by Lynn Messina
No, with a modesty even her indiscriminately censorious Aunt Vera would admire, Bea held her impish sense of humor in check for a full fifteen minutes and did not allow even one faintly amused chuckle to escape her until they were firmly ensconced in Kesgrave’s bedchamber.
Then she laughed and laughed and laughed.
And so did the duke.
Chapter Thirteen
In a pleasant state of languid satiation, her head resting on Kesgrave’s shoulder, the candles burning low, a glass of warming champagne on the night table beside a plate with four biscuits and half a gooseberry tart, Bea said, “What about the severed head? Could there be a particular meaning in the way he was killed, with violent hacks to the neck? We don’t know how it was actually managed, but I cannot imagine it is easy to cut through muscle and bone, even with a very sharp cleaver. If ending his life was the intention, then slicing open his gut would have achieved the same end with considerably less effort.”
As these observations were preceded by nothing remotely similar, their most recent exchange consisting mostly of delighted sighs mingled with murmurs of endearment, she would not have been offended if he protested the gruesome turn her thoughts had taken. An eyebrow raised archly, perhaps, as he commented on her charming conversation.
But he did not. Rather, he brushed the hair gently from her forehead and allowed that one would not be wrong in drawing certain conclusions from the ferocity of the act. “But I think it would be erroneous to build your argument from there. People behave in incomprehensible ways.”
Bea knew it to be true and said with regret, “It is a shame we do not have the body to examine.”
“It is?” Kesgrave asked, his amused tone indicating that he thought precisely the opposite.
“Obviously, I am as horrified as anyone by the notion of scrutinizing a severed corpse, but there is much information to be discovered from it,” she explained, shifting slightly so she could address him directly. “I believe the roughness of the cut would tell us how the job was managed, which would give us some indication of who could have done it. Or mayhap he died of another wound that was overlooked. Having the body would aid in our investigation.”
Smiling, he shook his head slightly and said, “No, I don’t think that’s true.”
Bea considered him with a look of fond condescension and attributed their disparity in their opinions to his lack of experience. “You have not been presented yet with a corpse to know how much information is to be gathered from one.”
“No, brat,” he said with a pinch on her hip that caused her to squeal and squirm. “I meant I do not believe you are as horrified by the notion as everyone else. I don’t think you are horrified at all and instead regret the opportunity to acquire knowledge about the human body and file it away in your remarkable brain for some future use.”
He spoke lightly, without resentment or anger, as if making an anodyne observation about the condition of the drapes (quite excellent, as far as she could tell, with no fraying or fading), and yet the topic was not the trifle his tone implied.
Here, now, they had arrived at the heart of it, and she could not say if he had stumbled ineptly into difficult territory or strode confidently. She had known their brief exchange in Mr. Mayhew’s drawing room would not be the end of it, and he had every right to protest her involvement in another murder. The words themselves did not matter—the pledge she made, the vow she did not—because people were governed by expectations, not contracts. She knew what Kesgrave wanted and expected from a wife, and if she’d had no intention of providing it, then she should never have married him.
He would help her carry out this current investigation, of that she had no doubt, for he had demonstrated himself to be reasonable and kind time and again. But it was the future they were discussing now and he would make it clear once and for all that this strange hobby of hers would end here. All he had to do was state it simply, as he was her husband and no longer had to bother with pledges and vows. His word was law, conferred by church and state, and she was bound by the same institutions to follow it.
She had anticipated this moment for over two weeks and yet was startled to discover she was not prepared for it. It was the setting, she told herself, the intimacy of the marriage bed, the lovely lethargy of physical satisfaction, so unfamiliar and unexpected, that made her feel unsettled, as if, vaguely, he was rejecting some part of her. Two things had entered her life during that extraordinary sojourn to the Lake District—Kesgrave and murder—and they felt inexorably entwined. Staring at the duke athwart the cooling corpse of Mr. Otley in the darkened library, she had changed, and as much as she knew that agreeing to halt her investigations would not change her back to the woman she had been before, drab and silent, she could not quite smother the fear.
’Twas wholly irrational because she knew it was not her pose as an amateur Runner that had secured his affection. It was her wit and intelligence and courage and a sense of humor so impish it actually made her appear beautiful.
Oh, but what part of love was rational, she wondered, feeling as though one of the barriers that kept the old Bea at bay was about to be demolished.
Determined to delay the conversation for a little while longer, she extricated herself from his arms to don the night rail that had been discarded in haste next to the bed. Raising an eyebrow archly, she smiled and said, “You think my brain is remarkable, your grace?”
But the gown wasn’t enough. Even with it on, she still felt unduly exposed, so she looked around for a distraction and settled on the glass of champagne. Her hand had just brushed the stem when Kesgrave’s arm snaked out and tugged her back toward him, spilling the liquid.
“You will not do that,” he said as he settled her against the pillows.
Truly baffled, she said, “If you do not want me to drink champagne, then you should not pour it for me.”
He shook his head fiercely and looking at her with glaring disapproval, as if she were being deliberately obtuse. “No, don’t pull away from me.”
Of course, he had known what she had done—not the physical withdrawal but the mental. Over and over he had displayed a disconcerting omniscience, seeming to know where she was or what she was thinking without any explanation.
She was disquieted by it now, for it made her feel as though she had nothing of her own, not even her thoughts, and although she knew it was a pitiable attempt, she blinked with exaggerated coquettishness, hoping for a comical effect, and said, “Did I do that?”
He would not allow it. “No, Bea, no. We will discuss your investigative habit.”
How serious he sounded, she thought, nodding slowly as she shifted her position until her back was upright and her shoulders pressed against the headboard. If she was to be put in her place by her husband, it would not be while she was underneath him. “All right, your grace.”
Inexplicably, he began with an observation about himself. “I never expected to feel joy.”
It was a perplexing statement, a seeming non sequitur, and although Bea could not fathom what the information had to do with her future, she knew precisely how it applied to her past. For the vast majority of her life, she had felt exactly that way, and if she was startled to discover a duke lived with the same limitations, she was not entirely surprised. “All right,” she said again.
“I have been happy,” he amended with scrupulous precision, “for my life has been filled with comfort and convenience and I have denied myself little. I will not pretend that a dukedom is an albatross around my neck. But this thing with you, what I feel, what we have…I close my eyes and see such glories, so much joy. It is not what I expected to ever feel. In truth, I would never have even sought it out because it did not seem necessary.”
Bea, who had discovered herself in the wake of Mr. Otley’s murder to be clever, knew the moment called for some droll remark, some sly comment. Always, she had something to say that would draw attention away from herself or lighten a mood or poke fun at a vanity.
But now she had nothing. All she could do was stare in wonder into his earnest and brilliantly blue eyes.
“I have some concerns for your happiness,” he added.
Bea was astonished that he could possibly doubt the joy she herself felt with him. Close his eyes and see glories? She saw them with her eyes open wide. “Don’t,” she said.
“Oh, but I do,” he insisted gravely.
The solemnity of his tone angered her as much as it caused her to worry that she had somehow done something wrong. “Don’t,” she said again, catapulting herself into his arms and pressing one soft kiss against his lips, then another and another. “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”
Whatever she had failed to do was forgotten as his mouth moved hungrily over her own, his fingers inching under the plain fabric of her night rail and sliding it off her shoulders. But even as she quivered in delight, succumbing to the mind-numbing pleasure of his touch, he pulled back and laying his lips softly on her forehead, said, “I do. A dukedom is not an albatross around my neck, but it is a smaller bird, like a ptarmigan. There is much that is boring and stultifying, and for all the toadying there is thrice as much spitefulness and malice. I can insulate you only so much from the Mrs. Nortons and Lord Tavistocks of the world.”
Perceiving now his concern, Bea felt on much steadier ground and insisted she had acquitted herself admirably on both accounts. “Recall, if you will, that I figured out Mrs. Norton’s game before she had a chance to make her final move, and I managed to elicit the information I required from Tavistock despite his uncooperative attitude. Have no worry, Damien, I do not need you to insulate me from them.”
Kesgrave smiled faintly. “The Marlows, then.”
Although her eyes twinkled, she kept her expression serious and said with sober approval, “Ah, well, yes, obviously, I would be grateful for anything you can arrange on that front.”
“Obviously,” he repeated fondly.
“As you may recall, I recently suggested that you put in a good word for me and you refused out of hand,” she said. “Perhaps that proposal is worthy of a second look.”
“I recall, yes, your wanting me to assure him you would make a biddable mistress,” he said. “I remain resolute in my refusal to lie to the staff.”
“So much for insulating me, your grace,” she muttered.
“I want you to be happy as I am,” he insisted, “and so—”
“Joyful,” she corrected.
He tilted his head slightly. “Excuse me?”
“You said I make you feel joyful,” she explained. “Ordinarily, I would not enforce the distinction, but I know how highly you prize precision and seek only to satisfy your own requirements.”
Now he laughed. “Yes, brat, you do, and I want you to be joyful too, which is why I have decided not to intercede with your investigative habit if you choose to pursue it. In the interest of fair disclosure, I will admit that I say this fully believing that it’s simply too implausible for yet another murder victim to cross your path. You are, after all, a gently bred young lady, and the excess of corpses that have entered your life in recent months strains credulity. But I have believed that from the start and have been proved wrong four times. So, if it should happen for an inconceivable fifth or sixth time, I will do nothing to stand in your way and only ask how I may be of assistance.”
For a moment, brief but sharp, Bea believed he was teasing her. The words he said so closely resembled the words she longed for him to say she thought he was uttering them out loud so she could hear the absurdity for herself.
Now she was supposed to laugh at the ridiculousness of her pretentions.
Oh, but he was sincere.
Blue eyes steady, he regarded her thoughtfully, no scorn or amusement on his face, only concern.
Her heart suddenly racing, she found it desperately difficult to take her next breath. He could not know what it meant, the simple statement, the acceptance it represented, for if asking her to stop was some sort of rejection of who she was, then the inverse must be true as well.
On a shallow breath, she said, “We had an agreement, your grace. You promised to stop making me love you more, for it is really quite excruciatingly uncomfortable to have a heart this full.”
“I clearly recall refusing to make any such promise,” he said firmly, “and if you had wanted me to vow to treat you with a little less respect, then you should have taken the time to interview clergymen until you found one who was receptive to the amendment.”
Delighted to have her own words repeated back to her, Bea asked what had prompted the reassessment. “You were vehemently opposed yesterday.”
“I want you to be happy and for that—” he began.
“Joyful.”
“Yes, joyful,” he said. “You are a duchess now, and I know that is not something you desired. I know you would prefer that I were someone of minor importance, a baronet or a second son with a very good book collection.”
“Actually, I was holding out for a third son with a majestic library when I deigned to consider your suit,” she explained with an impertinent grin. “That is why I was still unmarried at the ripe old age of six and twenty.”
“A very rare creature indeed,” he replied, returning her smile. “I heard they only go abroad on a full moon, like vampires.”
“You mean werewolves,” she said.
He acknowledged the correction and apologized for confusing his mythical creatures.
She shook her head and made a tsk-tsking sound of hearty disapproval. “And yet you can list all twenty-one ships that engaged in the Battle of the Nile. I fear your education was sadly lacking in practicality.”
“There were fifteen ships, and if you persist in mocking my education, I shall list all of them for you in the order in which they appeared in battle,” he threatened.
Alas, Bea was far too besotted with his pedantry to find this anything but an inducement, and noting the lascivious glint that entered her eyes, he said, “I know you dread the grandeur of my life—the servants, the houses, the social obligations.”
“The pineries,” she inserted.
Although this particular anxiety was news to him, he duly added it to the catalogue. “The pineries. Watching you interrogate various suspects today, I realized that investigating murders makes you feel confident. It makes you feel strong. When you thanked Mayhew to allow you the courtesy of determining who was beneath your notice, you seemed impervious, invulnerable. I don’t want to take that away from you. Moreover, I cannot. Because I need you to feel strong and confident as the Duchess of Kesgrave or you won’t be happy.”
She had been teasing before, about the pain of a full heart, but it was in fact quite unbearable and she felt something inside her straining to burst.
Tears, she thought contemptuously.
No, no, she would not mar the perfection of the moment with a maudlin display. She would be irreverent. Yes, irreverent, for that was how she had wooed him. All she had to do was say something clever.
Wit and flippancy, unfortunately, were beyond her meager capabilities, for the emotion that swirled inside her was far too turbulent for the simplicity of words. It raged fiercely, demanding action, and reveling in the strange magic of its power, she pressed herself gently against her husband and spoke softly in his ear.
“Joyful,” she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper as she repeated it along the line of his jaw, then on the side of his neck and at the top of his spine—joyful, joyful, joyful, she intoned, seemingly incapable of stopping herself, for it was indeed utter joy that she felt.
Chapter Fourteen
As her purpose in raising the issue of Mr. Réjane’s severed head had been to induce Kesgrave to intercede with the constable on her behalf so that she may examine the body without bestirring the gossips, Bea did not consider the conversation to have been an unqualified success. It had resulted in several other wonderful outcomes, including a satisfying resolution to the thorny issue of her
troubling fondness for detection, but as far as furthering her inquiry went, it had been a failure.
Nevertheless, marital accord and the freedom to realize one’s full potential added a sort of giddy sprightliness to one’s thoughts, and having effectively staved off a bout of weeping in a marvelously gratifying fashion, she was eager to return to the matter at hand.
Slipping back into her night rail, she crossed the room to the chest of drawers to look for a sheet of paper and a quill.
“There is an escritoire in my dressing room,” Kesgrave said, observing her movements from the bed with a delighted expression.
She darted quickly into the adjacent room, which was larger than her and Flora’s bedchambers in Portman Square combined, and located the writing desk along the far wall under an imposing painting of a turban-topped gentleman sporting a sword and standing on the crest of a hill. She selected a fine sheet of cream-colored paper, a ledger to write against and a pencil.
As she returned to the bedchamber, her stomach rumbled.
“I wonder, your grace, if it’s possible to get more of the ham and perhaps some more Wiltshire to go with it?” she asked, selecting one of the biscuits on the plate on the night table as she climbed back onto the bed. “I am feeling a bit peckish.”
“Of course,” he said, gesturing to the bell pull near the edge of the bed.
She was appalled. “At this hour?”
“What hour is it?” he asked.
Bea had no idea, which indicated, she felt, that it was too late to bother the servants.
Kesgrave held out the candle and noted it was a little past eleven, which meant several servants were still in the kitchen. “Regardless of the time, you cannot expect me to go traipsing around my own larder. I am happy to treat Mayhew’s pantry with such disrespect but value the esteem of my own staff much too highly. You shall ring the bell and wait with deferential patience for one of the footmen to present himself at the door.”