“Vicar.”
Catherine’s gaze slid to the earl, expecting to find an expression of annoyance, given his curt greeting. Instead, she found him looking as serious and sophisticated as ever. If not for the small cleft in his chin, one might liken him to one of the somber marble statues in the British Museum. But the cleft saved him from being too unapproachable.
“My apologies for missing the end of your sermon,” she said.
“I’m sure you had a good reason.” The vicar glanced at the earl’s carriage. “Are you off so soon?”
Nodding toward the now empty carriage window, Catherine said, “I’m afraid Sophie’s not feeling well.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Mr. Foster said. “Shall we postpone our ride?”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’ll have Sophie back to rights in no time. Besides, I’m rather looking forward to our visit.”
“Vicar,” Lord Somerton said. “It is past time we get the child home.”
“Of course,” Mr. Foster said. “Forgive me for keeping you. I’ll see you later, then, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
“Until later, Mr. Foster.”
This time, when Lord Somerton held out his hand, Catherine experienced no compunction to accept his escort. With the vicar seeing them off and expecting her to accompany him later, she doubted the earl would indulge in any villainous behavior. Once again, she had allowed her imagination to run amok. Unless Lord Somerton knew about the content of her meeting with Cochran, he would have no reason to harm her or her daughter.
“Thank you, my lord.” She laid her fingers in his palm as she ascended the carriage steps. Heat tingled its way up her arm and across her shoulder, spreading until her ears felt like they were on fire. Her hand trembled, and she plopped onto the cushioned bench next to a lump of squirming blanket.
She released his hand, and he shut the door behind her.
Catherine sat forward. “You’re not joining us, my lord?”
He glanced at Sophie. “No. I think it best if I ride up top with Miggs.”
Catherine reached to open the door. “Please ride inside with us, where you’ll be more comfortable. I don’t like that we’re dislocating you from your own carriage.”
Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t mind. I rather like riding with old Miggs and his flamboyant stories.” He stepped away. “Pull the curtain, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
Then he was gone. Catherine stared out the window for several seconds, pondering his considerate actions with those Cochran had described of the Nexus’s leader. How could a man show so much care for one small girl and then turn around and conspire against his country? An act that could kill hundreds?
The carriage rocked to the side with the earl’s weight, the movement snapping her out of her musings. She closed the curtain and sat back as they lurched into motion. A few seconds later, her intrepid daughter emerged from her cocoon of wool.
Blowing a gold-red curl out of her eye, Sophie asked, “Do you think anyone saw me, Mama?”
Catherine wrapped her arm around the girl’s narrow shoulders. “No, pumpkin. Lord Somerton provided a clever disguise.”
“Not even Mr. Foster?”
“Not even Mr. Foster,” Catherine confirmed. “Lord Somerton made sure of it.”
“The earl smelled nice.”
Any other day, Catherine would have corrected Sophie’s form of address. “Did he?”
Sophie nodded. “Like a tree.”
Catherine smiled. “Lord Somerton smelled like a tree? Was it a beech?”
“More like an oak,” her daughter said. “Sprinkled with spice.”
She pulled her daughter’s head toward her and kissed her mop of curls. “Sounds lovely, dear.” She adored the innocence of Sophie’s imagination. Her daughter was amazing, and somehow she had been born from Catherine’s less-than-perfect womb.
Sophie galloped her destrier across Catherine’s lap. “Do you think the earl will come on Saturday?”
Catherine’s pulse quickened. “Why do you ask, sweetheart?”
Her daughter shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Are you sure you don’t?” She smoothed her hand over her daughter’s curls. “You can tell me.”
Sophie picked at the black ribbon on her dress. “I know we’re supposed to keep my birthday to just family and close friends, because we’re mourning Papa and Grandpapa. But I thought the earl could help me add a piece to Castle Dragonthorpe.”
Tears stung the backs of Catherine’s eyes and her vision blurred. More and more of late, her daughter craved the attention of a masculine figure. Edward, the vicar, the Walkers’ father—it didn’t matter, as long as the man showed an interest in her. And now, she wanted to share their special castle-building custom with the Earl of Somerton.
“Mama, please don’t cry,” Sophie said, her voice cracking. “You can still help. No one decorates the chambers better than you.”
“Thank you, pumpkin.” Catherine hugged her daughter to her side. “I’m sorry your father can’t be here to celebrate with you.”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders again and then cast Catherine an agonized, sidelong look. “Mama, please don’t be cross.”
“What’s this?” Catherine lifted her daughter’s chin. “Sophie, you can ask whomever you wish to help build your castle. I would never be upset with you for such a thing.”
Her daughter swiped her skinny arm underneath her nose, leaving a liquid trail behind. “I thought the earl could help me set up the torture devices Edward carved for me. I know how you dislike blood and violence.” Watery rivulets streaked down her smooth cheeks. “But that’s not what I meant.”
“Tell me, Sophie,” Catherine said with growing concern. “I promise not to be upset.”
“Papa’s face. I don’t see it anymore.”
Like the ends of a knot being pulled swiftly in opposite directions, Catherine’s throat closed again, swiftly and without warning. The air from her lungs was cut off from the rest of her body. Her head swam, her heart broke. “Oh, sweet pumpkin. You do not have to see your papa’s face to love him with your heart.” Catherine laid her hand over her daughter’s thundering chest. “He lives here. Always will.”
Sophie snuggled against Catherine’s breast, clutching her wooden horse and sniffing back her sadness. They both said nothing for a long while, simply sat immersed in their own thoughts. Then, in a low voice, her daughter asked, “Will you invite the earl, Mama?”
Catherine closed her eyes. “Yes, sweetheart.”
Crisis averted, Sophie soon began chattering on about teaching her pony a new command when they returned home. Catherine listened with half an ear, for her mind had settled back onto the earl. Somehow she would find a way to learn more about his lordship. Perhaps she could invent an excuse to visit him at Bellamere. The contrivance made her cringe. He would likely see through her desperation and think she had designs on his person. If she wasn’t in mourning, she might be able to pull off such a scheme—at least for a while.
Her eyes widened. Hadn’t the earl mentioned something about her departure being fortuitous before her worry for Sophie overrode their conversation? What had he meant by that statement? She searched her mind for possible reasons. Maybe he had a question about the repairs or about a particular craftsman. Yes, that would make sense.
Now she had to figure out a way to regain their former discussion without seeming too eager. Although she hated the pretense, anticipation vibrated along every nerve and muscle in her body. If she could somehow burrow her way into his good graces, she could play a small part in fixing Mr. Blake’s disastrous stewardship while tracking down Cochran’s information, plus bring an end to the mystery of her husband’s death.
And for a short period of time, she wouldn’t be alone.
“Can we open the curtain now, Mama?”
C
atherine drew back the heavy material, only to find towering black clouds in the distance.
“Looks like rain, Mama.”
“Indeed it does, pumpkin.” Catherine tilted her head back to rest against the carriage seat. She stared at the dark panel above her and tried to ignore the dread seeping into her bones.
***
Sebastian studied the small collection of books in the widow’s library, his impatience growing with each passing minute. He had escaped the vicar’s pointed sermon about forgiving one’s neighbor only to be met with Mrs. Ashcroft’s domestic issue.
He didn’t know what was worse—the vicar publicly challenging the residents of Showbury not to cast judgment on their landlord for hiring Blake, or getting himself involved in the welfare of yet another child.
A girl, no less.
He gritted his teeth against the pain of remembrance, of Cora’s imprisonment. Of the helplessness that followed. But he did not dwell there for long. Recriminations about the past were useless in the present. The decisions he made today, this minute, were all that mattered. If previous mistakes helped guide him down a better path now, all the better.
Shrugging off images of dungeons and pain-filled eyes, Sebastian stared at the door. Where the hell was she? The longer he idled in the widow’s library, the more restless he became.
She had implored him to stay before shuffling her blanket-draped daughter upstairs and issuing a full gamut of orders to her staff. He had thought she was going upstairs to retrieve the letters, but too much time had elapsed for so simple a task.
Why hadn’t he disappeared when he’d had the chance? Their discussion regarding Ashcroft’s letters would be better held at Bellamere, away from the distracting presence of a child. He needed to concentrate and he couldn’t afford to care. Not again. Dammit. Why had he allowed the widow’s beseeching brown eyes to win out against his better judgment?
Disgusted with his weakness, he released a harsh breath. Through all the bustle, Sebastian had admired Catherine’s ability to direct her household with a firm, yet gentle hand. Her staff anticipated her needs, and when they hadn’t, she’d remind them with soft commands followed by genuine gratitude. All signs of a good mistress.
He focused on her bookshelves again. They, too, carried her stamp of authority. Every shelf contained its own category, and every category was alphabetized. Only in the finest libraries had he ever seen such an exacting system.
With her delicate beauty as a distraction, one could easily underestimate the widow’s fortitude. His gaze surveyed the room at large. Took in the aged, yet comfortable leather chairs, the purple and yellow flowers on the side table, the colorful draperies protecting the room from draughts. She’d made a home here, despite her husband’s preoccupation in London. If Sebastian wasn’t so anxious to leave, this would be a room where he could spend many comfortable hours reading in front of the fireplace.
A disturbance in the air drew his attention to the doorway. With pink cheeks, tamed hair, and a radiant smile, the widow’s daughter entered the room on limbs more buoyant than a mere quarter hour ago.
The muscles in his neck tautened.
“Thank you for waiting, my lord,” Mrs. Ashcroft said. “Sophie has something she’d like to say.”
Her daughter dipped into a commendable curtsy. “Thank you for bringing me home, my lord.”
She reminded him so thoroughly of Cora, who had also suffered a similar loss as a child. Sebastian inclined his head, ignoring the clenching pain in his throat. “You’re most welcome.”
“Sophie,” Mrs. Ashcroft said, “run down to the stables now and ask Carson to saddle Guinevere and Gypsy. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The girl didn’t budge. “Is the earl joining us?” Sophie asked.
“Lord Somerton,” her mother corrected. “No, dear. His lordship has attended us long enough.”
Relief spread through his limbs at the possibility of escape, but the imp’s crestfallen expression wreaked havoc on his conscience.
Glancing at his timepiece, he said, “I must be on my way, I’m afraid.”
The widow nudged her daughter toward the door, but Sophie wheeled around after only a few feet. “Can we ask him now, Mama?”
“No. Now is not the time.”
Sebastian noticed the widow kept her gaze averted.
Unperturbed, the girl tried a different tactic. “Do you have horses, sir?”
“I have a great many horses.”
“A white one?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“A black one?”
“Of course,” he said, amused despite his best efforts.
“A brown one?”
“Sophie,” her mother scolded, eyeing him.
“Well, Mama,” the girl said. “If the earl has a black and white horse, he must have a brown one.”
Mrs. Ashcroft turned her daughter toward the door. “No, Lord Somerton mustn’t.”
“May I come see your horses, sir?” the girl asked over her shoulder while being ushered out of the room.
Sebastian said nothing. The last thing he needed was a curious girl running around his estate, no matter how enchanting.
“Sophie, I told you,” the widow said in exasperation. “Lord Somerton’s a busy man. He can’t set his duties aside to play nursemaid to you. Now run along.”
“But Mama—”
The widow’s glare cut her daughter’s complaint short.
Sophie dipped into a hurried curtsy. “Good day to you, Earl.”
“Lord Somerton,” her mother corrected again.
The vixen smiled, and Sebastian knew she cared not a whit about such formalities.
“Good day, Lord Somerton.”
He inclined his head. “Enjoy your ride with the vicar.”
Once the sound of her daughter’s running feet faded, the widow turned to him. “I’m sorry, my lord. Sophie’s horse-obsessed and begs an introduction wherever we go.”
“Quite understandable.”
“I believe you wanted to see these.” She held out a packet of letters, tied together with a black ribbon. The ribbon trembled.
“Thank you.” He studied her face as he accepted the bundle, but her even features gave nothing away. “I know how hard it must be to share your private correspondence.”
“Yes, but worth it if they help you find my husband’s murderer.” She swallowed. “Did you learn anything from the others I gave you?” She turned the full force of those beautiful eyes on him.
“Unfortunately, no.” He held up the new stash. “We need to decipher these in order to fully understand Ashcroft’s message.”
“I see.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Ashcroft.” He stepped closer, his gaze sliding over the delicate contours of her face. “What will you do if it’s decided that your husband’s death was an unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
Her eyes widened a fraction, but her answer came swift and determined. “I’ll take the letters to someone else.”
Sebastian’s body went hard. Desire like nothing he had ever felt before rushed through his veins. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to have such a fierce champion. “Are you this loyal to everyone you care about?”
“What can you mean, sir?” she asked. “Would you not do the same for a wife?”
“I have never been married, madam. Therefore, I cannot answer your question.” Closer now, he drew in a long, slow breath until her scent drenched his senses. Tantalizing and fresh. Understated, yet feminine. His chest expanded around another deep inhalation. “But I find I like the idea of a wife defending my cause. No matter the obstacles placed in her path.”
“You make me sound heroic.” She folded her hands in front of her. “I assure you, I am not. Merely practical.”
He studi
ed the pulse point on her slender throat, noted its frantic rhythm. Blood streamed into his extremities. “I don’t believe you. My tenants provided several testimonials yesterday that would make you eligible for sainthood.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said in a breathless voice. “Unlike your tenants, I had nothing to lose by holding Mr. Blake accountable for his actions.”
“Yes, Mrs. Ashcroft.” He raised his hand and brushed the backs of his fingers along the curve of her neck. “Unlike you, not everyone would have bothered to right the injustice.”
“M-my, lord, what are you doing?”
He settled a hand on her waist, bringing their bodies closer together. His gaze transfixed on her lush full lips. Lips that would mold to his in an exquisite embrace. His insides curled into a tight knot of anticipation. He shouldn’t want her, his agent’s widow, but he did, with staggering force. Ashcroft’s final request faded behind his fevered desire.
It was then he knew she was in danger. And perhaps so was he.
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
“My lord—”
Soft flesh, luscious warmth, and an inexplicable rightness assailed his senses the moment he covered her mouth with his. He deepened the kiss and pulled her unresisting body into the cradle of his arms. Her delicate frame was a flawless fit, made for him alone.
The small hands resting on his chest inched their way around his torso and squeezed with a force that verged on desperation. He cradled her sweet face with unsteady hands. His breaths came more rapidly and his body sought a closer contact. He was losing control, and the realization cut through the fog of desire clouding his mind. Ending the kiss, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and fought to temper his erratic heartbeat.
Think, Somerton! Catherine was under his protection and in mourning. Two inviolable conditions. Until a year and a day, her marriage vows still breathed life, a condition he knew she would honor even though her marriage died years ago. That she had accepted his kiss was unexpected and more than a little stirring.
“I believe it best if you release me now, my lord.”
Removing his arms and backing away proved surprisingly difficult. She took a moment to smooth out the creases in her dress and tuck a few stray hairs back in place. Sebastian watched it all with a resignation that lay heavily on his chest. He did not want to lose this. Not yet. His honor be damned.
Checkmate, My Lord Page 10