by Amy Corwin
She had agreed to marry Lord Arundell despite the fact she barely knew him, and now she was paying the price. Nonetheless, she was determined to make a success out of her impulsive action, and that meant that she had to ensure she was included in his life. If their marriage was to have any meaning, they had to share the burdens and joys that lay ahead of them.
To her surprise, Mr. Gaunt’s eyes crinkled and amusement passed over his face in a blink. “I confess that I wished to meet the new Lady Arundell. I apologize for my curiosity and forwardness.”
“Well, now that your curiosity has been satisfied, it is only right that you satisfy mine.” Her chin rose, and her hands knotted together more tightly at her waist. Asserting herself made her stomach clench, but now was as good a time as any to practice the art. The new Lady Arundell would not be a shy, retiring wallflower. She waved to one of the small clusters of chairs. “Please be seated. I am sure my husband would not object if you explained the nature of your business.”
Mr. Gaunt took a step forward before a frown creased his brow. He cleared his throat behind a fisted hand. “Unfortunately, my business depends a great deal upon my discretion. I am afraid that I cannot divulge the details of your husband’s case without his permission.”
The flutter in her stomach felt like an entire flock of blackbirds taking flight, but she would not retreat now. “Discretion… And you used the word case, did you not?” She gestured more firmly to the gold damask upholstered chairs. “You are an inquiry agent, then. Perhaps involved in investigating the tragic events surrounding the death of my husband’s older brother?”
His black eyes flickered over her face. His polite mask slipped sufficiently to reveal astonishment as his brows rose and his mouth partially opened. Before she could feel a sense of triumph at finally discommoding him, his bland expression returned.
“I am an inquiry agent,” he admitted, his hands clasped behind his back. He did, however, move closer to the chair she indicated. “That much is certainly accurate.”
Dorothy sat down, forcing him to sit, as well. “And you are investigating the matter to which I referred?” she asked coolly.
“Has your husband spoken to you about the matter?”
Ah, there it was. She could tell the truth and the conversation would end here, or she could lie.
Or perhaps she could simply equivocate and leave him to draw his own conclusions. “It was such a horrific event—I am relieved that Lord Arundell has your assistance.”
He nodded, but didn’t offer anything helpful to move their conversation forward. Discreet, indeed. She swiftly searched through her memory of what her cousin had told her. It wasn’t much.
“That poor little girl,” she murmured.
“Unfortunately, it does seem likely that she perished. It is possible that she will never be found.”
“I understand she was thrown into the Thames. I can only hope her death was quick and merciful.”
“Indeed.”
She shifted in her chair, irritated by his lack of a more lengthy response. He seemed determined to avoid telling her anything of importance, and she couldn’t quite remember everything Cecilia had told her.
Well, if the girl was thrown into the Thames, she was probably tossed from a bridge. The only bridge with which she was familiar was the one they had clattered over when they traveled to London. “Is it true that she was thrown off London Bridge?”
“The new London Bridge is certainly a possibility.”
“Could she swim? What did she look like?”
“The earl has decided to keep such details private as a way of sorting through true reports and false ones.”
She smiled, desperately trying to find some other way to elicit the details she wanted. With a sad grimace, she shook her head. The memory of the urchin who had stolen the apples from Farmer Cavell’s cart unexpectedly rose when she considered the bridge.
Without considering, she said, “I saw the strangest child stealing an apple from our cart when we arrived in London. It is too bad that the earl’s niece was not so distinctive in appearance.”
“Distinctive? How?” He sat up. His expression sharpened into the predatory look of a circling hawk that has sighted prey.
“The child had one blue eye and one gold. That is certainly distinctive enough, is it not?”
“A girl?”
“I don’t really know. Most likely not.” She shook her head. “Mrs. Cavell thought it was a boy. He wore trousers, even if he had what appeared to be a blue skirt knotted around his waist.”
Mr. Gaunt opened his mouth and then glanced at the door to their left, apparently hearing something she had missed.
“Mr. Gaunt!” Lord Arundell exclaimed as he walked into the room. Brows raised, his gaze flickered from his visitor to Dorothy before his expression solidified into a polite mask. “Lady Arundell. I trust everything is well?”
Mr. Gaunt stood and faced Lord Arundell.
Heart pounding, Dorothy hesitated a moment before she, too, rose and faced her husband. “Everything is quite well. Mr. Gaunt arrived and elected to wait for your return.”
“You were discussing a child when I entered the room,” Lord Arundell—Marcus, her husband, said. His mouth thinned as he studied Mr. Gaunt. Abruptly, he smiled at Dorothy, although his eyes remained dark with emotion.
She had the distinct impression that he was angry at what he’d overheard when he walked into the room.
“I am sure you would like to retire. Have you met Betty?” Marcus asked abruptly.
“Yes, I have met all the servants, including Betty. However, I am not the least bit in need of rest. Perhaps we may be seated?” She smiled and gestured to the chairs surrounding them.
“We have business—you would not be interested,” Marcus stated.
“Indeed, I am very interested.” Dorothy sat down gracefully, arranging her skirts and smoothing them over her lap. “Mr. Gaunt has been very discreet, of course, so I have been unable to discover anything of importance. I hope that your arrival will persuade him to speak more freely.”
Marcus sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. Standing in front of her, she was reminded again of his broad shoulders and muscular legs. He was younger than his guest, but despite their relative ages, he seemed to have a natural leadership and a presence that made her pulse race. His brown eyes, square chin, and the fleeting dimple in his right cheek made him infinitely more handsome, too—too attractive for her peace of mind.
She wanted to stand next to him and press her hand against the side of his face as she breathed in the faint salty scent of his skin. Their kiss lingered in her memory, along with his scent of spicy bay and the more pungent fragrance of leather.
To her relief, her statement seemed to ease his tension. His dimple appeared with his quick smile, and gold flecks of amusement sparkled in his eyes. “He is paid to be discreet, my dear, so you cannot blame him too much.”
“You cannot blame him, perhaps. I certainly can,” she replied, waving at the two empty chairs across from her.
He looked at Mr. Gaunt and a wrinkle appeared between his brows as he took a seat. He gestured to the chair next to him. “You were speaking of a child, Mr. Gaunt?”
“Your wife was simply recounting a story,” Mr. Gaunt said, taking a seat.
“Yes.” Dorothy laughed. “I was describing an urchin we met upon our arrival to London—a boy, I think. He stole one of Farmer Cavell’s apples, directly from his wagon! Quite an impudent little soul.”
“A boy…” Marcus repeated, an expression of disappointment drawing the corners of his mouth down.
“Yes, I am sorry.” Dorothy sighed. “It is too bad, though, for he was certainly distinctive.” She waited for one of the men to request details, but both men appeared to be brooding over other concerns and ignored her comment.
Marcus stared down at his clasped hands while Mr. Gaunt’s black eyes were fixed on some distant point beyond the open door.
When no
one asked, Dorothy forced a smile and said brightly, “He had one blue eye and one amber. I have never seen anyone with such a combination before.” She laughed again, trying to be amusing in order to see the gold flecks in Marcus’s eyes again. “And he had a tattered blue skirt tied around his waist. I imagine he wanted it to hold whatever he might be able to steal—” She broke off abruptly when Marcus leapt to his feet. “What is it? Is something amiss?” She glanced at Mr. Gaunt.
Mr. Gaunt’s gaze was locked on Marcus, and he appeared as startled as she was.
When Marcus rose to his feet, so did Dorothy.
“Why did you not say something?” Marcus towered over her, his face thunderous.
“Say something?” She looked at Mr. Gaunt and then back at her husband. What was the matter with him? With both of them? “What should I have said? It was simply an amusing tale—nothing of consequence.”
“Your niece…” Mr. Gaunt said in a low voice. “Did she also have one blue eye and one amber?”
“What did it matter?” she asked. “As I mentioned, the child was a boy.” She stopped abruptly in thought. “Or so Mrs. Cavell said, and she has seen the child more often than I have. I only saw her—him—that one time.”
Marcus gripped her arm, his gaze flashing with heat. “Where? Where did you see her?”
“Him! I saw a boy!” she insisted, despite the flutter of doubt.
Her husband’s touch sent a tingle through her and coherent thought fled in the face of her reaction. His nearness raised a tumult of emotion coursing through her, anger with his repeated questions collided with the desire to reach up, touch his stubborn chin, and breathe in his warm scent.
When had her sensible side deserted her?
“Where?” Marcus demanded.
“Well, we were in the alley next to Mr. Cavell’s home—Mr. Frank Cavell, that is. Not his brother, the farmer who brought us to London in his wagon.” Words tumbled out. She couldn’t organize her thoughts. “She—he—was waiting for us. He stole an apple. I suspect he heard the wagon and knew what it meant. Farmer Cavell mentioned he always turned up when he came with a wagonload of goods…” She drifted off, glancing from Marcus to Mr. Gaunt and back, aware that she sounded like a nervous fool.
Marcus stared at her, a frown wrinkling his forehead.
Mr. Gaunt stared at him.
She flushed, shook her arm loose from her husband’s grip, and studied the lovely carpet covering the floor. After a long breath, she lifted her chin and met her husband’s gaze. “Perhaps you would be good enough to explain why the child interests you?”
Once more, Marcus raked a hand through his dark hair, making the thick curls stand up in wild waves. He turned to Gaunt. “We must find where this Cavell fellow lives. She must have survived—she must have!” He jerked around and strode to the door.
Gaunt nodded. “We know where Mr. Cavell has his shop. The question, however, is if the urchin can be found since no one seems to know where the child goes.”
“But my lord!” Dorothy called. “Marcus!”
He flicked a glance at her over his shoulder and gave her a nod, though his eyes were already distant, focused on his own thoughts.
Mr. Gaunt had the good grace to bow to Dorothy before following.
Mouth open, Dorothy watched the men go. Abandoned. They’d gone out without her, without even giving her the courtesy of an explanation. Was this her future, then? To be ignored and pushed aside, even when she might be of assistance?
Was she that inconsequential?
Her previous sense of longing, to be with him even when he was clearly irritated with her, returned. She flushed in embarrassment at her weakness in wanting him even in such a revealing moment. He could not have made it clearer that he had no real affection for her. There was only one conclusion, then. All he was interested in was her five thousand pounds.
Well, he could have that and enjoy it, as he certainly would.
She’d never wanted or expected to have such an inheritance, and it had clearly done her future more harm than good. No wonder her uncle had been so disappointed when she’d accepted the earl’s offer.
Well, what was done could be undone. It was not too late. She would seek an annulment. After all, no one could pretend that this single day was a true marriage. Not when he’d left her alone just as soon as their vows were said.
Her arms wrapped around her waist. At least he could have pretended to have some interest in her, some affection. Her anger flared hotter and hardened into a lump in her chest. Her lungs ached when she took a breath, and she felt almost physically ill. Nonetheless if she wanted to seek an annulment, she would have to do it now. She could not wait.
She could not wait in case Marcus actually remembered that he had a wife and a duty to her. Once he realized that, he would likely do his husbandly duty, and it would be far more difficult to seek an end to this sham of a marriage.
With a sinking heart, she knew beyond any doubt that once she allowed him into her bed, she would not have the strength to push him away again or seek an annulment. He had only kissed her that once, but she couldn’t forget his touch, or the way it made her feel. Longing ached within her, and she nearly panicked at the sense of something wonderful floating away, out of reach.
How could she feel such deep, searing pain at the thought of parting when they’d known each other such a short time? And what she knew of him wasn’t altogether flattering, either. He might very well be a murderer, seeking his niece to ensure she would never have the opportunity to speak against him in the future.
A wise woman would get an annulment now. An even wiser one would never have married him in the first place. She trembled. It wasn’t simply the thought of never seeing Marcus again, it was all of it. The annulment itself would lead to scandal, and then what? What about Grace and her future? If her younger sister still wished to marry Mr. Blyth, then Dorothy could not take such a drastic step, at least not yet. A curate in search of his own living and in hopes of marrying a suitable spouse could not afford to associate with a family involved in such a scandal.
Grim worries circled back to the child. Her cold fingers pressed against her mouth. What had she done? If the child was a boy, he might be safe, but if it was truly a girl, she might be in terrible danger. An ache twisted through her heart. She clasped her hands together at her waist. A murderer? Was she really married to a murderer? How could she think such things about Marcus? About her husband? It was only gossip, just a conclusion her cousin had come to, based upon no knowledge of the actual events.
That poor little child, though. She remembered the cocky grin on his—or her—face as she stole one of the apples from the barrel. She abruptly strode to the bell-pull. When Mr. Grover arrived, she ordered a conveyance, whether one of the earl’s or a hired carriage. Anything would do.
Unlike her husband, she had a fairly good idea of where Mr. Frank Cavell lived, just a short distance from the old London Bridge. She was determined to find the child first and protect her at whatever cost.
Chapter Eleven
“And you are convinced that this is the location?” Marcus asked, glancing at the brick buildings lining the narrow street.
The grocer shop on the corner appeared prosperous enough, with a bin of withered apples from last fall out front, a few cabbages, and a tempting sign promising fresh peas if one enquired within. However, they had gone down too many blind alleys in the last hour for Marcus to feel more than a smoldering ash of hope. The child could be anywhere.
Gaunt glanced around, his face too well controlled to reveal his thoughts. “Yes,” he said at last. “This grocer is said to receive his goods from his brother, and their family name is Cavell. The other Cavell was a Navy man.”
“The surname appears to be more common than one would have supposed.” Marcus adjusted his hat to relieve some of the pressure tightening around his temples.
“Yes. However, this one seems most likely. Mr. Cavell’s brother apparently lives in Ashfor
d, which I believe is the location of Lady Arundell’s childhood home.”
“Very well.” Marcus climbed down from the carriage and strode to the mouth of the alley next to the grocer.
The shadowed, dank passage was empty. He could see no evidence of any child hanging about, waiting for a chance to steal an apple. At least the alley was clean of refuse, although the cobbles were damp and a few clumps of moss clung to the base of the brick walls. With a nod to Gaunt, he walked through the passageway. The alley terminated in a small enclosed area, bordered by the back of the grocer’s shop, a tavern, and a block of inexpensive flats.
A sharp pang pierced him at the thought of Cynthia, trying to survive on whatever scraps she could beg or steal from those living here. Why hadn’t she asked for assistance from the local Watch? Why hadn’t she tried to come home? Didn’t she trust him enough to seek him out?
The only answers were too ugly to consider, and he thrust them away.
“Sir!” a woman’s voice called.
He turned to find a plump woman standing in the open doorway behind the grocer’s store. Her apron was damp and graying blond curls escaped from her cap, which was askew on her round head. She wiped her chapped, reddened hands on her apron as she studied him with sharp eyes.
“I beg your pardon.” Marcus stepped closer. “Are you Mrs. Cavell, by any chance? Mrs. Frank Cavell?”
She nodded, her round cheeks glowing, though whether from pleasure at being Mrs. Cavell or embarrassment was indecipherable. She wiped her forehead with the crook of her arm. “That I am. You should have gone through the shop, sir. No need to come back here. My husband is inside and would be pleased to assist you.”
“I was hoping to locate a child—”
Laughing, she shook her head. “Not you, too. That child is certainly getting a great deal of attention today. More than he deserves, if you ask me.”
“Attention?” He straightened. “What sort of attention?”
“All manner of folk are searching for him. One would think he was one of them poor little lost princes in the tower.” She chuckled at the thought and wiped her forehead with her wrist.