Stepping forward, Marcus smiled at Mrs. May. “Did I not hear you say the man you saw was older and had more gray in his hair?”
“Can’t say I know what you heard,” she responded with a wink. “But it’s clear someone must take the blame. Why not you?”
“Why not, indeed,” Marcus agreed.
She retied the red ribbon of her bonnet and fluffed up the raveling ends. “Not one of us can claim complete innocence.” She grinned, revealing several missing teeth on the left side of her mouth. “Not at our age, anyways.”
“There are few who could dispute that.” Marcus studied her with a smile. “But you did say gray hair.”
“Maybe I did.” She shrugged. “Or maybe you misheard. It were night, after all. Could be just the lamplight reflecting off his hair.”
“And deep grooves running from his nose to the corners of his mouth,” Marcus said. While most men had such folds on their faces, Marcus’s could scarcely be described as deeply etched.
“But you’re shorter than Mr. Gaunt, here, ain’t you?” she retorted, her eyes glittering with evident enjoyment over their disagreement. “The man I saw were shorter.”
“Do you truly believe I was the man you saw?” Marcus asked, his voice soft with disappointment.
If Mrs. May decided to change her tale in hopes of a reward, it would only complicate matters.
She shrugged and stared at Mr. Gaunt.
“The truth, Mrs. May. One last time, if you please,” Gaunt said.
“Oh, all right. Never seen ‘im before—more’s the pity. The other were shorter, even, than this one, and older,” she stated at last with a heavy, mournful sigh. “Could use a few like this one, though. Gets lonely of an evening…”
“The truth at last. And you are sure, Mrs. May?” Gaunt clasped his hands behind his back and examined her with a frown.
Her gray eyes flashed up at him, and she frowned back. She sat up straighter and then with great deliberation, poured out the last of the tea from the teapot on the desk. After taking a loud, slurping sip, she set her cup down.
Finally, she looked directly at Gaunt. “Think what you like—there was a lamppost nearby, and I know what I seen. It weren’t him—seeing as how you aren’t in the mood to share the reward.” She snorted. “So if you’d hoped to collect—well, it’s just too bad for you. I’m not saying nothing more. I may ‘ave had a good time that night, but I know what I seen and who I seen. That gentleman were older, I’d say. At least twenty years. Maybe more. I know my men.” She shrugged her thick shoulders and arranged the drape of her shawl. “Couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but there were silver in his hair—no mistake about that. So this one’s too young. You got the wrong man, Mr. Gaunt.” Her head tilted back as she laughed again. “No reward for you!” Her hands slapped the armrests as she looked at Gaunt, the sharp malice back in her bloodshot gray eyes. “Though you’ll be paying me, my fine gentleman, won’t you?”
Gaunt nodded as he pulled a leather purse out of his jacket. He counted out a few coins and tossed them to Mrs. May. Then he held up another shilling. “Tell us again what you remember—everything you remember. I want every detail, no matter how small. If you do, you’ll get this coin, as well.”
“I’ll repeat it as many times as you like!” Mrs. May shrugged as she tucked the coins into her purse before tucking it under her skirt and settling back in her chair.
Although she repeated her tale and responded promptly to Gaunt’s questions, she failed to add any more helpful details. The man was still an unknown gentleman with graying hair, and the bundle he threw into the Thames was still questionable, although Mrs. May seemed convinced that it was a child by the shape and the fact that she saw feet sticking out.
Twenty minutes later, Gaunt paid her the final shilling and dismissed her.
“Satisfied?” Marcus asked, watching the butler escort Mrs. May out the front door to a hackney that he paid to take the lady home. He hated to admit it, but he was relieved that the woman had finally admitted that she had seen someone other than him.
Unfortunately, her description was vague enough to apply to almost any middle-aged, dark-haired man, including Eburne. Or even Marcus, himself, if one discounted the age discrepancy.
While he was sure no one would take Mrs. May’s word over his, she could still have made things awkward for him. Matters were difficult enough as it was, and in truth, their little charade meant nothing. No one could prove that Cynthia was alive—or dead—just as no one could prove that Marcus had had nothing to do with any of it.
Gaunt nodded. “I am satisfied, although I fear that anyone with an extra coin or two might buy any story they wish from Mrs. May. She seemed ready to claim you were indeed the man she’d seen if the price were high enough.” Amusement glimmered in his eyes, and his mouth twitched into a brief grin. “I beg your pardon, however, for refusing to introduce you and treating you rather high-handedly. I had hoped to get at the truth that way.”
“Well, I am sincerely relieved you did not let her know that I am an earl.” Marcus laughed. “We would never have gotten the truth from her, then.”
“Oh, we may have persuaded her, although the price would have been much, much higher.”
“I just wish I didn’t have the sense that she was only telling us what she thought we wanted to hear. Do you believe her description to be accurate?” Marcus asked, frowning.
“Graying dark hair, under six feet in height, and deep nasolabial grooves—I believe those details may be reliable.”
“And the feet sticking out of the bundle…” Marcus shook his head. “I wish that description didn’t sound so truthful. Do you believe Cynthia is gone, then? That I am wasting my time searching for her?”
“I cannot say, my lord.” Gaunt stared down at the glossy surface of his desk and trailed the fingers of one hand over the carved edge. “No child has been found along the Thames, but that may be interpreted in many ways.”
“And you? What is your opinion? Is the search fruitless?”
Gaunt didn’t answer immediately. His brows drew together in thought before he let out a long breath and looked at Marcus. “I have a few more paths to explore, my lord. Your Mr. Eburne, for example. I spoke with his valet. It seems Mr. Eburne was out and about most of that night, although he had no engagements that his man knew about.” Gaunt stared at the floor for a moment. “One point that was of interest; the valet remembered that night, even though it was months ago, because of a strange circumstance. It seems that when Mr. Eburne stumbled home at two in the morning, he’d somehow managed to scratch the backs of both his hands. Mr. Eburne gave no explanation—at least none to his valet.” Gaunt’s eyes rose to study Marcus.
“You must question Eburne, then. Lady Arundell would have fought for her life. Whoever it was, he caught her from behind. She would have scratched his hands, trying to get him to release her—to draw a breath.” His lungs ached at the thought. He coughed into a fist. “We must continue. We must be sure about Cynthia, at least. Do you not agree?”
“Yes. If it were my niece, I believe I would continue the search until all avenues of inquiry were exhausted.” An expression of sympathy flashed over Gaunt’s face before his coolly professional mask dropped into place once more.
“Or you ran out of money.” Marcus’s mouth twisted. Appalling though it was to consider it, Miss Stainton’s five thousand pounds might prove very useful until the other bits and pieces of his inheritance became accessible.
Not that he didn’t have sufficient funds at his disposal if he were frugal. He shrugged away the unworthy thought. He wasn’t marrying Miss Stainton for her money. In fact, he’d ensured that the marriage contract stated clearly that her money was to remain hers in case she should ever have need of it.
If she found life with him intolerable, she would have sufficient funds to leave or set up her own establishment. She must never feel trapped…
His gut twisted at the thought. He had wanted her, had hoped… Well, it didn�
�t matter what he had hoped.
When he glanced up, he found Gaunt studying him, a sympathetic look in his eyes. “Is there anything else, my lord?”
“No. For now, continue the search for my niece. Question Eburne. Find out if this older man was he, though it doesn’t sound likely. There is no doubt in my mind that the man Mrs. May saw murdered my brother and took Cynthia with him. I want him found. If it was Eburne, then he must be arrested.”
“Yes, my lord.”
With that, Marcus left, the itch between his shoulder blades starting again. When that sensation irritated him, the only solution was to return to the area around the new London Bridge and start the search for Cynthia anew. The more men looking for her, the sooner her fate would be determined.
Or so he hoped.
Chapter Ten
Two weeks slipped by in a haze, and Dorothy seemed to have no time to stop and think. Her aunt saw to that, rarely leaving her alone for more than a minute at a time.
The day arrived, and the marriage ceremony was over by noon. Numb, Dorothy returned to the Polkinghorne townhouse to collect her meager belongings. She still couldn’t believe that she’d muttered the correct words through quivering lips and was now married. In the carriage, her strongest sensation was a deep desire to cry.
What had she done? While she was attracted to him and desperately wanted him to look at her with admiration—even love—in his eyes, she knew he’d only married her for the sake of duty. And her money, of course. She couldn’t forget that.
Although no one had ever told her, or Grace, that they had inherited anything. Sighing with exasperation, she realized that most likely her money had been handed over to Lord Arundell—her husband—as part of the marriage contract. No one, certainly not Uncle Cyril, would have felt it necessary to tell her anything about it. Women weren’t supposed to worry about such things, even when in truth, it was the one topic that no woman could safely ignore.
The thought made her feel like a horse, traded for the best price, with nothing to say about it.
Valise in hand, she glanced around the grand entryway of the Polkinghorne townhouse. “Where is Grace?” she asked her aunt.
“Grace?” Aunt Mary laughed and reached forward to push Dorothy’s bonnet into a position she clearly thought was more flattering. “Why, she’s gone for a walk with Stephen, Cecilia, and Jane.”
“But I thought… That is, I thought she was coming with me?”
“Coming with you?” Aunt Mary laughed and shook her head. “When you are but newly wed? No indeed, Lady Arundell.” She took great pleasure in pronouncing Dorothy’s new name. Patting Dorothy on the arm, she edged her closer to the door. “She will stay with us, of course. At least, for the time being. You do not want her following you about and causing difficulties at this point in your marriage. Take it from me, there is much to get used to—well, you will find out soon enough.” She winked and laughed again. “If you both wish, she can join you in a month or so. Before we leave London for the summer, perhaps.”
“But…” Dorothy stared at her, feeling abandoned. She’d assumed her sister would go with her, and she’d counted on her presence to make things easier. At least she would have been a familiar face, and someone to talk to over the breakfast table besides Lord Arundell.
Her pulse raced at the thought of facing her husband at breakfast. It pounded even more loudly at the thought of facing him tonight. The notion both excited and terrified her. If only he loved her, even just a little…
“Why did you not want Cecilia to marry him?” Dorothy asked impulsively.
Her aunt stared at her in surprise. “Cecilia? Oh, no—not my darling Cecilia.” Flushing, Aunt Mary’s glance bounced around the hallway, landing anywhere except on Dorothy’s face.
“Not your darling Cecilia? Why not?”
“Well, he’s… Well, if you must know, they would not suit.”
“Not suit? Why would you think the earl and I would suit?”
“Well, you are desperate, are you not? And quite old—too old for a Season, and he is an excellent match, although none of us quite cares for him—well, never mind that. Any girl would be thrilled to receive an offer from an earl. It is a great honor, as you well know. At any rate, it is too late, now.”
Too old for a Season. Was that really the reason, then? That they did not want to waste money on a Season for Dorothy? Was that petty notion worth wasting an alliance with an earl on a mere niece?
How completely demoralizing.
“I see,” Dorothy replied.
“You really must leave, my dear.” Aunt Mary laughed as she pushed her playfully toward the door. “I know you must be dying to see your new home. And your husband. He is so handsome, is he not? And an earl…” She clasped her hands together over her heart, and her gaze grew distant as she considered such a delightful prospect. “You are so fortunate, my dear. You must come and visit us often.”
“Very well.” Dorothy sighed. “Please tell Grace to come and see me at her first opportunity.”
“Of course. We shall all visit.” Her aunt giggled. “More frequently than you might wish, perhaps.”
Seeing their familiar faces could never become that tiresome, Dorothy thought. On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed her surprised aunt on her cheek before walking through the front door. Aunt Mary might have been petty when she arranged this marriage for Dorothy, but she was still her aunt.
The earl had sent a carriage for her, the side emblazoned with his family crest, and she flushed as the coachman handed her inside. Dressed in her best, but still shabby, blue traveling dress, she felt like an imposter. Lady Arundell, indeed. A flare of irritation made her straighten her back against the soft leather squabs.
Despite what her husband thought, she’d never aspired to the nobility. She didn’t particularly want the heavy responsibilities that always came with such a position, and it both annoyed and frightened her that Lord Arundell had been so busy with his duties that he could spare no time for her after their abrupt, plain wedding.
More a successful business meeting than a wedding. She didn’t even have a new dress to wear, although her aunt assured her that after they were married, Lord Arundell would see that she got a wardrobe befitting the wife of an earl.
Despite her gloves, her fingers felt for the smooth hard surface of the ring on her left hand. The slim metal felt foreign and rubbed the inner surfaces of her finger, irritating the skin. She sighed and supposed she would soon develop a callus and barely notice it. A mocking smile twisted her mouth. Over time, she might even develop a callus over her heart and become less aware of her handsome husband, although she wasn’t sure that was possible.
When the carriage jerked to a halt, she glanced up at the grand façade of Arundell House. Her gloved hand clutched the leather strap near the door as her stomach sank. Even her breath stopped for a moment, her chest tightening. For one horrifying moment, she realized that she hoped—no, wanted—to walk into the entryway and see Lord Arundell—no, Marcus, her husband—waiting for her with open arms and a warm welcoming smile. She wanted to see the rich golden flecks in his eyes sparkle with admiration and love for her. Most of all, she wanted to feel his strong grip around her waist as he pulled her to him…
Her heart hammered. Her thoughts were terrifying. Despite everything, she feared she’d somehow fallen in love with him.
And he didn’t love her. In fact, she sensed he was disappointed in her. A hot surge of tears sprang to her eyes before she could swallow them back. As a footman opened the carriage door, she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders.
Now was not the time to cry.
The servant’s blue eyes were wide with curiosity as he held out his white-gloved hand to assist her to alight. He cast a series of quick glances at her, his eyes avidly taking in her shabby garments before he politely dropped his gaze and guided her through the open door.
She hardly had time to take in the wide black and white marble floor, tal
l columns gracing the doorways on her left and right, and the gorgeous clouds lit by a sunset painted on the ceiling several stories above her head before a thin, small maid curtseyed and gestured to the large room on her left.
“If you please, my lady, Mr. Grover asked that if it is acceptable to you, he’d like to present us—” She stumbled over what appeared to be her rehearsed greeting. A deep flush rose over her sallow cheeks, and she shook herself, staring down at the floor as if searching for her words on the shiny marble. “Beg pardon, my lady. He—that is, Mr. Grover, the butler, would like to present the servants—your servants, that is. The earl’s servants. Us, that is.” Her blush rose again, and her gray eyes widened as she stared in obvious terror at Dorothy. She bobbed another curtsey, shaking so much that she nearly fell over.
Dorothy instinctively thrust out an arm to catch the girl, but the maid managed to regain her balance before that became necessary. Smiling, Dorothy said, “I shall be happy to oblige Mr. Grover. And you are?”
“Betty, my lady. Betty Kirk. I’m to be your maid—oh, just for now—if you wish it. His lordship thought it might be suitable until you could hire one you like.” Her words tripped over themselves in a rush, and in a curious gesture, she crossed her arms behind her back so that she could clutch her elbows in her hands. Her white-knuckled fingers revealed her anxiety, and she kept flashing shy glances at Dorothy, although she tried to keep her gaze properly trained on the floor.
Rather high-handed of her new husband to assign her a maid, but perhaps he only meant to be helpful.
And she did rather like Betty. The girl wasn’t a beauty by any stretch of the imagination, but then neither was Dorothy. Betty’s face was too long and thin with barely any chin at all and a terrible overbite, but she was so earnest and trying so desperately hard that Dorothy just wanted to hug her and tell her that everything was going to be all right.
“I am very pleased with Lord Arundell’s decision, Betty.” Dorothy smiled and took a step forward. “And I think we may not have to search any further for a lady’s maid, after all.”
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