuss his business in our fair neighborhood.”

The building Swaley had entered had originally housed the old Stannary courts from where the laws governing tin-mining in the surrounding districts had been administered for centuries.

“All the records are still there, aren’t they?” Penny asked.

“Indeed. I heard that some older mines to the west thought worked out have been reopened using new techniques. Swaley’s presumably interested in scouting out the nearer claims.”

They turned and started back to the market square.

“I wonder if Lord Trescowthick knows of Swaley’s interest?”

Charles shrugged. “Swaley went to the Guildhall first, rather than direct to the old courts, which suggests he hasn’t inquired of his host.”

Regaining the square, they paused to take stock, scanning the heads.

“If Swaley’s interest is in reopening tin mines, he seems an unlikely candidate for murdering Gimby.”

“True.” Charles resettled her hand on his sleeve. “I can see the Essingtons—not her ladyship, thank heaven—and Yarrow is with them.”

He steered Penny toward the group clustered before a stall selling embroidered linens.

“Mr. Yarrow’s convalesence seems to be progressing well,” Penny murmured. “I wonder if he rode over?”

She asked him. Once they’d met and exchanged greetings, she mentioned that she and Charles had ridden over from Wallingham, commented on the lovely ride, and used the moment to inquire if Mr. Yarrow, too, had enjoyed the journey that day.

His hard hazel eyes held hers. “Sadly, no. I fear I’m still less than at full strength. But perhaps, later in my stay, you might consent to show me the beauty spots of the area? I understand you remain here throughout the year?”

Too late, the quality of Yarrow’s intent gaze registered; Penny inwardly cursed, but had to answer, “Yes, of course. There are many wonderful places…I recall Lady Essington mentioned your home was in Derbyshire. Will Mrs. Yarrow be joining you?”

Yarrow glanced down. “I regret my wife passed on some years ago. I have a young son.” He looked up, surveying their surroundings. “After this last bout of ill health, I’m considering relocating to this district. I hear the grammar school is well regarded?”

Penny kept her light smile in place. “So I believe.”

Heaven help her! Harriet had spoken of widowers, and here was Yarrow, eyeing her far too measuringly for her liking.

To her relief, Millie turned to her, linking arms. “You’re just the person I most hoped we’d meet.”

Millie waited, beaming, until Charles, who’d turned to address Yarrow, had him engaged, before tugging Penny more her way and lowering her voice. “I’m expecting again—isn’t that
wonderful
?”

Penny looked into Millie’s bright brown eyes, aglow with wonder and delight; she smiled warmly in return. “How lovely. David must be thrilled.” She glanced at Millie’s husband, whose proud presence at her side was now explained; he was chatting to Julia. “Do pass on my best wishes to him, too.”

“Oh, I will! I’m so happy…”

Fondly, Penny listened as Millie burbled on. This would be her third confinement; her first child had been stillborn, but the second, a sturdy two-year-old girl, was thriving. Although untouched by any maternal streak, Penny was truly pleased for Millie and found no difficulty in sharing her joy.

Eventually, she and Charles parted from the group, she promising to call at Essington Manor in the near future. The words were dying on her lips as her gaze reached Mr. Yarrow. His eyes met hers and he nodded, very correctly, in farewell. Somewhat less enthused, she nodded politely back.

“The others aren’t here.” Charles steered her toward the King’s Arms.

“Well, I don’t think Yarrow’s our murderer, either.”

“Just because he was making cod’s eyes at you doesn’t mean he doesn’t dabble in murder on the side.”

“He was
not
making cod’s eyes at me—and anyway, I thought it was sheep’s eyes.”

“Cod’s—fishy.”

She humphed. “There wasn’t anything fishy about him.”

“Nothing fishy about inviting you to show him the local sights, then asking your opinion on sending his son to the grammar school?” He snorted back. “Spare me.”

That last didn’t sound like the Charles she knew at all. She turned to stare at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. Lips set, he gripped her elbow and escorted her into the inn’s stable yard.

Their mounts were fetched; he lifted her to her saddle, then swung up to his and led the way out. Once they’d cleared the narrow, cobbled streets, he slowed until she came up beside him, then let his big gray stretch his legs; side by side, they cantered up the road to the Abbey.

At that pace, it wasn’t easy to converse; she didn’t try, but let her mind range over the afternoon, over all she’d heard, seen, learned.

They reached the Abbey; the grooms came running as they clattered into the stable yard, to take their horses and impart the news that a courier had arrived from London at midday.

“Good.” Charles closed his hand about hers and set off for the house. He didn’t exactly tow her behind him, but she had to lengthen her stride to keep up. She looked at his hand, wrapped about hers, felt the strength in his grip. She was not so much amused as intrigued.

Filchett met them in the front hall, confirming the courier’s arrival. “I placed the packet on your desk, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Charles turned for his study, her hand still in his.

Limpidly innocent, Filchett’s eyes met hers as he cleared his throat. “Shall I bring tea, my lord?”

Charles halted, glanced at her.

She met his gaze, then nodded to Filchett. “Please. In the study.”

Filchett bowed. “Indeed, my lady.”