A Lady of His Own (30 page)

Charles came in. She sensed rather than heard him; he always moved so silently. He joined her before the window; his hands about her waist, he stood looking out over her shoulder, then he turned her to him.

She lifted her arms, draped them over his shoulders, and went into his arms. Felt them close around her, tight, felt the primal shudder that rippled through him as he pulled her against him. He bent his head, and their lips met, and nothing else mattered but that they were there, now, together and alive.

Together they’d been before, but never had it been quite like this. Never before had they both, he and she, simply dropped every shield, released every inhibition, and celebrated the simple primitive fact.

That they could be together like this. At this level, on this plane.

Their clothes littered the floor between the window and the bed; their hands roved, not so much urgently as openly, flagrantly, blatantly possessively—neither doubted the other would be theirs tonight.

The moon had yet to rise when he lifted her, when she wrapped her long legs about his hips and, head back, gasped as he impaled her.

Gasped again as he moved within her.

Then she raised her head, wrapped her arms about his neck, found his lips with hers, and they settled to the dance.

No desperation this time but a soul-deep communion, a wanting, a need they both shared.

Charles held her, thrust into her, following no script but that of deepest instinct. Tonight he didn’t need consciously to pander to her needs; tonight her needs and his were the same.

No rush, no hurry; inevitable tension, yes, but no mindless urgency.

So he felt every slick slide of his body into hers, savored the heat, the giving pressure, the incredible pleasure as she willingly took him in. Willingly enclasped him, held him, released him, only to welcome him in once more.

Pleasure and more engulfed them, wrapped them about, lifted them from the world. They traveled on beyond the earth, to the moon, the stars and the sun, and never once lost their connection.

They were together when they toppled from the last fiery peak, together when at last they collapsed on her bed. Together when they brushed hair from each other’s eyes so their gazes could meet and they could look, and know.

And wonder.

Neither said a word; they were both too afraid, and they knew that, too.

They took refuge in the physical, in that reflection of their togetherness, in the warmth between them. Lids falling, they exchanged sleepy kisses, drew up the covers, sank into the bed, and slept.

B
Y MORNING THE NEWS OF
M
ARY
M
AGGS’S MURDER HAD
spread throughout the county. Gimby had been known to few; his murder had attracted little notice. Mary was another matter. The searchers had taken the ill tidings home with them; from there the news had spread far and wide.

The Wallingham Hall household was, if not precisely in mourning, then somber and subdued. After breakfasting on tea and toast, Penny went to speak with and comfort Figgs. Together they planned the household chores, keeping all to a minimum, doing only what was needed to keep the house running. Penny decreed that the meals should be simple for the next several days.

“Aye, well,” Figgs said on a sigh. “Mrs. Slattery at the Abbey sent two game pies and a lemon curd pudding this morning. She said as she suspected I had an extra mouth about, and as it was rightly one that was hers to fill, she hoped I’d accept the help.” Figgs sniffed. “Nice of her, I thought.”

“Indeed.” Aware there were proprieties to be observed between households that were every bit as rigid as within the ton itself, Penny could only applaud Mrs. Slattery’s tact.

Leaving Figgs, she returned to the front hall just as Lord Culver arrived. Charles had left her bed early; he’d ridden out to look around the site where they’d found Mary’s body, deliberately leaving Nicholas to deal with Culver. Charles was doing all he could to force the consequences of his silence on Nicholas, without compunction using any lever that came to hand to pressure Nicholas into telling him what he knew, or at least enough to capture the murderer.

Nicholas had been expecting Culver; he came out of the library to greet him. She went forward as they shook hands, but merely exchanged greetings with Lord Culver, who murmured, “Distressing business, my dear.” She glided on into the drawing room. Being reclusive, Lord Culver was very definitely one of the “old school”; discussing anything so horrendous as murder within a lady’s hearing would render him acutely uncomfortable.

Besides, she, too, was determined to convince Nicholas to confide his secrets; he could deal with Culver alone.

From just inside the drawing room, she listened to him doing so. When the pair walked away down the hall, she turned and followed; it wouldn’t matter if they saw her, just as long as she remained apart from their discussion. Hanging back in the shadows of the kitchen courtyard, she watched as they entered the cool store. Their voices echoed in the stone building; Culver asked the expected questions, and Nicholas answered.

Last night, Nicholas had looked stunned—horrified and unable to take in a second murder. This morning, when she’d met him briefly over the breakfast table, he’d looked ghastly—appalled, deeply disturbed, yet oddly resolute. It was almost as if the increasing pressure, instead of making him break, was increasing his resistance.

Even though she thought him culpable for trafficking in secrets, and grossly misguided in not confessing now Charles was so blatantly there, camped on his doorstep, she was nevertheless starting to view Nicholas with a certain grudging respect. Even more telling, so was Charles.

Nicholas and Culver came out of the cool store; Nicholas closed the door and faced his lordship.

“A dreadful business.” Culver looked shaken. He was a slight man no taller than Penny, and lived for his books. “Not the sort of thing that generally happens hereabouts.”

The sound of a familiar footstep had Penny glancing to the right; Charles strode up from the stables. He saw her, nodded, but went directly to Culver.

Both Culver and Nicholas looked relieved. Culver asked, and Charles confirmed that he believed Mary’s murder was connected to Gimby’s, although he omitted to say why. However, as such, it fell within his brief to investigate. Culver declared that that being the case, he would merely record the murder and await further direction from Charles.

The formalities concluded, Charles and Culver shook hands. Nicholas offered to walk Culver to the stables. The three men parted; watching, she saw Charles wait…as if it were an afterthought, he commented to Culver, “I bumped into a young relative of yours—Fothergill.”

“Oh?” Culver halted, nodded. “Indeed, a connection of my late wife’s. Visited with us as a child and was taken with the area—interested in birds, it seems. He’s a likable enough chap, easy to have about—well, he’s not in much, really, so there’s no fuss in having him. I daresay he was out looking at pigeons through those spyglasses of his.”

“Indeed.”

Culver and Nicholas headed on to the stables. Charles watched them go, then turned and joined her.

“At least that’s Fothergill vouched for.” He waved her into the house. “If he’s connected to Culver, that makes it unlikely he’s here for any nefarious purpose. An amazing coincidence to have a relative one had visited as a child living in precisely the district in which one wished to commit murder.”

“Still”—she glanced at him as they walked down the corridor—“I would have thought you’d ask if he was at Culver House on the night before last.”

“I would have if I could place any reliance on Culver’s word. Fothergill might have been sitting in an armchair within three yards of Culver all night, but I wouldn’t trust Culver’s word for it. Once absorbed in his books, a cannonade outside his windows would probably pass unnoticed.”

She grimaced; he was right.

Norris came to meet them. “Shall I serve luncheon, my lady?”

“As soon as Lord Arbry returns from the stables. Lord Charles and I will wait in the parlor.”

“Indeed, my lady.”

Nicholas joined them in the dining parlor as they took their seats. He went to the head of the table, his face even more graven with care than before.

She glanced at Charles, but he gave no sign. Norris and the footman brought in the cold collation she’d ordered; Charles fixed his attention on the cold meats, cheese, and fruit, and spared Nicholas not a glance.

However, when Mrs. Slattery’s lemon curd pudding appeared and Charles consumed half of it, Penny wasn’t sure he even noticed. He might not be looking at Nicholas, but she was quite sure he was thinking about Nicholas. And about the murderer.

It was Nicholas who broke first.

“Why did you ask about Fothergill?”

Charles glanced up the table, past her, meeting Nicholas’s eyes. He paused for one instant, then said, “Because it seems likely the murderer is one of our five visitors, and at present, all of them are in the running.”

Calmly peeling an apple with a paring knife, he recounted for Nicholas without concealment or evasion not just their hypotheses about the murderer, but all they’d learned from London thus far about the five men in question.

She watched Nicholas. Saw again his puzzlement that Charles should be so forthcoming, sensed beneath it a growing confusion; that, she hoped, would be to the good.

Charles held nothing back. Returning from where he’d found Mary’s body mangled like a rag doll’s and discarded with less care, he’d decided to pull out all stops to convince Nicholas to tell him what he needed to know.

Gimby’s death had been serious enough; Mary’s murder increased the stakes. The game would escalate; he knew it would.

They were running out of time, and the murderer was moving closer. If dropping his guard with Nicholas was what it took to learn what he needed to capture the murderer and bring him to justice, so be it.

His duty was one thing, his allegiance to justice another, yet at the back of his mind he was very aware of an even more pressing, more fundamental need. He had to keep Penny safe. He was grimly aware that that compulsion no longer sprang from a simple, uncomplicated wish to protect her purely for her own sake. Protecting her was now vital to him; she was the foundation of his future—the one thing he couldn’t lose.

So he broke with the tenets of a lifetime and told Nicholas all.

He eventually fell silent. Glancing at Nicholas, he saw him frowning at his plate, clearly deeply troubled.

Beside him, Penny reached across and lifted a slice from the apple he was quartering. He followed the fruit to her mouth. The crunch as she bit into the apple’s crisp flesh seemed to break some spell.

“Lady Carmody’s afternoon tea,” she said. She looked up the table at Nicholas. “It’s this afternoon—we should attend.”

Nicholas blanched. “Oh, surely not. No one will expect—”

“On the contrary,” Penny calmly stated, “everyone will expect us to be there, not least to tell everyone what’s going on. Rumors will be rife, and some will be quite extraordinary, so the truth needs to be told. Aside from all else, our five visitors should be there. In this district, in this season, there’s not so many entertainments that one can pick and choose. And with the news of Mary’s murder widely circulating, avoiding the only gathering in the area would be far more a cause for comment than attending it would.”

Nicholas stared at her; he really did look ill. After a moment, he said, “Perhaps if you and Lostwithiel go…”

It was a question, indeed, a plea, the closest Nicholas had yet come to it. She didn’t respond, wondered.

“No.” Charles spoke quietly but decisively from beside her. His gaze was fixed on Nicholas. “Just think. Mary Maggs was a maid in your household. She went to meet a man she didn’t name but described as handsome and ‘not in the usual way.’ Then she’s found strangled. If you avoid a gathering like Lady Carmody’s, no matter what we say or do, some degree of suspicion is guaranteed to fix on you.”

Nicholas’s pallor was once again faintly green. “That’s…”

“Human nature.” Charles regarded him, not without sympathy. “I take it you haven’t spent much of your life in the country.”

“No.” Nicholas frowned. “I went from Oxford to London—I’ve lived there ever since.”

“Where’s your father’s seat?”

“Berkshire. But he’s been in residence for years—there’s rarely any need for me to be there…”

Watching the expressions flit across Nicholas’s face, Charles wondered what the last—was it regret?—meant. There was clearly some sensitivity between Nicholas and his father—something to do with their treason, perhaps.

He tucked away the notion for later examination. “Regardless, you do need to attend Lady Carmody’s event.” He glanced at Penny. “But there’s no reason we can’t all go together.”

She nodded. Beneath the table, she touched his thigh. “Indeed not. Granville’s pair needs exercising—you can drive me in the curricle, and Nicholas can ride one of the hacks.”

So they went to Lady Carmody’s tea party, and if it was every bit as bad as Nicholas had feared, at least he survived.

“Indeed,” Penny murmured, her gaze fixed on Nicholas as he satisfied Mrs. Cranfield’s and Imogen’s appalled curiosity, “he seems to be one of those people who appear to have no backbone, until one leans on him.”

Charles looked down at her. “A shrewd and insightful observation—with which, incidentally, I agree—but unfortunately that very quality is the one most holding us back. Or rather, holding him back from telling us what he knows.”

“Mmm.” They were standing sipping tea at one side of Lady Carmody’s sunken garden. The pool in the center formed a focus for the gathering, the high hedges surrounding the garden providing useful shade. They’d been required to tell their tale numerous times, but then Charles had insisted they needed their tea and moved them out of the ruck; no one had yet had the nerve to follow.

Penny set her cup on her saucer. “The more I see of Nicholas, the more difficulty I have in casting him as a villain of any sort. I know you agree that he’s not the murderer.” She glanced up and met Charles’s eyes, darkest sapphire blue in the sunlight. “But can you truly see him as a traitor, someone who knowingly passed military secrets to the French?”

He held her gaze for a moment, then looked at Nicholas. “Sometimes, people get caught up in affairs without realizing, not until it’s too late. I’ve been wondering if perhaps Nicholas, unaware of the illicit trade his father and yours had undertaken, blithely followed his sire into the Foreign Office, then found himself expected to, as it were, continue the family business.”

She followed his gaze to Nicholas. “That would explain why he won’t speak.”

Charles nodded. “He knows we have no real evidence, yet it’s not just him and his career, but his father’s reputation and the rest of the family’s at stake. As you pointed out, this matter’s a blot that once known would stain all the family, including innocents like Elaine and her girls.”

After a moment, he added, “I can understand why he’s holding against us, but understanding doesn’t make it any easier to break him.”

Indeed, understanding made it that much harder, because they both had a great deal of sympathy for Nicholas’s stand.

As Penny had predicted, all five of their “suspects” were present, all, when discussing the tragedy, had evinced the right degree of revulsion, made the right comments, the expected expostulations.

“Not one,” Charles commented acerbically, “put a foot wrong.”

But only one of them would have been tested, and whoever he was, he was a professional; that Charles already knew and thoroughly appreciated.

He and Penny moved through the crowd, chatting here, exchanging news of their families there. He kept a surreptitious watch on Nicholas, but although Nicholas watched the five “visitors,” he made no move to engage any of them. Even more telling, he didn’t favor one over the other in his observations. Or his peregrinations; he passed each of the five with a nod, a look, and smoothly moved on.

Given he was now convinced he had Nicholas’s measure, that last puzzled Charles. Did Nicholas truly have no idea which of the five was the most likely? If so…

“Damn!”

Startled, Penny glanced up at him. Mercifully, there were no matrons within hearing range. He tightened his hold on her elbow. “You’re feeling faint.”

“I am?”

“You are—we need an excuse to leave
now
. With Nicholas.”

She didn’t argue, but obligingly wilted against him. He took her weight, solicitously guided her to where Lady Carmody sat. They made their excuses; while her ladyship fussed, Charles collected Nicholas with a look.