The Anatomist's Wife (13 page)

I stumbled to a halt and stared down at the folded white foolscap, wondering if I
should have been expecting it. I glanced behind me into the corridor, peering in each
direction before I closed and locked the door. Only then did I bend and pick up the
letter, for I knew that was what it had to be—another note from either the murderer
or a guest who was very diligent in their persecution of me. I turned the page around
in my fingers, checking it for markings, and then unfolded the paper. It crinkled
between my stiff fingers.

PERHAPS YOU SHOULD LEAVE THE INVESTIGATING TO THOSE WHO ARE MORE EXERIENCED BEFORE
YOU REGRET IT. ETERNALLY.

I blinked down at the words. Ice formed in my veins, chilling me to the core. If whoever
had sent this intended to frighten me, they’d certainly done their job. But there
was no way I was going to quit this investigation. There was simply too much at stake
for me to heed to threats, especially if they only came from a vindictive guest on
a witch hunt.

The idea that the letter might have been written by the killer’s hand gave me greater
pause, but I was no less determined to defy them and discover why they wanted me off
the inquiry so badly. Was there something the murderer worried I would uncover that
Gage or Philip might not? Why? Because of my grim experience?

I frowned and refolded the letter, irritated to see that my hands were still shaking.
Then I stuffed it into the drawer of my escritoire with the note from the night before.
I knew one thing—I certainly wasn’t going to show the letter to Gage. After our altercation
in the library, I knew he was looking for an excuse to ban me from the inquiry and
lock me in my room, and I wasn’t about to give it to him. For the time being, I was
more scared of what my absence from the investigation could cost me than what the
murderer might do, foolish as that might be.

Even so, I tossed and turned long into the night and wondered if I was making a grave
mistake.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Y
ou’d better have a good reason for pulling me out of bed at such an ungodly hour,
Gage,” Marsdale drawled as he entered the parlor connected to his bedchamber the next
morning.

Under the circumstances, I was inclined to agree with him, having barely pulled
myself
out of bed in time to meet Gage after another long, restless night. I would have
been quite happy to allow Marsdale to sleep on, disturbing him closer to his normal
rising time at noon. But of course that would have wasted hours of daylight and valuable
investigation time. The procurator fiscal would not allow me to make up for lost time,
and neither would the murderer.

Marsdale’s steps faltered when he saw me, and his eyes lit with a gleeful anticipation
I found most unsettling. “Now why didn’t you tell me the lovely Lady Darby would be
joining us?” he demanded. “I would have hurried along much quicker. And worn much
less clothing,” he added with a wicked grin before flopping down onto the settee much
too close to me.

I knew I should have chosen the chair. I pulled my skirt out from under him and scooted
as far away from him as the piece of furniture would allow. My maneuvering only made
him grin wider.

“Let Lady Darby be,” Gage told Marsdale, his brow lowered in a fierce frown.

The duke’s heir slouched deeper into the cushions and stuck out his lower lip in a
pout.

As Gage predicted, Marsdale had insisted on being difficult from the moment we appeared
at his door that morning. He tried to refuse us when Gage sent Marsdale’s valet in
to wake him at eight, and then at a quarter after, and half past. Only Gage’s threat
to send four of Philip’s footmen in to drag him out of bed and tie him to a chair
seemed sufficient enough to motivate him to move. Even then, he had still taken his
time preparing to receive us.

I studied his appearance with some interest, wondering just how terrible he had looked
when he rolled out of bed if this was how he appeared after nearly half an hour of
primping. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair stood on end, but his jaw had clearly
been shaved. I could still smell the soap. In place of a frock coat, he wore a black
velvet dressing gown over a pristine white shirt and a pair of buff trousers. The
shirt gaped at his throat, providing me a glimpse of the dark whorls of hair sprinkling
his chest. I tried not to focus on the sight, lest Marsdale notice my interest. However,
it was more difficult than I would have thought. Rarely had a man appeared before
me in dishabille. Even Sir Anthony was always punctiliously dressed in my presence,
and he came to me at night in the dark wearing his nightshirt. I suppose there were
his anatomy subjects to consider, but the body of a living man was quite different
from that of a dead one.

“You’re becoming quite a bore,” Marsdale told Gage, all the while keeping his eyes
on me and the neckline of my mauve-and-dove-gray morning dress. “In fact, Mrs. Cline
complained to me of it just last evening.”

Gage sighed heavily. “We’re not here to discuss me. I want to talk about your relationship
with Lady Godwin.”

“Why would you care about that?” Marsdale replied offhandedly. “She was demanding
and dull.” His eyes slid over me intently, as if taking inventory. “Lady Darby seems
like she would be a much more interesting companion. Did you bring her to share?”
I stiffened. “I’m not normally interested in such a thing if it includes another male,
but for Lady Darby, I think I might be willing.”

“Marsdale!” Gage barked angrily.

A blush heated my face clear to the tips of my ears, and I couldn’t stop an image
from forming in my head of Gage cradling my face between his hands, and Marsdale . . .
My imagination seemed to give out at that point. “But how . . . ?” I began to ask
in puzzlement before my brain could stop me from doing so.

Marsdale burst out in delighted laughter while Gage shook his head at me, discouraging
me from finishing the question.

“Oh, Lady Darby, you are a treat,” Marsdale gasped, cradling his head in his hands.
His face was suffused with an interesting combination of pain and amusement. I assumed
the ache was caused by last night’s overindulgence, and I suddenly wished for him
to suffer a great deal more of it. “I could teach you . . .”

“Marsdale,” Gage interrupted. “I did not bring Lady Darby with me so that you could
torment her. Now, if you will. Let’s return to the matter at hand.” He glared at the
marquess. “You should be taking this seriously. After all, you
are
being considered as a suspect in a murder investigation.”

Marsdale turned to give Gage his full attention for the first time since entering
the room, and I shifted in my seat, grateful to be released from his gaze.

“I’m a suspect. Truly?” He actually seemed intrigued by the idea. I thought he had
only been toying with me last night when he became so interested by such a prospect.

Gage narrowed his eyes. “I was informed that you were involved with Lady Godwin earlier
this year.”

“Yes. I allowed her to bed me a few times,” he replied airily.

Surprised by the way he had chosen to phrase his answer, I couldn’t stop myself from
asking. “
She
bedded
you
?”

He turned back to me with a smirk. “It was at a house party. I was bored and she was
eager, so I let her crawl under my covers. All in all, it was a rather tedious encounter.”

I widened my eyes, taken aback by his blasé attitude. I had the distinct feeling Lady
Godwin would not have viewed their liaison in such derogatory terms, and that she
would have been furious to discover he had.

“Have no worries, Lady Darby,” he went on to say, reaching out to drag his finger
over the back of my hand. I pulled it away from him, tucking it in my lap. “I’m certain
our encounters will be anything but tedious.”

I arched an eyebrow haughtily at him. He was certainly in fine form, and I wondered
if he was normally this crude in the morning, or if perhaps he was trying to punish
me for last night’s rejection.

“When was this house party?” Gage interrupted before I could come up with a proper
set-down.

Marsdale’s eyes laughed at me as he addressed Gage. “Sometime around Saint Valentine’s
Day. Val Corbett finds it bloody hilarious to host his annual hunting party to correspond
with his namesake’s holiday.”

I glanced at Gage. If that were true, then Marsdale was unlikely to be the father
of Lady Godwin’s baby.

“You did not bed her again after that?” he pressed, his pale blue eyes washed gray
by the bright hue of his bottle-green coat.

Marsdale grimaced and turned to Gage. “God, no. Why are you pressing me so about this?
Did someone toss the viscountess’s skirts before killing her?” I cringed. “If so,
you’d best speak to Fitzpatrick. He’s been swiving her for weeks.”

“I’ve already spoken to Fitzpatrick,” Gage replied with exaggerated patience.

“And he accused me?”

Gage studiously avoided my eyes. “Well, no.”

“Ah, so you’re just speaking with all of her former lovers,” Marsdale replied, widening
his legs so that his left knee almost brushed mine. “That could take a while. The
viscountess spread her legs for more men than a twopenny whore. And most of them aren’t
here at Gairloch.”

I screwed up my face in disgust. “Surely not.”

“Well, no. Not quite that bad. It’s merely an expression.” His eyes perused my face
lazily. “Perhaps I should be couching my words in more polite terms, but this is hardly
a polite conversation. Which makes me wonder why you’re here.”

I struggled to continue meeting his eyes and not glance at Gage. He was far sharper
than either of us had expected him to be at nine o’clock in the morning when he had
been foxed the night before. However, I doubted he would run about telling everyone
of my presence in his chamber this morning—at least, not in my current capacity. He
might try to imply that I had been in his bed.

“Lady Darby is here at my request,” Gage pronounced, saving me from coming up with
an explanation. “I thought you might cooperate better with a lady present.”

“If you really want me to cooperate, you should offer me something in return,” Marsdale
replied, his words dripping with insinuation.

I frowned at him.

“How about, I won’t ask Cromarty to lock you in your chambers without a drop of alcohol
or a single woman,” Gage threatened, bristling in his chair across the tea table.

Far from being intimidated, Marsdale seemed amused by Gage’s irritation. “What else
do you want to know? More about Lady Godwin’s sexual proclivities?”

“Where were you when Lady Lydia screamed?”

He sighed, as if bored by Gage’s question. “Lord Stratford and I retired to the men’s
parlor for a smoke after dinner. However, Stratford left me shortly after, and I’m
afraid no one else joined me until Lord Lewis Effingham stopped in to tell me about
the gruesome sight everyone found in the maze. So I have no one to corroborate my
alibi.” He did not seem particularly worried about this, and even smiled rather smugly.

“Do you have any idea who might have murdered Lady Godwin? Any idea who might have
wanted to hurt her?”

Marsdale shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

Gage scowled at Marsdale’s nonchalant attitude. “Well, if you think of anything, I
would appreciate it if you would let me know.” He began to rise, and I followed suit.

“I have a question,” Marsdale said.

I tensed and braced for whatever lewd jest was about to pop out of his mouth next.

“Lady Darby, do you still paint?”

The query sounded innocent, but I knew that could hardly be the case if Lord Marsdale
was asking it. “Yes,” I replied cautiously.

“I would like to hire you to paint my portrait,” he declared.

My heart jumped at his words. It had been nearly a year and a half since someone other
than family had commissioned me to paint for them. All of my recent work had been
created from my own whim, in hopes that someone would find the subjects I chose interesting
enough to purchase. I longed to paint a real person again, someone beyond the figures
in my imagination or the members of my family.

“Truly?” I asked, not certain I could trust Marsdale’s words. Not that I doubted he
would want a portrait of himself. The aristocracy liked to commission paintings of
themselves for posterity, and he was definitely arrogant enough to enjoy such a thing.
However, he had teased and tormented me since his arrival, and I wasn’t certain how
this statement might play out in the private game he seemed to be playing.

“You are certainly talented enough. And I would rather have my image depicted while
I am still young, rather than after my father is deceased.”

I realized he was speaking of his ducal portrait, and I instantly began imagining
how I would dress and pose him to his best advantage. Perhaps at the top of a grand
staircase or on a terrace or balcony—something to suit his haughty demeanor. He was
handsome enough not to require the softer light of evening, though I still felt the
muted shadows of late afternoon would suit him best. No robes or scepters or any of
the other silly props so often present in the depictions of lords and royalty. He
would look most impressive dressed in his austere evening kit, or perhaps riding attire.

“I would like to pose here, I think,” Marsdale said, stretching out on the settee
like a large cat.

I stared down at him in confusion, not understanding why he would wish to be depicted
so slovenly and lazy.

He smiled up at me, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “In the nude.” He laughed as shock
radiated across my face.

I scowled. I should have known better. But the idea of painting a commissioned portrait
again had simply been too tempting, too exhilarating, to resist. I wanted to reach
down and smack him for raising my hopes so. It would serve him right if I actually
accepted the project. I had never painted a living man without clothing before. It
might prove to be an interesting experience. Unfortunately, I suspected Marsdale would
enjoy it far too much.

“Come, Lady Darby,” Gage said, offering me his arm. “I believe Lord Marsdale has had
enough fun at your expense this morning.” He glared at the marquess, who only continued
to chuckle.

I tucked my arm inside Gage’s and tried to hide my disappointment at not gaining an
actual commission and my growing fascination with the idea of painting a nude. I wondered
what it would be like. Would I be embarrassed? Would my subject be? My gaze slid to
Gage as he closed the door to Marsdale’s parlor. What would it be like to paint Gage?
My cheeks heated at the thought.

“I’m sorry Marsdale decided to behave like such a rogue,” he told me, marching me
down the hall. “Had I known, I’m not sure I would have allowed you to accompany me.”

I cleared my throat. “Then I’m glad you didn’t know.” He glanced at me. “Besides,
I’ve grown quite accustomed to associating with rogues. Aren’t you one?”

His arm stiffened beneath mine. “I’m not a rogue, Lady Darby. I’m a rakehell.”

I snorted. “What’s the difference?”

His voice hardened. “A rogue implies that one is a scoundrel, a villain, taking what
he should not and shirking the law and his duty. A rakehell may be debauched in the
intimate sense, jumping from skirt to skirt, but never where it is unwanted, and
never
with an innocent.”

It sounded as if he had recited this twaddle before, and I wondered if he actually
believed it. “I still don’t see the difference,” I replied.

He paused in the middle of the hall and turned a frosty gaze on me. “I assure you,
my lady, that were you closeted with a rogue rather than a rake, you would know the
difference. If a rogue decided he wanted you, he would use all of the means at his
disposal to persuade you, but ultimately he would debauch you whether you wished it
or not. A rake would never dishonor a woman in such a way.”