Mariel (42 page)

“Amazing!” gasped Mariel with the right amount of astonishment. “Now, why don't you run off to the kitchen and order tea for three down here and for you and Phipps upstairs.”

“Three?”

“Ian has a friend coming to call.” She wrinkled her nose in faked distaste. “Business. Have tea with Phipps, and then you can dress up for dinner with us. All right?”

The sound of feet racing toward the back of the house gave her the child's answer. She straightened and brushed her skirt clean of invisible dirt. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Phipps. The smell of her companion's favorite bath powder always told her where the older woman was.

“It was not what we wanted to hear.”

The sobs Phipps had tried to subjugate escaped. Mumbles of unintelligible words and a quick embrace overwhelmed Mariel before the woman went up the stairs almost as quickly as Rosie had run to the kitchen. Mariel wanted to shout after her. She did not want Phipps to feel so badly about something that could not be changed.

Ian took her hand and led her into the drawing room. “Phipps will be fine.”

“And you?”

He bent to place his lips close to hers. “I, too, will be fine eventually. I do not like the idea of the woman I love suffering.”

“I am not suffering,” she retorted saucily. “I have a wedding to plan after I welcome my uncle home. That sounds wonderful to me.”

“And to me.”

His lips played a resounding melody across her mouth. The sensation of her slender body against him drove all other thoughts from his mind. He wanted only to feel her moving with the love they shared. As he tasted the fragrant moistness of her mouth, her hands clenched on his back.

The soft sound of a throat being cleared separated them. Ian met the embarrassed face of his butler. “Yes, Barbon?”

“Mister—er, Reverend, a friend has arrived to call on you and Lady Mariel. A detective from Scotland Yard, sir.”

“Show him in.”

Detective Nelson held his hat in his hand as he entered the room. He noted the fine wallcoverings accenting the stylish furniture. A large gilt mirror went from floor to ceiling between the two front windows. In it, he could see the reflection of the back of the lovely Lady Mariel. He found it difficult to believe that this beautiful lady had survived the adventures she had described. That all of them could be corroborated added to his admiration of her.

“Good afternoon,” he said quietly. His quick eyes had noticed the soft expression on Lady Mariel's face and the way her fingers entwined with his friend's. That Ian had a very strong emotional stake in the abducted woman Nelson had known from the moment Ian had stormed into the cluttered office at the Yard, where Nelson had been trying to finish up a report on his latest case.

Since their early years together in boarding school, the two men had been close friends. While the rest of their schoolmates went on to the more conventional pursuit of wealth, they had chosen these two divergent paths with the same goal of creating peace in the world. Those callings had brought them together again and again.

Mariel heard the distress in Detective Nelson's voice and said, “Please come in, sir. Ah, here is the tea tray right on time.” She motioned for it to be placed near the settee. “Please sit and tell us what you must. The news will not become better by delaying.”

Flashing Ian a sheepish grin, Nelson did as she ordered. The strict, though congenial, tone of her voice reminded him of a professor who expected continually better work. He admitted she was correct. The news must be told quickly.

It did not take him long to explain the details of the interrogation. Determined to save himself from criminal proceedings, Rupert Muir denounced his sister as the originator of the plan. He repeated again and again that he went along only to help Portia deal with the spirited Lady Mariel Wythe.

“Is that so?” demanded Mariel tightly. Her hands paused in midair as she was reaching for the teapot. “He is lying, sir.”

Nelson nodded, then recalled she could not see him. “I suspected that. Are you prepared to testify to that?”

“Yes, if I must,” she whispered. The idea of retelling that horrible series of events before the public was distasteful to her. Such titillating details would be the meat of headlines for reader-hungry newspapers.

“Good. Of course, it may not come to that point. Already the Muirs have contacted their father's barrister. He sent a message to expect a call from him first thing tomorrow. They will serve no time,” finished the detective with regret. “With their father's influence in the present government, they will be released as soon as the senior Mr. Muir puts some pressure on the court. Thank you,” he added as Mariel held out a cup of tea.

“Forgive what is splashed on the saucer,” Mariel said lightly. “I am still as inept as a girl in the schoolroom when it comes to pouring tea.”

“It is fine. Not a drop on the saucer.”

She turned to Ian with a private smile, which made Nelson uncomfortable. He felt as if he was intruding on an intimate moment. Glancing down at his tea, he stirred it continuously until Ian spoke.

Breaking his mesmerism as he stared at her lips, which urged him to sample them again, Ian said, “You may not be able to keep them in prison, but I don't think they'll try the same trick again. Another woman might not have been as resourceful as Mariel.”

“Or as lucky!” she interjected.

“Not just luck.” Ian smiled with pride as he turned to his friend. “I don't know if I could have been brave enough to strike out across the trackless waste of London rooftops even being able to see in the moonlight.”

Grimly, she said, “You would have when the only other choice was what awaited me at the end of an hour when Kitty brought back another of her clients. I had suffered enough groping by her heavy-handed patrons to know I did not want to share that disgusting room with one.”

Embarrassed by the topic of which no lady should speak, Nelson adroitly changed the subject. Soon Mariel was listening as the two men shared reminiscences of their school years. She stored the tales away in the special part of her heart she reserved for Ian.

That was the last quiet moment she had during the remainder of their visit to London. Once the announcement was made that she would marry Ian, a round of callers came to offer their congratulations. That most were curious also about her adventures in Southwark they could not hide. She parried their questions by telling them she could not speak of such things while the case was being investigated.

Between those visits and the times they called at the Beckwith-Carter home in Kensington, it seemed as if she had no time to catch her breath. Only in the velvet hours of the night when she rested in Ian's arms did she have time to dream of the joy yet to come. He came in the hours after the rest of the household slept, and he slipped away before dawn. She did not like the necessity of him sneaking in and out of her room, but she knew once they returned to Foxbridge they would not be together like this until after their wedding.

Paddington Station was as busy as it had been when they arrived two weeks before. Rosie clung to Mariel's hand while she held a stuffed dog, a gift from her future grandmother, in her other hand. Phipps stood nearby, worriedly watching over her two charges. When the reverend came to collect them to board the train, she felt relieved. As much as she had anticipated this trip to London, Amanda Phipps was celebrating their return to Foxbridge. In their home, they would not have to worry about such madness as had occurred before.

Their compartment on the train was nearly identical to the one they had on the first trip, but their enthusiasm had dimmed to fatigue. Although no one mentioned it, they knew that within a few weeks they would be required to return for the trial. It would bring only more heartache as Mariel would be forced to discuss publicly the abuse she had suffered.

The train lurched into motion, and Mariel sighed happily. She was going home. Soon Uncle Wilford would be there as well, and the plans for the wedding could be put into motion. Then she could forget this trip, except for the parts she longed to remember … Ian's proposal and his heated kisses bringing her joy.

Suddenly the car halted, nearly throwing Mariel from her seat. She wanted to repeat Rosie's demand of “Why are we stopping?”

“Someone must have arrived late,” said Ian with a chuckle. “Don't worry, Peony. We will be home before dark.”

She leapt off her seat to tickle him. That Ian was joshing with her as he had before Mariel's accident seemed heavenly to the child. For what seemed an eternity to her, the household had been too serious. Although she understood that Mariel would be blind forever, she was delighted Mariel and Ian treated her with the joy she feared had been lost.

A knock on the compartment door halted her giggles. Ian put her on Mariel's lap as he rose to his feet. “Scott!” he gasped. “What is wrong?”

The detective did not attempt to smile. He said, “I wanted to catch you before you left, to tell you the news before you heard it secondhand. I thought it better to tell you in person than by letter.”

“What is it?”

“I wanted to let you know the Muir case has been closed.”

Mariel cried, “Closed? Why? Did—?”

His choked voice interrupted her. “The case has been closed because there is no one to prosecute.”

“No one? Did Sir Darren recall his children to the Hills? I thought Scotland Yard could reach beyond the limits of London proper!” Rage burned in Ian's voice. He glared at his friend.

Nelson swallowed uneasily. “That is not the reason, Ian. Sir Darren Muir did not recall them.” He looked uneasily from one anxious face to the next. He could not soften what he must tell them. Bluntly he stated, “Sometime during the night, Rupert and Portia Muir took an overdose of laudanum.”

Mariel gasped into the shocked silence, “They killed themselves?”

“We suspect Miss Muir doctored her brother's drink, then swallowed her dose in wine.” He gratefully sat when Miss Phipps motioned to the seat next to her. He sighed. “Now this must be investigated as well, to assure ourselves they were not actually murdered.”

“If I am your prime suspect,” said Ian quietly, “I can assure you the thought of revenge did cross my mind. Murder did not.”

“Ian! This is no joking matter,” scolded Mariel. Her voice shook with her distress.

“Ian,” said Nelson calmly, “no one believes you did this, but questions must be answered. I trust you were home last night.”

Before he could reply, Mariel stated, “Ian was with me all last night, Mr. Nelson. We had dinner with Phipps and Rosie. Then Ian and I—”

Nelson interrupted her hastily, his face as heated as the fire in the locomotive. “Lady Mariel, there is no need for such explanation. Ian is not under any suspicion. I am simply allowing you to understand the situation. Already my superiors have deemed it a murder and a suicide. There will be little more to say about it.”

“Portia always tried to protect Rupert,” Ian mused as if to himself. “She must have realized he would not elude prosecution this time. To see him in jail would be painful, so she granted him the only escape available. Death.”

The conductor harrumphed in the hallway and looked at his pocket watch. The message was unmistakable. Nelson rose. “I will send you a copy of the final report when it is completed. I just wanted to let you know.” For some reason he could not understand, he added, “I'm sorry.”

“We are, too,” replied Mariel. “Thank you for all you have done.”

“I wanted to return this to you.” He placed the emerald ring in her hand. “It was found exactly where you said it would be. We confronted the Muirs and their barrister with this yesterday.” He sighed and added nothing else. There was no need. All of them guessed the Muirs must have felt they had a choice between jail and death.

“Sir …?” came the impatient trainman's voice negating the chance for more comments.

With hurried farewells, the police officer left. Silence settled in his wake as the train began its interrupted journey anew. Mariel leaned the child against her as she placed her head on Ian's shoulder. With his arm around her, they gave each other what sparse comfort they could.

Mariel shivered when she heard Phipps's nearly inaudible comment of “They must have been mad.” She wondered if insanity would discolor the rest of her life, as it had her childhood. She longed for the sanctuary of the Cloister. Behind its solid walls, she could find the haven she needed.

Chapter Nineteen

“Lady Mariel?”

The words echoed through the house. Mariel raised her fingers from the piano keyboard and listened. In the week since their arrival home from London, she had renewed her love of music. Although she had to have Ian read her the notes from the sheet when she started a new passage, she could enjoy memorized pieces as much as ever.

“Lady Mariel?” A flurry of footsteps skidded to a stop beyond the door of the drawing room, it opened with a crash. She turned on the piano stool.

“Lady Mariel?”

“Yes?” She smiled as she heard the breathlessness in the girl's voice. The maid must have been searching all through the Cloister for her.

“From the gate, my lady! From the gate!”

“Yes?” she repeated with a touch of impatience. She heard Ian rise. He had been rewriting his sermon while she practiced.

“'Tis the lord, my lady. Lord Foxbridge is on his way home. He just passed through the gate.”

The whirlwind of her skirts as she rose sent the pages of music flying through the air. She did not pause to worry about them as she hurried out of the room. Feeling the freshness of the autumn breeze on her face, she knew the front door was open. The crunch of carriage wheels slowing on the dirt driveway told her the long wait for her uncle to return was over.