A Perfect Gentleman

by Candace Camp

  “You must not refine too much on what Molly says. She worries about me as if I were still five years old.” She turned away, sitting down at the library table. “There was an accident, and the curtain caught on fire. I was not harmed, I assure you. I’m quite well and intend to remain so. Now . . . sit down and tell me what you have been doing. What is the latest news from New York?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid.” He laid a large envelope on the table and took a seat across from her. “Have you had letters from home?”

  “Yes, my aunt and cousin have both written me, but they had very little gossip, as they’d spent much of the summer in Carolina with the Vanderbilts.”

  They chatted for a few minutes about friends and acquaintances, then Prescott shoved the envelope across the table to her. “I received some reports from various of your investments. I thought you would like to see them.”

  “Thank you. Has your business gone well here?”

  “Yes, I am almost through; I shall be returning to America before long.”

  “I hope you will not go without letting me know.”

  “No. Of course not. It is my hope that you will decide to come back with me.”

  She smiled but shook her head. “No, this is where I must stay.”

  Conversation fell off after that, and David rose to take his leave. As Abby walked with him into the hall, the front door opened and Graeme stepped in. He stopped, seeing them, then nodded.

  “Good afternoon, Abigail. Prescott.” Graeme handed his hat to the waiting footman and strolled forward. “Kind of you to keep my wife company.”

  “Always my pleasure.”

  Graeme smiled grimly. “Have you come to make your farewells?”

  “I haven’t decided when I’m leaving London.”

  “Rather a long time to stay away from your business, isn’t it?”

  The undertone of Graeme’s words was unmistakable: he did not like finding David Prescott in his home. Abby contemplated the possibility that he was jealous. It was terrible of her, she supposed, but she couldn’t help but feel a little fillip of pleasure. Perhaps Graeme was not as indifferent to her as he acted.

  “Oh, I have business here, I assure you,” Prescott said. “Important business.”

  “Ah. Well, I wish you well with that.” The bite in Graeme’s voice belied his words. With a terse, formal good-bye, he strode off down the hall.

  David turned to Abby, frowning. “Are you sure you’re all right here?”

  “I’m fine.” At the moment she felt almost cheerful. “Really.”

  “Very well. But remember, if you need me, you have only to send for me.”

  “I’ll remember. You’re a good friend, David.”

  After he left, Abigail glanced down the hall. Graeme had disappeared. She turned and made her way back to the library. There was little chance of a book engaging her interest now, so she opened the envelope David had brought and began to look through the reports of her investments. She picked up a statement from her bank, and started perusing it. She stopped suddenly, an idea forming.

  “Graeme!” She jumped up from her chair and hurried down the corridor, her heels clicking on the stone marble floor. Graeme must have heard her approach, for he was already coming around his desk when Abby whipped through the doorway.

  “Abby! What is it? What’s wrong?” He extended a hand toward her, then let it fall back to his side.

  “Nothing. I’m fine. I just had a thought.” She waved the paper in her hand. “The bank account. If your father put the money in a bank, he must have received statements from the bank, yet we found none when were at Lydcombe Hall.”

  “Oh. Well. Yes, I suppose so.”

  “We must have missed them when we were searching his office. We could compare the bank statements to the ledger your father kept for the fund. There might be useful information in them.”

  “Actually . . . Father would have done his banking in London. He collected whatever came in at Lydcombe in a strongbox, and when he returned to London, he deposited the money in his bank here. So if those records exist, they would be in this house.”

  “Oh.” Abby felt deflated. “But we’ve already searched this study.”

  “I didn’t throw away the bank statements. There wouldn’t have been a lot of statements for the fund, and they would have been old because it was inactive by that time. I may have just bundled them up with the other banking records.”

  Graeme opened one of the cabinets and pulled a box from the bottom shelf. He rooted around in it for a few moments, then pulled out a small stack of papers and held it up triumphantly.

  “Aha! Here we are.” He spread the papers out on the desk.

  “You found them?” Abby went to stand beside him, bending over to look at the pages. She was achingly aware of how close she was to him. She could feel the heat of his body, breathe in his scent. It was all she could do not to lean into him.

  Graeme’s forefinger trembled faintly on the lines of numbers. “I’m not sure that these tell us anything pertinent. Just entries of the sums he deposited and the dates.”

  “Where’s the ledger we brought back from the estate?”

  He pulled a blue-backed volume from the bookshelf and handed it to her. “What are you thinking?”

  “I want to see if there’s anything odd or different, some discrepancy that might be suspicious.” She slid her finger down to the bottom of the account book, then returned to the bank statement. “Look. At the end, there is a final large deposit, and afterward the account was closed.”

  “Yes. That was when Father put back in the money that he—that had been taken from it. Afterward he closed the account, disbursing the money to a few homes for old soldiers.”

  “Yes, but here . . .” Abby pointed to the account book. He leaned in, his arm brushing hers, and Graeme went very still. Abby cleared her throat and continued, as if all her senses were not tinglingly aware of Graeme next to her. “After March twenty-third, three large sums were entered into the account ledger. St. V, Lord F, and another one that says ‘dues.’ Add them together, and they’re almost three thousand pounds. That’s a good bit of money. It is also the exact amount your father put into the bank account before he closed it in May. But on the bank statement, there is no record of those amounts. There are no deposits between February and the date your father put the money back.”

  “So that’s the money that went missing. It was taken in and recorded in the logbook, but not deposited in the bank. Instead it was pocketed.”

  “I think so. It makes sense,” Abby agreed.

  “It fits the timing. But this is my father’s handwriting.” His face was bleak. “It makes it more certain that he was at fault.” He tapped the accounts book. “He received it, put in the lockbox, and never deposited it.”

  “Graeme, no.” The sorrow on his face pierced her. Abby reached out, laying her hand on his arm. “Not necessarily. Someone could have stolen that money from the box. You knew where your father kept the money; I imagine other people did, as well. Your father could have found that it was missing and felt he was to blame since the money was in his keeping.”

  “You are kind to say so.” He smiled faintly.

  “It’s the truth.” Without thinking, she slid her hand over his arm in a soft, soothing motion. “If we can find someone who was there when this money was taken in—this vicar of St. Veronica’s, for instance—he might be able to shed light on it. You mustn’t give up hope.”

  “I won’t. Though truthfully, I’m not sure it matters that much to me anymore.” He laid his hand over hers. “Abigail . . . do you really—that is, I’ve been thinking. I miss—I mean, I do not want to be at odds with you.”

  “Nor I with you.” She looked up into his face, beguiled, as she always was, by the sky blue of his eyes, the depth of his gaze. She longed to reach up and trace the arch of his eyebrow with her finger.

  He leaned his head toward hers a little more. Her heart picked up its beat.


  “Can you—” Graeme broke off at the sound of footsteps approaching in the hall. Stifling a low oath, he straightened and swung toward the door just as the butler entered.

  “Beg pardon, sir.” Norton carried a small silver tray in one hand.

  “Yes, Norton, what is it?”

  The butler extended the tray, on which lay a small square of folded white paper. Graeme impatiently picked up the notepaper and an odd look crossed his face. He glanced quickly up at Norton, whose sharp gaze did not match his supremely blank face. Graeme’s gaze flickered to Abby, then away. He slid a finger beneath the seal to open the missive and began to read.

  Graeme frowned and muttered something under his breath, then turned to the butler. “When did this arrive?”

  “Just now, sir,” Norton replied. “A boy delivered it to the door.”

  “I see.” Graeme returned to the note, studying it as if it held great wisdom, though Abby could see only a few lines of writing on the paper.

  “Graeme? Is something wrong?” Abby moved closer.

  “What?” His head shot up, and he shoved the note inside his jacket, groping for the inner pocket. “Oh. Yes, I mean, no, it’s nothing. Just, um, a reminder of something I must do this afternoon.” He nodded toward the butler, who still hovered in the doorway. “Thank you, Norton.”

  Thus dismissed, the butler retreated reluctantly. They were both acting peculiarly, Abby thought. She waited, but Graeme made no explanation.

  “I must—I have to leave. But I—” He took a step forward. “Abby, may I talk to you? Later, I mean, after I return?”

  “Of course.” Coolness replaced the former concern in her voice. Graeme was hiding something.

  “Good. I’ll return soon.” He swung around and left the room. Unnoticed, the folded piece of paper slipped out from beneath his jacket and floated to the floor.

  Abby stood for a moment, gazing at the square of paper. It was Graeme’s; she had no right to read it. She walked over and picked up the note. She should simply put it on his desk and leave; it was wrong to snoop. Normally she would have done just that.

  But she thought of the way Graeme had glanced over at her, the odd, almost shifty, look in his eyes when she asked if something was wrong. There was something in that note that concerned her; she was sure of it. Something he didn’t want her to know.

  Perhaps it was about meeting someone involved in the fund they were investigating, and Graeme wanted to go without her. The idea pierced her.

  She had thought for a moment that their old warmth and closeness might return. That Graeme was about to say he wanted to be with her again. But when the note arrived, his demeanor had changed.

  Abby looked down at the folded sheet of notepaper. Graeme’s name was written across it in a flowing feminine hand. Her heart squeezed within her chest. She knew it was worse than not wanting her to accompany him. She opened the note and read the brief message within:

  Graeme,

  I must speak to you. Please call on me. It’s urgent or I would not have asked.

  Yours,

  Laura

  Graeme had run to the side of the woman he loved. Abby stuffed the letter in her pocket and walked away.

  chapter 27

  Abby pelted up the stairs and into her room, only barely restraining herself from slamming the door behind her. She wanted to smash something—anything, as long as she could pretend it was Graeme’s head.

  “Miss Abby! What’s wrong?” Molly hurried toward her. “What has that infernal man done now?”

  Abby had not meant to tell her; she hated for Molly to dislike Graeme any more than she already did. But talking was better than breaking things.

  “He’s gone to see Laura.” Anger spurted up in her anew. “He received a note from her just now and rushed off.”

  “The man’s a devil. Running off to a tryst with that woman with you right there in front of him!”

  “No, I don’t think it’s a tryst.” Somehow her maid’s anger calmed her own a bit. “It sounded as if she wanted to talk. She asked him to come and said it was urgent.”

  “He told you that?”

  “No. I read the note. He just told me he was going to meet someone.”

  “He lied to you.”

  “Not exactly.” Abby sighed. “But, yes, he concealed who it was. Obviously he wouldn’t want me to know.”

  “It’s time you left here. We’ll go home, and you can have the baby there, among your friends and family.”

  Abby shook her head. “I promised I would stay in England. That I wouldn’t take his child from him.”

  “Pah! He doesn’t deserve your promises.”

  “No. It’s his child, too. His heir, if it’s a boy. I couldn’t take our son away from his father, his birthright. His heritage.”

  “He’d be better off growing up as far away from him as you could get.”

  “It’s not Graeme’s fault that he loves her.”

  “It is when he loves someone other than his wife.”

  “He loved Laura before he even met me. And if it’s punishment you’re after, he’s received more than he deserves already. He’s saddled with a wife he doesn’t want.”

  “The best wife a man could ask for!”

  Abby smiled faintly. “Still, one he did not ask for. He’ll never be with the woman he truly loves.”

  “Not as long as you’re alive,” Molly said darkly.

  Abby’s head snapped up, and she stared at the other woman. “Molly! What a terrible thing to say!”

  Her maid crossed her arms. “Aye, it’s terrible. But it’s a worse thing for a man to do away with his wife so he can have another.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Molly, you must not say such things. Graeme would never—”

  “Would he not?” Molly leaned forward to look straight into Abby’s face. “I’ve held my tongue because I know how you feel about him. I didn’t want you to be hurt any more than you already are. But I canna stand aside and say nothing when your life is in danger.”

  “Molly! Is this what you told David? Is that why he kept asking me if I was all right?”

  “Aye, and I won’t apologize for it.” Molly’s chin jutted out. “Someone ought to know what’s going on here.”

  “Nothing’s going on here. I cannot imagine why you have—”

  “Can you not? That’s only because you’re blinded by your love for the man.”

  “I don’t love him. I will admit that I could, that I—that I like him very much, that I hoped for—”

  “Love, like, hope, whatever you want to call it. The fact is, you refuse to see what’s staring you in the face. You’ve almost died three times since you came here.”

  “No. What are you talking about? That man pushed me into the river, but it certainly wasn’t Graeme. I don’t think he even meant to kill me. He was after Mr. Baker, and he ran into me as he was running away.”

  “What about the fire in your room?”

  “Molly!” Abby stared, astonished. “That was an accident. I nodded off while I was reading, and I left a candle burning.”

  “You find nothing strange in your falling asleep like that? I have never known you to do so.”

  “It’s not usual, but I’ve been much sleepier lately. You know that.”

  “So when you sat down to read, you set that candle on the other side of the table from you, right beside the drapes?”

  “No, of course not. It must have fallen off and rolled. Even if you were right, and someone set that fire purposely, it couldn’t have been Graeme. He wasn’t even here.”

  “Yes, it very conveniently happened on the one night when he had an alibi. A man like that wouldn’t have to do his own dirty work. He’d hire someone else to do it and make sure he was somewhere else. And he wasn’t anywhere else, anyway. He came in not half an hour later. He could have sneaked in earlier, set it, and left again, coming back when it was all over. He thought he’d come in and play the grieving husband. He didn’t co
unt on you waking up and ringing for me.”

  “And what, pray tell, was the reason he rescued me from the river? Why would he even be there?”

  “Maybe he thought he’d play the hero, look like he tried to rescue you, only there were too many people there, and they helped save you.”

  “Why would he shoot Mr. Baker?”

  “Have you thought maybe he wasn’t aiming at that man, that he meant to shoot you and missed his mark?”

  “No, I haven’t. I haven’t thought about any of this because it’s absurd. If you have to come up with these complicated explanations, it means it’s very unlikely. You don’t like Graeme; you’ve never liked him. So you’re imagining something wicked where there’s nothing.”

  “I’m not imagining that you’ve nearly died three times.”

  “Three? Those are just two—two accidents.”

  “What about your falling on the stairs the other day?”

  “At the party? But that’s—” She stopped, remembering the push against her back. “Someone merely stumbled into me.”

  “Three accidents in three months?” Molly quirked an eyebrow. “I’ve never known you to be so clumsy and careless before.”

  “Very well. Yes, it’s odd. But Graeme wasn’t even on the stairs. Are you going to claim he hired one of the other ladies around me to push me down the stairs? All of this is completely out of the question. No matter how Graeme feels about me, he would not harm his heir. He can’t kill me without killing his own child, as well.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was her.”

  “Her? Who—you mean Laura Hinsdale?” Abby gaped at her, then began to laugh, trying to envision the composed, kind, and ladylike woman as an assassin. “If you had met her, you wouldn’t think that. She was very nice and friendly. She helped me. Indeed, she is the one who grabbed my arm and kept me from falling.”

  “You’re too trusting; you don’t want to believe bad of anyone. She might have gotten tired of waiting for him; she figured she’d make sure his present countess died so she could step into her place. Or maybe she just hates you for taking him away from her and wants to see you dead. Or the two of them are in it together. With you gone, he’d have money, and he could marry whoever he wants. He can have an heir with this Laura.”