The Anatomist's Wife (11 page)

I watched as several of the wives darted glances at their husbands, as if seeking
comfort and reassurance from the one most directly responsible for their protection.
I wondered if the fear generated by Lady Godwin’s murder would result in a resurgence
of marital cohabitation among the guests. Like fashionable London society, most of
our married guests preferred separate bedchambers. Sir Anthony and I had done the
same. However, my sister and Philip did not follow the trend, and I sometimes wondered
if that was one of the keys to their happy marriage. Even when they were irritated
and angry with each other, they still retired to the same room, and often emerged
in communion the next day.

I tried to ignore the looks many of the couples shared, and stubbornly tamped down
a sudden longing to have someone gaze back at me with reassurance. A pair of pale
blue eyes came to mind, and I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with the thought.
I absolutely forbade myself to sneak a glance to see where he was looking.

Instead, I focused on the meal and the guests seated at my end of the table. It unnerved
me to find Lady Stratford staring at her husband in much the same manner as the other
ladies looked at theirs. Perhaps it was because the countess always seemed so calm
and sophisticated that any sign of an emotion even vaguely resembling pleading or
desperation seemed out of place, or the fact that her husband wasn’t paying her the
least bit of attention. Maybe it was both of those things, or neither of them. All
I knew with any certainty was that it was disconcerting to discover the situation
was dire enough to rattle even the cool Lady Stratford. And it puzzled me what problems
in their marriage would prevent Lord Stratford from granting his wife even the small
comfort of his consideration.

I looked away before she caught me watching, but I couldn’t erase the impression of
hopelessness I sensed in Lady Stratford. It settled like a lump of mealy bread in
the pit of my stomach.

“I must say, it is at times like these when I wish my dear Mr. Cline was still with
me.” Mrs. Cline sighed.

I peered around Damien at the beautiful widow. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one to
notice the undercurrents passing between the married guests.

“It can be so terrifying without a man to protect you from the small things in life,
let alone the monsters,” she remarked in her dulcet tones. She brushed her hand across
the naked expanse of flesh over her low neckline—I supposed to draw the men’s attention
there. Or, at least, the attention of one man in particular.

I felt my chest tighten as Gage obliged her by dropping his gaze to her décolletage.

“Have no fear, madam. I’m sure none of the gentlemen here will allow harm to come
to you.” He smiled coyly as if this were some game they were playing.

“That is reassuring, to be sure, when we are all gathered together. But what about
when we are separated?” She pouted her lips and even managed to make them tremble
with a fright I wasn’t certain she was feeling at the moment. “Who am I to rely on
then? I cannot expect the married gentlemen here to abandon their wives for a simple
widow like me.”

Gage’s eyes smiled as if he had anticipated such words from Mrs. Cline and had already
formulated his reply. He opened his mouth to deliver it, but unfortunately Lord Damien
jumped in to speak first.

“Those of us who are single shall be happy to protect you, Mrs. Cline,” he chimed
in, clearly not realizing he was interrupting some repartee between the widow and
Gage.

Mrs. Cline’s eyes rounded in surprise, but she quickly recovered, offering him a syrupy
smile. “Why, Lord Damien, I certainly appreciate your concern, but don’t you have
your mother and sister to care for? Surely you don’t need yet another female dependent
upon you.”

“Not at all,” dear, sweet Damien pronounced with chivalrous intensity. “Those of us
who might lend our assistance would be remiss not to offer it to you.”

The widow’s smiled faltered as Damien continued his protestations, and she realized
she was not going to be able to shake him loose. For Gage’s part, he seemed unfazed,
even amused by Damien’s disruption of his flirtation. And judging from the glares
she sent him while pretending to appreciate Damien’s courtly overtures, Mrs. Cline
was not pleased by that.

I bowed my head over my plate and stifled the urge to laugh. The others already viewed
me as a mad murderess, and I doubted erupting into spontaneous hilarity at the dining
table would help to convince them otherwise.

“She’s not very subtle, is she?” Lord Stratford surprised me by leaning over to remark.
He twirled his remaining bite of salmon around in the juices on his plate with his
fork. “She never has grasped the concept that gentlemen enjoy the pursuit as much
as the conquest. Her dolt of a husband made it too easy for her.”

From what I understood, Mr. Cline had been a kindly, handsome country squire who had
instantly fallen in love with the beautiful Mrs. Cline and wed her, even though she
was only a vicar’s daughter. I refrained from saying any of this to Lord Stratford,
who likely already knew, and only looked down on Mr. Cline’s choice because of his
wife’s lowly birth. Men like the earl viewed women like Mrs. Cline as good enough
to bed, but not wed.

I studied Lord Stratford’s countenance as he chewed his fish. I supposed he would
be considered by most to be a handsome man. He had rather lovely chocolate-brown eyes
and a deep cleft in his chin, which lent a certain ruggedness to his looks, but the
rest of him was rather ordinary. He was somewhere between forty and forty-five; his
dark hair was dusted with silver, particularly at the temples, and his skin had taken
on the saggy dissipation of too much hard living. His body remained mostly lean, but
his stomach had begun to develop the paunch that was customary among a large number
of wealthy, older gentlemen. In fact, the most remarkable thing about his appearance
was the tiny scar that slashed across his forehead and into his right eyebrow, received
at some point in his service during the wars with Napoleon. Fortunately for him, most
women found such minor disfigurements attractive, reminders of the man’s bravery and
prowess, rather than off-putting. Even I found the scar intriguing. I wondered what
shades of blue and red and brown I would have to blend to get the exact color right.

Clearly accustomed to being regarded by others, he turned to me in the midst of my
inspection and grinned. “Considering me for one of your portraits, my lady?”

I offered back a tiny smile. “Perhaps.”

He chuckled when he realized no more information would be forthcoming. “Ever the mystery,
are we, Lady Darby? See, now that is what I’m talking about. You keep the men guessing.
I doubt many become bored with you quickly.”

I arched a brow in skepticism. “I highly doubt that many ladies
or
gentlemen consider me a
good
mystery.”

“Nonsense,” he declared as fragrant plates of braised beef and roasted potatoes with
string beans in cream sauce were placed before us. He leaned toward me after the footmen
had retreated. “I guarantee that more than one gentleman seated at this table would
be very interested to see what you keep hidden beneath that eccentric facade, regardless
of your reputation.”

My cheeks heated at the implication of his words. He chuckled delightedly and settled
back to cut into his beef. I flicked my glance around the table to see if anyone was
paying attention to our exchange but only caught Gage watching us with a speculative
look. Ignoring him, I tucked into my meal and tried to think of another conversation
topic that might interest the earl without causing me further embarrassment. Unfortunately,
I was not quick enough.

“I see you don’t believe me,” Lord Stratford said around a bite of food. “But don’t
think I didn’t notice Mr. Gage watching you just now, or the manner in which Lord
Marsdale has been harassing you for several days.”

I worked very hard not to visibly flinch at such a pronouncement. Sliding a sideways
glance at the earl, I opened my mouth to protest, but once again he spoke first.

“Oh, I realize you haven’t encouraged them. I do believe that would be against your
nature, Lady Darby. But you’re an attractive enough lady. It would take a blind man
not to notice the luster of your skin or the way your gowns drape your body. You’re
an irresistible challenge to rogues like Gage and Marsdale.”

I frowned and fought another telling blush, uncomfortable with the way this conversation
was going. It put me off my appetite, making me cross that I had yet to manage a bite
of the succulent roast as the earl prodded me. He didn’t seem to be having any such
problem. Forking another bite of beef and potato, he tipped his head toward me yet
again.

“You do realize that is the reason many of the women are so openly hostile toward
you. Not only do you have a shady past and mysterious manners, but you also intrigue
their husbands. They cannot compete with that.”

I did not for a moment believe this nonsense and told him so. “Please, Lord Stratford.
If you’re finished telling me Banbury tales, I would like to ask your opinion on a
far more interesting topic. I’m told you are a great patron of the arts. Have you
visited the Royal Academy recently?”

He smiled indulgently, as if he were placating a woman denied some bauble. “I have.”

I ignored his expression and pushed on. “What was your opinion of Thomas Cole’s exhibit?
I read that his American landscapes are quite exceptional. That the colors and textures
of the untamed Catskills seem almost fantastical.”

He appeared to contemplate the matter as he took a drink of his wine. “They are certainly
in the class of our John Constable’s paintings. And I believe Cole uses light and
shadow to even better effect. However, they do have an almost otherworldliness about
them. Yes, ‘fantastical,’ you said? I believe that
would
be the appropriate word.”

I nodded, taking a bite of potato. Rarely did I harbor any interest in returning to
London, except when news of an extraordinary exhibit reached me. Then the desire to
view new art not created by my own hand almost overrode my good sense and self-preservation.
I had contemplated journeying to Edinburgh with Philip to scour the few museums and
art galleries there, but I already knew they could not compare with the quality and
variety of exhibitions in London.

I sighed, pushing the fanciful thought from my head.

“Your own portraits are exceptional,” Lord Stratford stated, which made me flush happily
from the praise. He turned and lifted his eyebrows at me. “And don’t think that you
have fooled those of us who know our art that K. A. Elwick is not actually Lady Darby,”
he murmured in low tones.

I glanced around the table to make certain no one had overheard him. I had not been
so naive as to think I could fool everyone, but I never expected to be asked so pointedly
about the matter. I didn’t know whether to answer the implied question or dance around
it. Gratefully, Lord Stratford saved me from my own dilemma.

“
Portrait of a Forgotten Woman
is particularly captivating. I was quite put out when the Duke of Norwich outbid
me for it.” He frowned.

“Lord Marsdale’s father?” I asked in some shock.

A bit of the devilry from our earlier conversation returned to his eyes. “Indeed.”

I scowled at my plate, uncertain I liked the idea of Marsdale’s father being an admirer
of my work. Did Marsdale also know that K. A. Elwick was my alias? Was that the real
reason he had been plaguing me since he arrived?

“Where do you paint?” Lord Stratford asked, seemingly oblivious to my distraction.
“Do you have a studio here at the castle?”

“Um . . . yes. It’s at the corner of the top floor of the east wing, facing both sunrise
and the south.” He would realize this location provided the best access to the most
natural light. The Highlands were not exactly an ideal location for large quantities
of unfettered sunshine, particularly in the winter, and one had to make do with what
one had.

“Would you be willing to show it to me? And perhaps some of your works in progress?”

I blinked at him. The earl was continually surprising me with what came out of his
mouth. And somehow this seemed the most absurd remark of all. I narrowed my eyes in
suspicion, and he smiled as if reading my thoughts.

“I promise I have no ulterior motives,” he replied, making me blush yet again. “Well,
other than maybe to gain an advantage over the competition when your next collection
goes up for bidding.”

I realized he was trying to flatter me, and because of that, his words failed to please
me like spontaneous compliments did. Even though he was an avid art collector, his
request to see my studio still seemed off somehow. It would have been much more believable
had he asked to view my finished pieces in a comfortable parlor away from the fumes
and mess of my studio.

“I will have to think about it,” I replied vaguely, not ready to grant the earl permission
without considering the matter further.

He smiled as if he understood my hesitation. “Of course. Take your time. After all,
none of us are going anywhere for at least another three days, are we?”

Feeling a small shiver run down my spine at the reminder, I returned his smile tightly.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

R
ather than join my sister and the other ladies in the drawing room after dinner, I
decided it would be best to slip away. In all honesty, I did not want to sip tea with
a bunch of women who politely tried to hold back their animosity toward me anyway.
I suspected the fragrant black tea would taste like ash and Alana’s mood would only
continue to darken in the face of the others’ hostility toward me. So it seemed in
the best interest of all for me to disappear.

Unfortunately, Lady Westlock was not so willing to allow me to escape unscathed. When
I turned right instead of left as I exited the dining room, she grabbed hold of my
arm, digging her fingernails into my skin. “I’ve got my eyes on you,” she hissed with
enough venom to splatter me with her spit.

I yanked my arm from out of her grasp, feeling the scratches her claws left behind,
and reached up to swipe the wetness from my cheek with the back of my hand. “So does
your husband,” I remarked under my breath dryly.

I hurried away and had almost managed to slip out of sight down the hall, when I heard
Philip calling my name. I sighed and reluctantly stuttered to a halt, waiting for
him to catch up with me. Whatever he had to say must be important if he was willing
to excuse himself from the men drinking port at the dining table.

“Not interested in joining the ladies, eh?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He grimaced in sympathy and glanced back the way he had come before speaking again.
“I only wanted to tell you that Beowulf and Grendel did not find anything.”

My heart sank, having hoped the two wolfhounds would turn up something—a piece of
clothing, the murder weapon, the baby’s grave.

“There was a spot just inside the tree line of the forest near the maze that they
pawed at quite ferociously, but after a thorough search, nothing was uncovered. I
suspect the killer may have laid something there before moving it to a more concealed
location. The dogs were probably smelling the traces of blood left behind.”

I sighed and wrapped my arms tightly around me.

Philip reached out to touch my arm in commiseration. “Are you retiring?”

“Yes,” I said with a nod. “After I retrieve a book from the library.” There was no
need to explain how or why that might take some time.

“Then I’ll bid you good night.” He turned to go, but then stopped and glanced back
at me. Worry tightened his features. “Lock your door tonight, Kiera. And every night
from here on out until the murderer is caught.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end at the implication that he feared for
my safety. Perhaps he only worried about the lack-wits like Lord Westlock or the drunken
aggression of the guests at dinner, but even those people could do real damage to
me if they chose. In any event, after the letter I received last night and the strange
shifting shadows today, I had every intention of locking my door, and likely propping
a chair beneath the handle as well. I didn’t know if it was the killer or an angry
guest who was watching me, but if it was the murderer, I doubted they looked kindly
on my efforts to assist Gage with the investigation.

I swallowed and nodded.

Satisfied with my acquiescence, Philip returned to the men in the dining room.

The hall seemed open and shadowy now that he had departed, and I stood for a moment
gazing into the dark corners where the light from the candles could not reach. I knew
my apprehension was due partly to the anxiety Philip’s warning had stirred up in me,
but I also could not help feeling that someone was watching me. Though from where,
I could not tell.

The gloom of the castle had never bothered me before, not even at night. I normally
found it more atmospheric than eerie, more melancholy than frightening. But tonight,
like last night, was different.

Perhaps the blame for that should fall squarely on the murder, and the knowledge that
a killer walked among us, yet for me it also had a great deal to do with Lady Godwin’s
corpse itself. With Sir Anthony’s death, I had escaped the necessity of ever having
to deal with another dead body beyond that of a loved one’s burial. Or, at least,
I thought I had.

But somehow another one had found me. Somehow another corpse had shown up on my doorstep.
I knew it was fantastical to think of it in such terms, but surrounded by the darkness
and shadows of the old castle, I couldn’t help but look over my shoulder to make certain
yet another one had not appeared.

Quaking from my ridiculous imaginings, I took a deep breath and exhaled. Then, squaring
my shoulders, I marched down the corridor past the grand staircase leading to the
bedchambers above, determined not to look either to my left or to my right, lest I
see something I did not wish to.

As I passed through the portal leading to the back half of the main hall block, a
man stepped into my path from the shadows beneath the stairs. My heart nearly leapt
out of my chest.

“Good evening, Lady Darby,” Marsdale pronounced with a sly grin and an almost mocking
bow.

I skidded to a halt and pressed my hand over my pounding heart to keep it inside my
body. “What is the meaning of this?” I gasped, wanting to reach out and smack him
like a meddlesome brother. “Did you intend to scare me witless?”

“Ah, well, I could have revealed myself earlier, when you were staring into the shadows
as if looking for ghosts, but I assumed that would give you even more of a fright.”
He sidled closer to me, leaning into my personal space. I could smell the whiskey
on his breath. “Besides, I wanted to be close enough to stop you from fleeing if you
attempted to do so.”

I leaned back, tempted to retreat away from him a step or two, but I knew my withdrawal
would only amuse him and give him an excuse to touch me in order to illustrate his
point. “If you wanted to speak with me, why didn’t you approach me earlier in the
drawing room, like a civilized human being instead of skulking about like a . . .”
I sucked in a harsh breath at the realization of what I was about to say, and the
knowledge that it could be true. I stumbled back a step, studying the emotions that
played across Marsdale’s face.

“A what?” he prodded, his face lighting with interest. “A murderer?” It was absurd,
but he seemed pleased by this prospect. He took a step, closing the distance between
us again. “Tell me, Lady Darby,” he murmured, lowering his voice as he reached up
to flick a wayward curl away from my face. I stiffened. “Do you find me that . . .
wicked?” he whispered the last into my ear.

A shiver ran down my spine from the gust of his hot breath against my skin and the
thought that he might indeed be an evil man. Leaning away from him, I looked into
his face.

It was clear he was enjoying this—toying with me—as if it were some grand game. However,
I sensed no real malice behind it, only boredom and selfishness. There was also a
weariness, a fatigue, in the faint lines around his mouth and eyes, and a thinly veiled
sadness in the droop of his eyelids.

Marsdale was not the murderer. I was at least ninety percent certain of that.

But in the interest of that other ten percent, I still sidled sideways away from him.
“Murder is not a game,” I told him with a glare. “And neither are my affections.”

“Ah, but I’m not playing for your affections, am I?” he replied, allowing his voice
to drop to a gravelly timbre.

I supposed many women might have fallen prey to this ploy, including Lady Godwin;
however, his deepened voice did nothing except make me want to roll my eyes. “Marsdale,”
I began with weary patience. “I realize that I present some kind of mystery to you,
but I assure you, it’s not intentional.”

Rather than being miffed, Marsdale seemed entertained by my efforts to gently reject
him. “So that’s what you and Stratford were talking about at dinner. I wondered how
he made you blush so prettily.”

I stumbled for a moment, unaware that he had been watching us, and uncertain how to
respond. I certainly wasn’t well versed in the art of rebuffing men’s advances. The
few times I received unwanted attention as a young woman, I had simply walked away.
I was seriously considering such an option now.

Marsdale chuckled at the evidence of my distress. I frowned, not enjoying being the
source of so much amusement, and turned to follow my instinct.

“Oh, come now, Lady Darby,” Marsdale called after me. “You can’t say you aren’t enjoying
my attentions. Otherwise you would be discouraging me.”

Exasperated, I turned to scowl at him. “I
am
discouraging you.”

“No, you’re not.”

I gritted my teeth to stop myself from cursing. “Yes, I am,” I bit out.

He smiled at me as if I were bird-witted. “No, you’re not.”

“I think I know my own mind.”

He shook his head and sighed. “So beautiful, but so naive.”

I lifted my eyes to the heavens in search of patience, or perhaps inspiration in how
to deal with this vain, infuriating man. “What do I have to do to convince you I’m
not interested? What do I have to say to get you to leave me alone?”

A roguish grin spread across his face as he leaned toward me. “Look me in the eye
and tell me you don’t want me in your bed.”

I blushed a fiery red clear to the tips of my ears. Marsdale chuckled, but I was not
about to be cowed now. Swallowing my maidenly sensibilities, I leaned into his face
and stared directly into his dark brown eyes. “Marsdale.”

He widened his smile, flashing his teeth wolfishly.

“I do
not
want you in my bed.” I whirled away from him with a rustle of plum silk and resumed
my march down the hall.

“Maybe not,” he called after me. “But you
do
want in
my
bed.”

I shook my head in irritation and hurried down the hall before he could follow me.
His laughter rang after me.

Darting around the corner, I dashed into the library, relieved to find it empty. Marsdale
had delayed me so long, I was worried Gage and Mr. Fitzpatrick had somehow bypassed
us and reached the room first. Knowing how little time there was to waste, I gathered
up my skirts and clambered up the spiral staircase tucked into the corner of the chamber
to the loft above. As long as Gage did not notice the stairs and decide to investigate,
I felt safe that I would not be discovered.

Careful to remain out of sight, I tossed a cushion on the floor near the southern
wall and settled into position. From my vantage point, I would not be able to see
their facial expressions, but at least I would hear the inflection of their voices.

They appeared barely two minutes after I was seated, and I roundly cursed Marsdale
for stalling me for so long. Several moments longer and they would have passed us
in the hall. I wondered what Gage would have thought had he caught me there with the
Duke of Norwich’s notorious son, and also one of our suspects. Then I wondered why
I cared.

Gage gestured for Mr. Fitzpatrick to have a seat in one of the deep brown chairs positioned
before the fireplace. I had expected him to conduct their discussion there, where
the setting seemed more cozy and intimate than in any of the other seating areas in
the expansive library. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, warding off the chill
of the Highland evening. I peered over the edge of the loft at the flames in longing.
It was cool up near the eaves, so high above the room’s only heat source, and the
thin shawl I had worn to dinner was not sufficient enough to warm me. I glanced across
the loft at the tartan blanket thrown over the sofa but decided it would be too risky
to fetch it now. One creak of the floorboards and I would be found out.

Mr. Fitzpatrick settled into his seat and took a hasty drink from the glass of ruby
port cradled in his hand. I wondered whether he was nervous because of the situation
or because he felt guilty about something. It seemed safe to assume he knew exactly
why Gage had asked for this little tête-à-tête. More than one person had been conscious
of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s relationship with Lady Godwin.

From this height, I could not see Gage’s facial expression, but I could imagine the
reassuring smile he had given each of the people he interrogated so far. I somehow
didn’t imagine him taking a strong-arm approach with Mr. Fitzpatrick. The man was
too genial, and clearly already intimidated by Gage, if the restless bouncing of his
knee was any indication.

“Fitzpatrick, I’ll get straight to the point,” Gage said affably after taking a drink
of his own glass of port and setting it aside. “I need to ask you a few questions
about Lady Godwin and your relationship with her.”

He bobbed his head in response. “I figured as much.” He sighed heavily, as if preparing
to face an arduous ordeal. “What would you like to know?”

Gage rested his elbows on the chair’s arms and clasped his fingers over his stomach,
much as he had the previous night in my room. “It is fairly well known that you lately
conducted a liaison with the countess.”

Mr. Fitzpatrick shifted in his seat. “That is true.”

“When did this liaison begin? How long ago?”

Mr. Fitzpatrick leaned his head back, contemplating the matter. “It was just before
His Majesty King George’s death. So . . . seven, eight weeks?”

In other words, the end of June. Much too recent for him to be the father of her baby.

Gage nodded. “Was everything . . . cozy between you?”

“Of course,” he replied much too quickly.

Gage sensed this as well. “Are you sure about that?” He paused a moment, allowing
the man time to think before continuing in a silky voice. “Because I would hate to
discover later that you lied. It would make you look quite suspicious.”

Mr. Fitzpatrick shifted in his seat again. “Well, we haven’t shared a bed since the
night we arrived at Gairloch, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replied crossly.

Gage’s head perked up. “Why’s that?”