Dark Obsession (36 page)

He flicked a cobweb from the pony’s moth-bitten ear, his other hand patting the small weight inside his pocket. He wanted only for the right moment. ‘‘I checked all the nooks and crannies I could think of. He keeps his room so tidy. . . . So unlike other boys his age.’’

‘‘I know.’’ She clasped her sleek artist’s hands together. ‘‘I long to see a streak of dirt across his face, a tear in his shirt. Or find him sprawled on the ground, wrestling with a local boy.’’ Her chin came up. ‘‘That is why we cannot give up. Why we must keep searching.’’

She knelt before a painted wooden chest against the wall and opened the lid. The contents clunked, rattled and jingled as she rifled through them.

‘‘Funny you should say that.’’ He knelt beside her. ‘‘About longing to see Jonny tussling about like a mischievous scamp. I have something for you.’’

He reached into his coat pocket and drew out the oval, gold-framed miniature portrait he’d found earlier that morning. ‘‘I’d forgotten all about this. I thought you might like it.’’

‘‘Like it? Oh, Gray, it’s wonderful.’’ The little portrait filled her palm and she sat with her head bent over it, uttering a gasp of pleasure. ‘‘When was it done?’’

‘‘He was about four, I believe. Tom had commissioned a local artist to paint a family portrait, but that morning Jonny slipped away from his nurse for a romp in the garden. He wasn’t gone long, but somehow managed to return as dirty and unkempt as a stable hand.’’

Touching a finger to the painted image, Grayson laughed softly through the pain evoked by the bittersweet memory. ‘‘Instead of the throttling Tom said the boy deserved, Charlotte scooped him up, sat him on a stool and insisted the artist paint him exactly as he was.’’

‘‘Oh, I do like her so very much. I wish I had known her while she lived. . . .’’ She hugged the portrait to her bosom. She blinked, turning her face away.

Grayson caught her chin. ‘‘Charlotte would have adored you. Does adore you. I know she would want you to have this picture.’’

‘‘This is the single most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.’’ Setting the little painting aside, she tossed her arms around him with a grateful squeeze that for an instant made him feel rather like the luckiest man alive.

She eased away, holding him at arm’s length and beaming at him. ‘‘I have something for you too.’’ She pushed to her knees, her hands gripping his shoulders for leverage. ‘‘You must come to my studio to see it.’’

‘‘Do you mean my portrait?’’ He tugged her into his lap, turning her in his arms and cradling her as she had cradled Aunt Pricilla’s doll. ‘‘I’ve already seen it.’’

She gasped. ‘‘You sneak! Never peek at an artist’s work without permission.’’

‘‘I thought being the subject of that work, not to mention the artist’s husband, surely granted me a privilege or two.’’

‘‘Humph.’’ What began as a scowl melted into apprehension. ‘‘Well . . . what did you think of it?’’

She poked his ribs when he didn’t immediately answer. Truth was, he was searching for the right words to express his gratitude over the changes. Not that he cared so much how he appeared in a painting, but he did care exceedingly much how
she
saw him. As a good man. A compassionate man. A man worthy of her love.

When he could think of no words adequate enough, he rolled her onto the floor and anchored himself over her.

His mouth to her ear, he whispered, ‘‘It’s perfect. Just like you. Thank you.’’

‘‘You’re welcome.’’ Her arms came around his neck.

Desire flared and he kissed her again. Letting his chest graze the tips of her breasts, he rubbed back and forth against her while narrowing the V of his legs on either side of her thighs. With her moans to urge him on, he dipped his head and set his lips to her throat, then lower, across her bodice. She was as warm and pliant as a kitten beneath him. His loins ached with the knowledge that here on the top floor of the house, they were very much alone.

Her gasping breaths and her squirming body told him she was all too willing. But against his neck, her lips spoke to the contrary.

‘‘Gray . . . perhaps we shouldn’t. We’re supposed to be searching. Besides, I’ve been away from Jonny for nearly two hours now. It’s time I went downstairs to check on him and Kat.’’

‘‘As usual, you’re right.’’ His arms tightened around her. He rolled again, setting her on top of him, and nestled her head beneath his chin. ‘‘But don’t move away just yet. Stay in my arms a while longer.’’

In some ways, simply holding her, savoring the weight of her against his chest and inhaling the fragrance of her skin and hair, felt as good, as life renewing, as making love to her. Unhurried and tranquil, it conveyed a sense of permanence, as though his world might not fall apart tomorrow. He could have held her like that long into the night, and considered himself the luckiest of men.

But the truth remained, never far away. ‘‘We may never find it,’’ he murmured against a lock of her hair that lay strewn across his lips. ‘‘The watch, I mean. Probably washed out to sea all those months ago.’’

‘‘We’re not giving up,’’ she replied, her quiet conviction vibrating gently against him. Retrieving the miniature of Jonny from the floor beside them, she stared intently into it. ‘‘If not the watch, our search will yield something else of vital importance. Charlotte was very clear—’’

‘‘Charlotte was not at all clear. I believe
cryptic
is the correct word.’’

She stiffened against him. He’d spoken more harshly than he intended. He stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head. ‘‘Forgive me. I’m . . . tired.’’

Yes, but the weariness of so many sleepless nights combined now with a knife-edged fear: that the only revelation their search would yield was proof his friend had betrayed them.

He should tell her. Warn her. But speaking the words would give them all the more feasibility, and that was something he wished to forestall for as long as possible.

She lifted her chin, and he felt the weight of her gaze upon him. ‘‘You must not give up hope. I will not allow it. Do you understand me?’’

‘‘Ah, there you go, being Zachariah’s daughter again.’’

‘‘Your promise, please.’’

He raised them both to a sitting position and kissed her, tenderly, but long and fully. ‘‘You have my word. I shall not give up hope, not as long as I have you guiding me.’’

‘‘Good.’’ She looked regretful. ‘‘Now I must go down and check on Jonny and Kat. Care to join me?’’

He was about to accept her offer, but before he could speak, the crunch of carriage wheels drifted from three stories below. Could Chad have arrived back so soon?

But it wasn’t his friend whom Grayson hurried out to see. It was young Rob Massey, whom Grayson had hired that morning to track Chad to Helston. Grayson stood waiting in the Massey’s barnyard when Rob rode in.

‘‘I’m sorry, Sir Grayson, I never caught up to him.’’ Reaching into his pocket, the youth pulled out the note Grayson had written that morning, a request for Chad to purchase some items that could not be found in Millford. That way, Rob did not have to know the true reason he was sent to follow the Earl of Wycliffe.

‘‘You never saw him on the road?’’

‘‘Neither going nor coming, sir.’’

‘‘He would have been in my curricle.’’ Grayson couldn’t help clinging to that hope Nora had spoken of in such adamant terms. ‘‘You
do
know my curricle, don’t you? Gleaming black, with a removable canvas roof and the Clarington crest on the doors?’’

‘‘Of course, sir. Never saw it.’’

‘‘Very well.’’ A part of him withered, along with every happy memory he had of his friend. In their place stood the recent warning from Gibbs:
perhaps the late Earl of Clarington trusted where he should not have.

He wouldn’t make his brother’s mistake. No, he needed a plan and fast, a way to distance Chad from Nora and Jonny until he knew of a certainty whether or not their guest could be trusted.

‘‘Thank you, Rob.’’ He pressed some coins into the young man’s hand. ‘‘Here’s a little extra for your trouble.’’

Two days of renewed optimism. In that time, Jonny had finally spoken, and Gray had smiled, laughed and taken Nora in his arms again, into—she had believed— his heart. Two days of hope for all of them—dashed by suppertime that evening.

Now she found herself seated opposite a stranger at the dining table, while a puzzled Earl of Wycliffe attempted to dispel the tension between them.

‘‘An excellent supper, Nora.’’ Chad took a last bite of brandied apricot torte and leaned back in his chair. ‘‘Gray, my congratulations. Your new wife is a woman of many talents.’’

Gray’s quiet reply of ‘‘Indeed’’ did little to reassure her. He hadn’t done much more with his food than push it around his plate. Hadn’t said more than a terse word here and there, his expression shuttered and impossible to interpret.

She felt him slipping away again. What had she done? She thought back to their encounter in the playroom. He had been so sweet, and so utterly thoughtful both in the gift he’d given her and in understanding why she had put off his amorous advances.

But the more she pondered it, the more she realized the shift in his mood had started much earlier, as early as yesterday morning when he had raced down the drive on horseback, certain some danger had befallen her and Jonny. And the way he’d acted toward Chad then, hesitant and aloof, as if his friend of many years had suddenly become a stranger.

Yet quite to the contrary, following Chad’s return from Helston this afternoon, the two men had spent long hours in the billiard room, then went riding, and afterward cloistered themselves in the parlor, playing chess.

At no time had Gray asked either Nora or Jonny to join them. Even when Chad had inquired whether she could ride, Grayson had dismissed her horsemanship as rudimentary and insisted Chad’s love of a good gallop precluded her from going with them.

Now, as she emulated Grayson in pushing apricots, pastry and rich sauce around on her plate, she sifted through the events of the past two days. By not agreeing to make love with him this morning, had she led him to believe that Jonny claimed the greater portion of her heart, and now he resented her for it?

Chad commented again about the meal, about her hospitality.

‘‘It is my pleasure. I’ll never forget how kind you were to me in London. . . .’’ She broke off as a thought struck her.

Devil take Grayson Lowell if he doesn’t realize what a damned lucky fellow he is.
Chad’s emphatic declaration yesterday morning had left her disconcerted, and once more pondering that elusive quality that had always raised ambiguous feelings toward him.

Perhaps he had spoken to Grayson afterward, and conveyed some of her worries concerning his state of mind and the state of their marriage. And Grayson indeed might have taken this as a betrayal on her part, to have spoken about him behind his back.

She swallowed a sudden urge to cry. Across the table, Grayson tugged at his neckcloth, already askew. Even in a few short hours, the brackets around his mouth and eyes appeared to have deepened, the shadows to have darkened.

‘‘I’ll have you know I whipped your husband soundly at the chessboard today, Nora.’’ Chad tipped his head with exaggerated pride. ‘‘Why don’t you and I have a go at it this evening?’’

‘‘Nora doesn’t play.’’

Her mouth fell open, her reply silenced by the blunt denial.

‘‘No?’’ Chad regarded her curiously. ‘‘I believe I distinctly remember you telling Belinda you enjoyed chess very much.’’

‘‘Why, I—’’

‘‘What my wife must have said,’’ Grayson muttered in a voice she barely recognized as his, ‘‘is that she would enjoy learning. Thus far she hasn’t had the opportunity.’’

‘‘I see. . . .’’ The earl gazed back and forth between them. ‘‘I’d be happy to teach you, Nora.’’

‘‘That would take days.’’ Grayson folded his arms across he chest. The exchange left her speechless, heartsick.

‘‘A game of cards, then?’’

‘‘There aren’t many games that work well for three.’’ Grayson pushed back his chair and stood. His fingers yanked his neckcloth free. ‘‘Remember that old dartboard the footmen hung below stairs? Let’s have a round or two.’’

Nora too started to stand. As she did, Chad hurried to hold her chair for her. ‘‘How about it, Nora? Ever tossed a dart?’’

Her chest aching, thoughts reeling, she gazed across at Gray, the length of the table seemingly an insurmountable gulf between them. His closed expression provided her answer. She shook her head. ‘‘Thank you, but no. I should tend to Jonny.’’

Grayson adjusted his fiinger in the niche of the sliding panel and tried again. Like the fiirst time, the portal gave a slight jiggle and budged no farther.

He wished merely to steal into her room, watch her sleep, kiss her brow, and assure her of something of the utmost importance. In her slumber she would not hear, but there were words he desperately needed to say.

He set his candle on the bottom step and used his other hand for leverage to open the panel. But as he’d already guessed, the problem resulted from no malfunction of the lock.

Somehow Nora had improvised a lock. He wondered when she had done this. Days ago, when he’d surprised her in his room and tossed his bedclothes and clock about in a rage? Or had she finally decided she’d had her fill of him tonight?

He wouldn’t have blamed her. He’d been detestable all evening, but in the short time since his life had taken yet another bizarre twist, he hadn’t been able to devise any better means of protecting her.
If
she needed protecting. Even now, he couldn’t entirely be sure. The hope she instilled in him refused to die, and, despite growing evidence to the contrary, he clung to the notion that one of his hired watchers might witness Thomas’s ghost walking along the beach . . . and clear Chad of guilt.

There had been no such reports from the headland. And where had Chad gone today? Almost assuredly not to Helston. Gray’s suspicions mounted like the many debts that had once gone unpaid. He loathed himself for hurting Nora—and God, he knew he had. But for safety’s sake, he wished to keep her and Jonny as far away from Chad as possible for now.