When It's Perfect (4 page)

It was as if he’d never left. Many days during his childhood he’d stood in this spot, staring out to sea, wondering at the world beyond the horizon, dreaming of the time he could leave to explore it. Now, however, his heart was torn between two places, England and Africa, and, where family was concerned, possibly beyond repair.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his frock coat and closed his eyes to the crashing tides.

His first sight of his family home yesterday had brought back so many memories, many of them good ones he’d forgotten during the years he’d been away. But the minute he’d stepped inside Baybridge House—with its unique smells and sounds and the feeling of disillusionment contained within its walls—the memories took on a freshness that filled him with a new despair, one that would certainly never fade.

Christine was dead. His healthy, cheerful, charming albeit sometimes annoying, baby sister was dead without explanation. He had loved her as the father she had never known, and he would do his duty as earl and brother to discover the truth behind that death, whatever the cost. For Marcus knew, as others seemingly did not, that the events leading up to her final weeks of life were not simply perplexing, but haunting.

God help him. If he had only left Egypt sooner—

A knock at the door jerked him from his disturbing thoughts, and Marcus quickly opened his eyes.

“Come,” he bellowed a little too harshly.

The latch clicked; the tall oak door opened, and in rushed one of his mother’s frilly parlor maids, followed by his long-staying houseguest.

“Miss Mary Marsh to see you, Lord Renn.”

He nodded curtly at the servant, who immediately took her leave, but his eyes boldly locked with his invited guest’s as she moved forward with a swish of purple skirts that accented the paleness of her skin.

Those eyes, sharply attuned to detail, were crystal clear and bluish gray, he noted, fringed with thick, pale lashes, staring into his with only the slightest trace of curiosity.

“Miss Marsh,” he said in greeting.

“My lord. You wished to see me?” She halted a foot or so away from his writing desk and stood with shoulders rigid, head angled to the side, hands behind her back.

She had the most intriguing face. Not one that might be called beautiful, but attractive nonetheless, and extremely feminine—fine curves, a touch of pink to the cheeks, full lips, high, blond brows, a small, perfectly straight nose. For a moment he studied her, then he forced himself to look away.

“Yes. Be seated.” He turned back to the window and crossed his arms over his chest, listening to her skirts rustling as she did so.

The silence droned for a moment until Marcus gathered his thoughts and proceeded.

“You’ve been employed by my mother for how long?” he began.

She cleared her throat. “I was hired last summer, but only arrived in early January.” She paused, then added, “That’s when I began my duties.”

That was obvious, and he almost smiled at her nervousness, or at least, at what he thought might be nervousness.

He continued to gaze out the window. “And your duties were?”

He heard a rustle of skirts again but fought the urge to watch her move in her chair.

“I more or less help the lady of a household prepare her daughter’s personal items for a fashionable wedding trousseau,” she stated.

To Marcus it sounded like a typical glib answer she reserved for those who had to ask but didn’t care one way or another
what
she did, especially given the fact that it didn’t explain what her duties at Baybridge House had been exactly.

Slowly he turned and looked at her again. The color had risen in her cheeks, and she clutched her interlocked fingers in her lap, though she remained otherwise still, watching him.

“Is that a profession?”

She quickly glanced toward his wall of hanging porcelain plates, then back again. “I have made it mine.”

“And it pays well?”

“The pay is adequate for my needs.”

Why the devil did he feel as if she summoned answers before he spoke the questions? With an unintended smirk at her clever evasiveness, he asked, “You assemble wedding attire for fashionable ladies, or fashionable attire for any woman who can pay what you charge?”

She blinked, and her lips parted just briefly before she spoke. “I design and correlate the necessary bedding, linens, and wedding garments for elegant
ladies
who can afford my services. I employ two seamstresses who work with me, and on occasion I assist them with the actual sewing as well.”

Again, not a terribly specific answer as far as he was concerned. He kept quiet for a second or two, then pushed to clarify. “By ‘wedding garments’ you mean to suggest you’re something of a dressmaker?”

Her lips thinned as annoyance set in. Oddly, that didn’t bother him.

“No, not gowns. Ladies’… apparel. For
marriage
.”

For a split second the answer stupefied him as her meaning dawned.

Not that he hadn’t seen it coming. Then he felt a warmth creep up his neck, which he ignored. “I see. Intimate… underthings?”

“Do you make a habit of asking questions that embarrass your employees?”

That stunned him on two fronts, first that she’d had the gall to say it, and second because it took her words to make him realize that it was he who employed her. He hadn’t thought of that. He’d been away too long.

Marcus rubbed his aching eyes, which remained tired after a dreadful night’s sleep, then strolled three feet to his desk. He pulled his large green leather chair out and attempted to sit comfortably, which seemed exceptionally difficult for some reason.

“I apologize, Miss Marsh,” he said brusquely. “It wasn’t my intention to embarrass you. Of course you had your duties, and I’m certain you performed them well.”

One of her brows rose as if she questioned that response, but she muttered only a curt, “Thank you.”

He quelled the urge to laugh. God, he was on edge, and she sat there primly, trying but failing to conceal both curiosity and annoyance. For some peculiar reason he admired that. Most of the women he’d been around lately were timid and unobtrusive. He’d grown rather bored

with the female sex of his recent acquaintance. It was a refreshing change to sit and discuss something practically indecent with a lady who intrigued him.

Leaning forward, elbows on his cleared and polished desk, fingers interlocked in front of him, he decided it was not the time for teasing, but to get to the point.

“You see, Miss Marsh, I’m having some difficulty coming to terms with the death of my sister. I requested your presence here this morning because I would like you to help me discover what exactly happened on the day, and in the weeks, before she died.”

He watched her. She frowned minutely, then shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Lord Renn, but I don’t understand.”

He expected that. Staring at her candidly, he inhaled deeply, and relayed his thoughts, which he knew would shock her.

“I believe,” he revealed in a lowered voice, “that there was more to Christine’s death than simply slipping and hitting her head on her dressing table as she fell. She was not a clumsy girl. Beyond that, I have information that suggests she was very deeply troubled by something in the weeks before she succumbed to her fate. I would like you to help me discover what it was.”

The wind howled against the shutters, whistling through the windows at an eerie pitch. Mary Marsh didn’t move a muscle, remaining nearly expressionless. But in her fascinating eyes he witnessed a flicker of… something. Marcus couldn’t put his finger on it, but he suspected suddenly that she understood exactly what he was talking about.

“I’m not sure I can help you,” she murmured after a long moment’s hesitation. “I can relate what I know, my whereabouts on that day, and what I told the officials at the inquiry. But I don’t think there’s anything more of significance I can offer you.”

Aside from the obvious
. For the first time he truly wished Miss Marsh was old or ugly. It would make the weeks to come so much easier.

However, the fact that she didn’t denounce his thoughts as nonsense was telling. Then again, social graces forbade such uncouth comments from someone of her position.

Marcus sat back in his chair as he continued to study her. A wispy curl had escaped her hairnet and floated down over her ear—a delicate ear free of jewelry. But she wore elegant, somewhat expensive clothing, spoke well for a common worker, and he realized at that moment that although Christine had gone into detail regarding appearance and

disposition, both of which spoke positively toward the woman, he knew nothing of the depth of her cleverness. He did know for a fact, however, that Christine had trusted Mary Marsh, and regardless of his own ridiculous attraction to her, he needed her help.

“Miss Marsh,” he said, tapping his fingertips on his desktop, “I understand your hesitancy, and that you would no doubt like to return home to London in light of recent events. If that is your choice, I’m in no position to stop you from leaving. But here is my problem.” He lifted an ivory letter opener, twisting it with his fingers while his brows drew together in thought. “Toward the end, Christine’s frequent correspondence with me grew increasingly strange. Her most recent letters were riddled with varying tones of despair, helplessness, frustration, and even a certain fear. That was unlike her. I’ve never known Christine to be afraid of anything.”

That was a bit of an exaggeration, but he wanted to stress the point.

It made Mary pause, too, as she glanced down at her hands.

“Did you?” he pressed in near whisper.

After a moment she shook her head. “No, though I did sense… I don’t know, perhaps an irritation with me and certain members of her acquaintance the week before her accident, as if she were nervous, unsettled about something, and it distressed her.” She looked up, directly into his eyes. “I simply assumed it had to do with her impending marriage to the Viscount Exeter, as any bride might react when her wedding date approaches.”

He noted she used that word.
Accident
. He brushed over it for now, and leaned forward in his chair once more, deciding to change his tactic.

“Tell me of her mood that week.”

If she noticed his altered approach to their conversation, she didn’t show it. She merely lifted her delicate shoulders in a slight shrug before she spoke.

“As I said, she seemed… agitated, and somewhat pensive, at least around me. Frankly, Lord Renn, my relationship with Lady Christine was one of servant to employer. We were on friendly terms, yes, but she didn’t confide anything that made me apprehensive of her safety, or think something in her daily life was amiss.”

The perfect answer. And completely devoid of real information. He didn’t know that by her words or manner of expression. He felt her evasiveness instinctively.

“So,” he continued formally, “explain to me what occurred that day, if you please.”

She inhaled matter-of-factly, as if preparing to tell him everything she’d already related to the authorities. It mattered none to Marcus that she obviously expected such a standard inquiry from him as well.

“Her morning began as usual at nine, I believe, with her receiving breakfast in bed. I saw her for the first time that day at eleven, and we were together for about two hours when we broke for luncheon. The next time I saw her was at approximately four, just before tea, when I…

when I found her.”

“I see.”

An uncomfortable moment passed; Mary shifted her body unnecessarily in her chair.

“And why were you together?” he pressed. “What was her general mood?”

“She and I had a fitting, for which she tried on several garments. As for her mood…” She shook her head once, frowning. “She’d actually been rather talkative, though I assumed it to be nervous talk—”

“About what?”

Her brows rose just faintly. “I beg your pardon?”

“What did you discuss?”

“Oh. Just the usual things ladies discuss.”

He reigned in his annoyance. “And that was?”

Her eyes narrowed very slightly. “If I remember precisely, Lord Renn, we discussed marriage and staying attractive for the benefit of one’s husband.” She gazed at him blankly again. “I’m sure you understand.”

Of course he didn’t, but he didn’t want to touch that comment. “And yet you’ve never been married?”

He spoke the words without the slightest clue why, and after they were out, the sudden flush in her cheeks told him he shouldn’t have been so intrusive. But he was curious about her personally, for reasons unclear to him.

She straightened; her lips thinned flatly. “No, but that is irrelevant.”

He leaned farther back in his chair, which creaked against his weight, eyeing her speculatively. “But what you said to Christine, or more exactly, what she might have said to you on the day she died, could be important as I delve into the situation leading up to that death.”

She studied him for a moment, almost blatantly, making him somewhat uncomfortable, even hot beneath his collar. But he didn’t

budge.

“I don’t see how a conversation between ladies about the fact that gentlemen seldom remain passionate after the wedding vows are spoken could be in any way pertinent.” She paused, then with emphasis added, “My lord.”

Her abrasiveness troubled him. The pull of her eyes stirred him. And her boldness and unusual statement ushered in a charged feeling of frustration mixed with anger. It was true that like most men he didn’t understand women very well, but he wanted to understand this one, if only for the short time she’d be remaining at Baybridge House. What the devil ladies discussed in private, he couldn’t begin to care, but something had changed in his sister during the last few months, and he wanted answers.

“Miss Marsh,” he replied at length, “I’m not trying to pry into delicate issues or conversations, or your private affairs, or even those of my sister. Your business is your own. But it might help matters and make this easier if you work
with
me instead of against me.”

That seemed to confound her as her features went slack with surprise. Then, after a moment of silent awareness of the tension between them, the chilly air surrounding them, she slumped a little in her chair and backed down. It was the first indication to Marcus that the woman actually seemed troubled by recent events.