A Lord's Kiss

by Mary Lancaster et al.

  He could well imagine the exasperation creasing her pretty face when he arrived on her doorstep tomorrow to trespass upon their friendship with the impossible task of finding poison—if there was any—in a basketful of bottles. She’d be furious, particularly since the Stainton sisters had just buried their father today.

  The thought sobered him. He paused, his gaze fixed on the gravel driveway as he thought of Martha’s recent loss and his own similar situation.

  He knew from his own experiences that distractions were the best cure for grief, and what better distraction could there be than a mystery?

  In the end, she might thank him for handing over this small task.

  Chapter Three

  “Lord Ashbourne is here, Martha,” Dorothy announced as she walked into the sitting room. A worried frown creased her brow. “He is asking for you.”

  As she glanced up with a shiver of pleasure, Martha’s fingers twitched, still engaged in making the final stitch to mend the hem of her bombazine traveling gown. “Ow!” She sucked her finger and brought the fabric up to examine it for blood. If a drop or two had soaked into it, she couldn’t see it against the thick, dark brown fabric. She sighed, her spirits sinking just as quickly as they’d lifted. “I suppose he has come to wish us farewell and bon voyage.”

  Her eyes burned, and she blinked rapidly, busily folding her ripped gown and thrusting it into her work basket. She kept her face averted, hidden from her sister’s sharp eyes. Dorothy couldn’t be any happier about their departure than Martha was, but she managed to hide it better behind a serene expression.

  But the notion that her friend had come to wish them well made the loss of their home and uncertain future even more bitter. Most likely, he was relieved to see her go to London, in case she harbored any expectations or hope that he would present an offer to her for friendship’s sake and end the uncertainty of her future.

  Well, she would certainly never accept him if he tried! She might not have much left, but she did have her pride.

  Her chin rose, and she straightened, sure that her frown mirrored her sister’s expression. “Did you leave him in the hallway?” She rose to her feet and smoothed a few of the wrinkles out of her limp muslin gown.

  “She certainly attempted to do so,” Quinton’s familiar voice said from the doorway.

  Dorothy jerked and swirled around, her fingers twisting into the sides of her gown. Her frown deepened into a scowl.

  Grinning, Quinton sauntered past her and nodded as if she’d greeted him as graciously as any lady at court receiving a knight.

  With a quick glance at Martha, Dorothy’s expression smoothed over into her usual pleasant one. “Would you like some tea, Lord Ashbourne?”

  “Not at the moment.” He lifted a basket. “I would like to speak to your sister, however, in her study.”

  A flush heated Martha’s cheeks, and she caught her sister’s gaze.

  Dorothy lifted her hands, palms up, and shrugged, mutely gesturing the thought they shared: What can you expect from a baron? Anything—for they will do whatever they wish to do.

  “My study?” Martha repeated, transferring her gaze to Quinton.

  His pale green eyes twinkled.

  Another twitch ran through her, although her mouth tightened. She knew that expression of his all too well. He was about to ask a favor of her, and it was one she instinctively knew she would regret.

  How many times had he dragged her into adventures in the past? Exploits that left her with torn, muddied gowns and a deep sense of foreboding, and which never failed to put her on the receiving end of one of her father’s lectures.

  A sudden lump in her throat choked her. There would be no more lectures now. Her hands smoothed over the front of her skirt again. Hollowed by sudden grief, she swallowed to free the constriction in her throat.

  She nodded and gestured to the hallway, unable to speak.

  For once, Dorothy stood aside and let them go without a word, neglecting her usual insistence that Martha and Grace be chaperoned at all times when in the presence of a man.

  The study was really more of a laboratory, although one entire wall was lined with bookcases groaning under the weight of more volumes than it was ever intended to hold. Books of all shapes, colors, and sizes were wedged in everywhere, some in upright rows topped with horizontal layers, and other shelves with piles of books too large or ungainly to stand properly. Martha’s father had converted the rear of the room into a laboratory of sorts, with several long oak tables, scarred with splotches in various hues resulting from errors in judgement when dealing with unexpectedly violent potions.

  When his boys had all perished as babies or young lads, Algernon Stainton had despaired of having an assistant for his experiments, until he realized that Martha was just as fascinated by chemistry as he was. She’d spent many interesting, and sometimes unexpectedly exciting, hours in the lab, helping her father understand the properties of the various elements that caught his fancy.

  Walking over to the longest table, Martha glanced around the room. Her throat tightened again, aching as her fingers ran over a few dimples in the oak caused by sulfuric acid. She’d spilled it through sheer clumsiness, but instead of chastising her, Papa had only grabbed her hands to check them before chuckling with relief. Only the wood had been damaged, and she’d learned a valuable lesson about the contents of some of the bottles lined up on a small shelf above the table.

  So many memories… Soon, all of this would belong to her uncle, who had not the slightest interest in the natural world. He would no doubt dispose of anything for which he had no practical use, and clean out the entire room.

  “Why are you here, Quinton?” she asked abruptly, the words grating painfully through her tight throat.

  He gave her a searching glance, his eyes lingering on her face.

  Uncomfortable, she looked away. A spider was busily spinning a web in the corner of the window above the work table. She’d forgotten to clean in here again. The lab was her responsibility, having forbidden the maid from entering the room for fear of her breaking or spilling one of the bottles of corrosive substances.

  “You have my condolences, Martha. If there is anything you need…?” He let the question drift off.

  Her brow tightened into a frown, but she kept her gaze fixed on the hazy gray panes of window glass. “Thank you.” Her answer sounded stiff and unnatural. “But there is nothing you can do.”

  “I’m sorry.” He placed a warm hand on her shoulder.

  She shrugged him off and took a step away, covering the action by picking up one of the folded linen cloths she kept in a small pile on the edge of the table. With nervous fingers, she used it to wipe away the web. The spider jumped away and scrambled into the crack between the sill and the window. Secretly relieved that she hadn’t killed the small creature, she wiped the dust off the two lower panes before refolding the cloth and putting it back on the stack.

  “Surely, you did not need to come to the study simply to offer me your condolences?” She clasped her hands together and turned to face him.

  “No.” He placed the basket on the table and grinned at her as he removed the linen towel hiding the contents. “I must ask a favor.”

  More than a dozen bottles stood in the basket, and as Martha looked at them, she caught the unpleasant scent of bile. Her nose wrinkled. “What do you want?” She lifted one of the bottles suspiciously and tilted it from side to side. A dark green substance like seaweed sloshed around inside.

  “Someone might have been poisoned.” Quinton rested a hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “If you could determine if any of these samples contain poison, I would be forever in your debt.”

  “What do you mean, poisoned? What kind of poison?” Martha asked. She huffed with exasperation as she counted the bottles. Sixteen.

  His grin widened, his green eyes twinkling. “That is the question, is it not?”

  “Do you have any notion how many substance
s are poisonous? And there are sixteen bottles—do you know how long it will take to test them all?” Her voice rose as she stepped away from the table. Her hands fisted at her sides.

  “There was a distinctly Catherine de’ Medici air about the entire event. A sumptuous supper… elegantly dressed guests… a man suddenly clutching his throat and gasping his last breath…” He tilted his head to one side. His eyes sparkled with unholy mirth. “So perhaps you could test for inheritance powder.”

  Her temper flared, burning as fast as white phosphorous when exposed to air. Precisely as he knew it would when he said inheritance powder. Despite the fact that she knew that he knew what the results of his teasing words would be, she was helpless to control her reaction. Her jaw locked and her fingernails bit into her palms as her hands tightened.

  Through stiff lips, she said, “Arsenic. I beg of you—use the correct term. Any poison can be called inheritance powder—it is nothing more than a useless, polite term meant to make it seem not at all that terrible when applied to a tragic situation.” Her voice hitched. “There is nothing nice about poisons or death.” The words crumbled to a halt. Salty tears drenched her cheeks—he hadn’t been poisoned—his death had been entirely natural—but the void left by her father’s death suddenly yawned wide and black.

  What are we going to do? What will become of us? She gulped and struggled to breathe, once more hollowed out by grief.

  With gentle fingers, Quinton removed her glasses, set them on the oak table, and pulled her into his arms. His touch unleashed a deep wail that rose from her chest. She couldn’t pull in enough air, couldn’t do anything except shake in stiff jerks, her face pressed against his wide chest.

  Finally, she sucked in a deep breath and pushed him away, turning her shoulder to hide her no-doubt puffy and stained face. She suffered no illusions about her attractiveness, but she didn’t want him to see her at her very worst.

  He pressed a handkerchief into her hand, and she scrubbed her face on it before defiantly blowing her nose. What did it matter if he thought she was vulgar to do such a thing? He’d known her for years, seen her with mud on her face and in far worse circumstances when they were young.

  And today, after she did as he wished, she’d never see him again, so what he thought about her did not matter in the slightest. She swallowed, blew her nose again, and straightened her shoulders. The room remained fuzzy around the edges until she picked up her round glasses and fixed them firmly on her nose.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a watery voice. She coughed and swallowed again, thrusting his handkerchief through the slit in her skirt into her pocket.

  “No—I am the one who should apologize. I had hoped this small task would provide a distraction from your situation—”

  “A distraction from our situation?” She turned to him so abruptly that she had to press her right hand on the table to steady herself. “There are sixteen bottles here. I doubt I will get through even the first one before I am sent away from this laboratory.” With a jerky gesture, she waved at the tables and bookcase. “Our cousins are coming to take possession of the house and all of its contents. Uncle Timothy will surely want this all cleared away—disposed of—and what does it matter? We shall be gone. In London, no doubt, with my lovely Aunt Mary.”

  “Mrs. Polkinghorne?” His brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “Is she not the one who kept you confined in the attic to do her mending when you visited her last?”

  “Yes, indeed. I am quite looking forward to improving my needlework skills again. I have no doubt I shall become quite proficient over the next few years.” Sulfuric acid sizzled and smoked through her words. Her gaze flashed to the dimpled surface of the table again.

  Quinton leaned his hip once more on the edge of the table and crossed his arms, relaxed and complacent.

  As well he should be, considering that he was not the one destined to become an unpaid drudge in Aunt Mary’s attic. Her chin rose and hardened at a mulish angle.

  “We will move your laboratory to Ashbourne House.”

  “You cannot.” She shook her head. “It belongs to Uncle Timothy now.”

  “I will pay you.” His gaze flickered. “Ten pounds.”

  “You can’t afford to pay me ten pounds, as you very well know.” Her shoulders slumped. It all seemed so useless. Her gaze traveled to the bottles. Despite her resistance to the notion, her fingers twitched. She wanted to know what they contained and if there was any poison present. Her mind cleared for a moment, distracted by the problem of isolating the components, determining what each bottle held…

  The twinkle was back in Quinton’s eyes when she looked up. “Perhaps I ought to marry that rich heiress, then.”

  “Heiress? What heiress?” Her heartbeat stumbled as she stared at him.

  “I am not sure at the moment. But there must be one, must there not?” he answered lightly.

  “Oh, I have no doubt of that. However, I do doubt that her money will resolve our current difficulties.”

  “Then we shall not wait for some dubious future and will plunge ahead. You must have faith in me, Martha. I can, and I will, find the funds to acquire whatever you need. Now back to the problem at hand.” He glanced at the basket and nudged it an inch closer to her.

  Although her hands twitched, she kept them well away from the temptation of the basket. “What were the symptoms? Why should anyone think someone was poisoned?” Her brow wrinkled. “Who was poisoned, anyway? And where?”

  “Sir Horace held a supper party last night. One of his guests, Mr. Adrian Alford, had a sudden attack of gastric fever and died. It all happened too quickly to be natural.”

  “Sir Horace?”

  “He requested me—us—to determine if Mr. Alford’s death was indeed gastric fever, or entirely natural.”

  “The remains—”

  “Dr. Meek took him away. I imagine the remains will be at the Alford home by now, in preparation for burial.”

  She avoided Quinton’s gaze. No sense in letting him observe her increasing interest in the mystery and begin to gloat, as he no doubt would. She removed the bottles from the basket and lined them up on the table in front of her. “If Mr. Alford was poisoned, Dr. Meek could find proof of it. Lesions, stomach contents, there are always signs.”

  “Dr. Meek pronounced gastric fever as the cause. He will not look further. It would be too awkward.”

  “The coroner—”

  “Will not be involved unless there is evidence of wrongdoing. No one cried murder, after all.”

  Martha looked up. Instead of the familiar—and annoying—twinkle, Quinton’s gaze was somber. Her hands played over the bottles, arranging them into a perfectly straight line of descending size. “If I did find something, no one would believe me, certainly not the coroner or his jury. I am a woman, after all. What could I possibly know? Or prove?”

  “Another reason supporting the move of your laboratory to my home.” He placed a warm hand over hers and gave her fingers a squeeze. “I believe you, and that is all that matters. I can present whatever you find to the coroner, if you discover anything except that plaguing gastric fever.” He grinned and patted her hand. “This may all be for naught, after all. It could very well be a sudden illness, as Dr. Meek ruled.”

  “Dr. Meek.” Martha snorted and shook her head. “A pompous fool. I wouldn’t have him remove a splinter, much less attend anyone seriously ill. He bled my father nigh to death. Papa was naught but a lump of marble after Dr. Meek’s last visit, and you know Papa was always so hearty and ruddy of complexion. If he had left him alone…”

  “I know.” Quinton gave her a brief hug, kissing the top of her head before letting her go. “And I am sorry.”

  The warmth of his embrace made the room seem chilly by comparison when he stepped away. “I understand—please—stop saying you are sorry. We are all sorry, and it doesn’t do a bit of good.” She choked and coughed to clear her throat. With an effort, she forced her thoughts back to the mystery Quint
on had brought to her. “Symptoms? I suppose they were simply the ones you exhibit with gastric fever.”

  “Violent vomiting, weakness. His chair was tipped over.”

  “Were there any signs of sickness when he arrived at the supper party?”

  “No. Sir Horace said Alford grew violently ill between the first and second course.”

  “You said Catherine de’ Medici—what brought you to that conclusion?”

  He shrugged and grinned, the twinkle back in his green eyes. “The circumstances… Something about the situation.”

  “How you always come to these conclusions from the most paltry evidence is beyond my comprehension.” She sighed. “Well, she preferred a compound of arsenic and antimony—actually, tartar emetic, or antimony potassium tartrate.” When Quinton made a strangled sound, she waved a hand. “As you know, I have Orfila’s treatise on poisons. Or to be more precise, Dr. Nancrede’s translation, Toxicology, or A Treatise on Poisons, which provides some guidance, including that related to jurisprudence. There are tests that produce a precipitate, and depending upon the appearance, one can determine if arsenic or antimony are present.” Her fingers ran through the air above the bottles again. “I don’t suppose you were able to obtain any of the substance he expelled during his violent illness, were you?” She glanced at Quinton with one brow raised.

  “Indeed, I did. You are not the only one with a strong stomach, my dear Martha.” Instead of indicating one of the bottles, he pulled a small leather-covered notebook out of his jacket pocket. “I have noted the contents of each bottle.” He flipped through the pages before he found the correct one. “You will notice that I marked numbers on the corks. Number eleven contains what you seek.”

  “Vomit.” She sighed and shook her head. “I am not going to faint if you use the proper words. As you observed, I have a strong constitution.”

  “One never knows.” Quinton chuckled.

  “I can only assume you speak for yourself, since I generally have sufficient control to be confident about my reactions,” she said, hiding her grin. “I shall start with that one, then. If there is poison in his bile,” she picked up the bottle with eleven marked on the cork, “then I shall know more specifically how—or if I need to—proceed with the contents of the other bottles. I will strain the fluids with a bit of muslin and then blend it with boiling water. Hydrosulphurets will cause a reddish yellow precipitate to form if antimony is present. There are other tests, as well…” She looked at him. “Shall I start now?”