There had been fear in Julian’s eyes that night.
No, someone else must have murdered poor Aurelia—perhaps a stranger or a servant. That was the best conclusion, for if it hadn’t been a stranger or servant that terrible night, then a person far closer to Aurelia had snatched away her life. Perhaps Julian.
Perhaps the Duke of Windemere himself.
Christopher shook his head and remembered the way Julian had looked at Ran’s ring that night. His face had been both sad and determined. Then he’d drawn back his arm as if to throw the ring. Christopher had caught his hand and Julian had looked at him and then given him the ring.
Ran’s ring.
Christopher had meant to give it back to Ran. But he’d been immediately caught up in his arranged marriage and shipped off to India still bewildered, and by then he’d grown used to the ring on his finger.
Like a criminal’s brand.
The beating was so long ago now, but at the same time it was forever near. That night—that damnable night—had changed him forever.
Had changed them all.
The ring was a reminder of that. Of how utterly he’d once failed as a friend and a gentleman, and how he had to spend the rest of his life making sure he never did so again.
He had to get his ring back from the harpy. He could simply inform Miss Stewart’s employer of her theft. Her rooms would be searched and the ring found, and no doubt she’d be let go without reference.
Somehow that method seemed unsporting. Miss Stewart was brave, if nothing else. Quite possibly mad, but brave.
No, the matter was a personal one between the two of them, and he’d handle it the same way: personally.
Tess barked and continued barking in that joyful way dogs had to signal they’d found something important. She was out of sight beyond a turn in the path, and Christopher quickened his step. Just in case she’d done something silly such as cornered a badger.
He rounded the bend and saw that what Tess had found was a bit bigger than a badger. She was circling an ancient building, like a stone house for Lilliputians, squat and immovable. Strange. It was standing here all alone in a clearing.
But as he approached, Christopher discovered stones half-hidden in the leaves under his feet. He scuffed aside the leaves and could see that the buried stones were the remains of walls. Something had once stood beside the little structure—a house, perhaps? He reached Tess and followed her around the building. There were no windows, and the doorway was only to his shoulder. Christopher peered at the padlocked door and saw that over it was a crude carving of a waterspout.
Of course. This must be a well house, built over a well both for safety’s sake and to keep the water untainted.
He glanced at the ruined walls he’d uncovered. The little building appeared to have survived the house it had belonged to.
Christopher shook his head and whistled for Tess. She raised her head from where she was sniffing the foundation, but she wasn’t looking his way. She was focused on something farther in the woods.
Suddenly Tess was off, dashing ahead on the trail.
Christopher swore under his breath. If she was on the scent of a rabbit he might lose her in the trees.
“Tess!” He loped after her. “Tess!”
A single bark came from ahead of him, and then he rounded a bend in the trail and saw the dog’s quarry.
His idiot dog was standing by Miss Stewart’s side, tongue lolling happily, as the woman ruffled Tess’s ears.
Miss Stewart glanced up and saw him. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
She seemed perfectly composed, as if the events of last night had never happened.
As if he hadn’t tasted her mouth. As if she hadn’t taken his lip between her teeth.
As if she hadn’t stolen his ring.
“Miss Stewart.” He wondered if her heart beat as savagely as his beneath the layers of wool and linen. “I believe you have something of mine.”
“Do I?” she answered carelessly, and he wanted to either laugh or strangle her.
“You know you do,” he said, advancing on her. “I don’t want to bring your unconventional activities to the attention of your employer, but don’t think I won’t.”
That got her attention. Her head went back and she stared at him with loathing and defiance in her eyes, which, oddly, made his cock twitch.
Before she could reply, though, Tess barked once, staring behind him.
Christopher turned, hiding his irritation at the interruption.
Messalina Greycourt was approaching along the path. “Christopher! I had no idea anyone else was about this morning.”
Her gaze went beyond him, and a strange expression crossed her face.
He glanced at Miss Stewart, but she was merely standing there, her hand on Tess’s head and her face blank.
When he looked back at Messalina, her expression was calm.
Did she think he was having an assignation with Miss Stewart? Surely not. They weren’t even standing near each other.
“And…Miss Stewart, is it not?” Messalina asked.
“It is,” the chaperone replied, almost with significance.
What the hell? He whistled to Tess and both ladies jumped.
Tess trotted over.
He fondled her ears before saying to Messalina, “I’m thinking Tess will be wanting her breakfast. Will you walk back with us?”
“Yes,” Messalina said, a smile suddenly lighting her face. “I will.”
They tramped back side by side with Tess running ahead, but Christopher was aware at every moment of Miss Stewart, trailing behind like a malevolent cloud. It was strange. Messalina had grown into one of the loveliest ladies that Christopher had ever met. Her conversation was amusing and he knew her to be intelligent. She was, in fact, a beguiling lady.
But it was the silent termagant behind him who made him want to shove her up against a tree and taste her mouth.
It made no sense, and he found his mood turning black. Why should he be so viscerally attracted to a woman who couldn’t stand him?
And why did she refuse to soften to him?
By the time they made it back to Lovejoy House the sun was well into the sky and Christopher was using all his determination not to turn and confront Miss Stewart again—even with Messalina as witness. He glanced up as they turned the corner of the house and saw a rather old-fashioned carriage enter the drive in front.
“Oh, who do you suppose that is?” Messalina asked. “It seems a strange time to arrive to a house party, doesn’t it?”
A man in a rumpled bottle-green suit descended. He turned, and Christopher couldn’t stop his upper lip from curling. For a moment all thought of Miss Stewart fled his mind.
Thomas Plimpton had finally arrived.
Chapter Five
Marigold was strangely changed. She was no longer shy, but stood tall and looked others in the eye, a secretive smile about her lips.
Rowan began to think that Marigold was no longer the same girl.
That she wasn’t Marigold but something else.
But the strangest thing of all was that no one else seemed to notice.…
—From The Grey Court Changeling
“I do hope you all won’t consider it too rustical, but I thought we’d take a stroll into Newbridge today,” Lady Lovejoy announced at breakfast an hour later. “There’s a rather lovely Norman church and today is market day. Nothing like London, of course, but quite quaint.”
Freya spread a slice of bread with fresh butter—sweet and lovely—and wondered if she might gather more rumors about Lady Randolph in Newbridge.
“Oh, let’s!” Regina exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly and imperiling her teacup.
“A country market can be so interesting sometimes,” Lucretia Greycourt observed. “I once was offered what I was assured was a potion to arouse lust in gentlemen by a wrinkled old woman with quite a staggering amount of moles on her chin. The kind that sprout hairs. I do believe she thought h
erself a witch.”
Lord Lovejoy cleared his throat portentously. “One oughtn’t discount the evil of witches in this part of England.”
Freya found herself glancing at Harlowe and caught him staring back, a smoldering intensity in his eyes.
She swiftly averted her gaze, realizing as she did so that she was holding her breath. He’d threatened to expose her. At the time she’d felt only rage, but now cold fear made her back prickle. She hadn’t completed her mission.
She needed more time.
“Real witches?” Messalina asked with polite skepticism. “The sort who dance about fires naked at midnight?”
Young Mr. Lovejoy chuckled, but he sounded a tad nervous.
Lady Holland frowned—probably at the mention of nude cavorting.
But Lord Lovejoy was quite grave. “Nearly every year a woman is brought before me as the local magistrate and charged with witchcraft.”
The Earl of Rookewoode arched a black eyebrow. It made a stark contrast to his snowy wig. He wore an elegantly cut dark-blue suit today and looked exceedingly handsome and urbane. “But Parliament has made witch-hunting no longer legal.”
“Oh, indeed, my lord,” Lord Lovejoy replied. “But these are provincial people who adhere to the old ways. They care not for London’s laws.”
“London’s laws will soon change,” Lord Stanhope said importantly. “A new Witch Act is to be put before Parliament in the autumn, making witch-hunting once again both legal and encouraged.”
There was a short silence as everyone at the table digested that.
Freya’s hands were clenched in her lap, where no one could see them. She only hoped her expression didn’t give away her unease at this discussion.
“And thus we descend back into the superstitious Dark Ages,” Rookewoode drawled.
The viscount pursed his lips together as if cutting off a nasty reply.
Lord Lovejoy looked troubled. “Hunting witches is no step back in these parts. Not when nearly everyone believes in them.”
The earl’s lips twitched as if he were amused by the discussion, but he asked gravely, “What do you do when you’re presented with a supposed witch, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Naturally I have to dismiss the cases, but that doesn’t keep the people from believing most sincerely in witchcraft,” Lord Lovejoy replied. “You have to understand that these people blame witches for sickened sheep, blighted crops, and miscarriages. Even if I can’t convict them, often the accused witch’s house is burned or they meet with some other misadventure.” He shrugged. “It’s a sort of rough justice, I suppose.”
“But surely these women are innocent, my lord?” Messalina objected, looking quite appalled.
“One shouldn’t discount the strength of the devil or his subjects,” Lord Stanhope muttered. “No doubt these people have reasons for chasing away these ungodly women.”
Freya glared at him from under her eyelashes. What a horrible man. She’d met his sort before, and though she should be wary of him, what she truly felt was indignant anger.
The door opened and a pleasant-faced gentleman entered.
“Ah,” Lord Lovejoy exclaimed. “Our newest guest. May I present Mr. Thomas Plimpton?”
Mr. Plimpton smiled and bowed and then took a seat next to Arabella, saying something to her as he sat that made her blush.
Once again Freya glanced at Harlowe without conscious thought. This time, though, she was not the center of his attention. Now he was staring malevolently at Mr. Plimpton.
Freya took a sip of tea. Whatever had the rather nondescript Mr. Plimpton done to offend the duke? She was almost piqued that his attention was divided.
“We had just made plans to visit Newbridge today,” Lady Lovejoy said after an awkward pause. “Would you care to join us, Mr. Plimpton? We have a lovely Norman church and other country sights.”
“Of course,” that gentleman replied.
Which was how, half an hour later, they all set off to the little town nearby.
Freya walked behind Arabella and Lucretia Greycourt. The two girls hadn’t met until the day before, but had somehow already found a close bond.
She was aware of Messalina in quiet conversation with Lady Lovejoy, slightly ahead and to the side. Messalina wore an elegant walking dress, the rose-pink overskirts pulled back and bunched in deceptively casual disarray in the back. Her yellow underskirt was revealed, scattered with tiny knots of embroidered roses.
It was a beautiful dress, although with her olive complexion and black hair Freya privately thought Messalina would do better in richer colors. But yes, she was beautiful.
She could admit that.
Her childhood friend had grown into a strikingly handsome lady only a little taller than Freya.
In another life they might be walking arm in arm down this country road.
“I hadn’t taken you for a thief,” Harlowe growled in her ear, and Freya was hard-pressed not to jump.
She took a deep breath, trying to slow the wild beat of her heart. Stupid to have lost track of where he was in their little party. “I’m not a thief.”
He waved his hand in front of her nose, and it took her a moment to realize it was the hand he’d worn Ran’s ring on.
She could feel heat enter her cheeks, which only made her defensive. There was no reason for her to feel guilty. “I’m not.”
“Then you won’t mind returning to me my ring.” He faced forward, his aristocratic profile cold and heartless.
“It’s not your ring,” she replied, her voice calm. They trailed the rest of the house party, but she didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention.
Harlowe stalked along beside her, a dark cloud on an otherwise beautiful day. The sun was out, not too hot, not too cold, and with a gentle breeze. The hedges along the road were full of wild roses, exuberantly in bloom, and the sky was blue and wide.
She’d grown up in the country. In the Scottish Lowlands just across the border. She and Messalina had loved to walk or ride through the Scottish hills, and for a moment longing filled her breast—whether for Scotland or the innocent days of her childhood she wasn’t entirely certain.
Beside her, Harlowe cleared his throat. “I can lend you money if you’re in need of it.”
Her brows rose. “I don’t need your money.”
“Don’t you?” He glanced at her quickly. “Then why steal my ring?”
“I don’t intend to sell it,” she snapped.
“You are the most irritating woman,” he said softly, his expression not changing at all. “Admit you need my help and I’ll give it to you.”
“Even if I did need your help,” she replied through gritted teeth, “I would never ask you for it.”
“Darling,” he rumbled, his deep purr raising the hairs on the back of her neck. “Don’t press—”
He was interrupted by his dog bursting from beneath a hedge and running straight into his legs.
Freya couldn’t help it; she laughed.
“Get down, Tess,” Harlowe muttered, but his hands were gentle as he scrubbed her ears.
The dog shook herself happily, then shoved her nose into Freya’s skirts.
“Tess,” Harlowe growled.
“She’s all right,” Freya murmured. She might dislike the master, but she had nothing against the dog.
She scratched Tess beneath the chin.
Tess wagged her tail.
“She’s dirty,” Harlowe said gruffly.
“Dogs like being dirty,” Freya replied, scratching Tess’s ears now.
Harlowe looked at her oddly.
Tess’s ears perked, and then she wheeled and went running off into the shrubbery again.
“What sort of dog is she?” Freya asked impulsively, wiping her hands on a handkerchief. The dog had been rather muddy.
“Indian.”
Freya’s brows rose. “You brought her all the way back from India?”
He shrugged. “She’s my dog. I couldn’t leave her
there.”
She stared at him. Of course he could’ve left Tess across the sea when he’d returned home to England. Gentlemen did it all the time. “Is she a special sort of dog? An Indian dog of aristocratic breed?”
He turned his head and grinned at her, two dimples incised into his cheeks.
Freya blinked, feeling as if she’d been hit in the chest. Harlowe was absolutely devastating when he smiled.
But he didn’t seem to notice her reaction. “She’s a street dog, quite common in India. Her dam whelped in the fort three years ago. Tess was the sole survivor of the puppies. She was only two months old when her mother disappeared—too young to survive on her own—so I brought her into the house and a year later to England.”
She stared at him. “Didn’t your wife object? Many ladies prefer small lapdogs to larger animals, let alone a stray dog.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Sophy died a year before Tess was born.”
“Oh.” It was obviously a topic he didn’t want to talk about. His voice held sadness when he said his wife’s name.
Which shouldn’t bother her at all.
Up ahead someone laughed loudly. Mr. Plimpton had angled himself between Arabella and Lucretia.
Harlowe cursed beneath his breath.
Freya threw him a startled glance. “I collect you don’t like Mr. Plimpton.”
“He shouldn’t be allowed near ladies,” the duke replied, not bothering to lower his voice. “You should warn Lady Holland.”
Freya’s brows drew together. Arabella was well dowered and Freya had no doubt that Lucretia, as the niece of a duke, was as well.
In fact both girls were heiresses and thus prime pluckings for a fortune hunter.
“Why do you say that?” Freya asked worriedly. “What do you know of him?”
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