by Candace Camp
“Stop! Molly, you’re wrong. Graeme would never do anything like this. And I have serious doubts that a proper English lady like Miss Hinsdale is creeping about other people’s houses setting fires, or firing guns at people and pushing them into the river.”
“But—”
“No!” Abby’s eyes flashed. “I mean it, Molly. Stop talking this nonsense . . . to me or anyone. I forbid you to go to David Prescott and fill his ear with these foolish notions. You raised me, and I love you, but I will not keep you with me if you go on spreading poison like this.”
Molly gasped, taking a step backward. “Miss Abby! You canna mean—”
“I do.”
Molly clenched her teeth, obviously biting back the words she would like to say. She gave a short nod. “Very well, ma’am. I’ll say nothing else. If you need nothing here, I will go back downstairs to clean your shoes.”
Abby nodded, flooded with guilt at the woman’s formal words. She had always been “Miss Abby” to Molly, no matter her age or married status. Abby steeled herself against the emotion. She could not bear to listen to Molly’s delusions.
She walked to the window and gazed out at the graceful row of houses across the street. Three accidents in the space of time she had been here were unusual, even suspicious. Despite her words to Molly, she herself had wondered if she had been targeted.
It was not like her to fall asleep so suddenly and soundly as she had the night of the fire. And why would the candle fall off and roll over to the drapes? It would just melt where it stood.
There had been a second shot that night at the river. Had it been aimed at her? Might it have hit her if she had not quickly knelt beside Baker? The person slamming into her and knocking her into the water had not felt like an accident. It had been hard and direct, not a glancing blow. There had been no sound of the runner stumbling.
She was even more certain that the other night on the stairs she had felt a deliberate hand in her back shoving her forward. If one of the other women had stumbled into her, there would have been some noise, an exclamation of distress. Nor had anyone apologized or asked if she was all right.
The problem, of course, with believing that any or all of these things were attempts to murder her was that there was no reason for anyone to kill her. No one would benefit from her death except her cousins, who were far away in New York, and her favorite charities. And her husband.
To anyone who did not know Graeme, he would appear the logical choice of suspect. If Abby were dead, Graeme would have the freedom to marry again, along with the added benefit of whatever she might have willed to him.
But Abby did know Graeme; she knew him well. She was certain Graeme had not tried to harm her. All the logical reasons meant nothing when measured against his character. Graeme would not commit cold-blooded murder no matter how much he disliked someone. She would stake her life on it.
That left only Laura Hinsdale. But the thought of that lady running about shooting at people or knocking them into the river or down a flight of stairs was laughable. Even more absurd was the idea that she had sneaked into the Parr mansion late at night and crept up the stairs into Abby’s bedroom to set her drapes on fire.
Abby liked Laura. Even knowing that she was the woman who held Graeme’s heart, Abby could not help but like her. She had been nice, unaffected, and warm. Far nicer and more down to earth than any of the other ladies she’d met in London.
Abby frowned. Now that was odd. Laura had not been cool and aloof. She had not acted snobbishly. Though her manner had been perfectly polite and ladylike, she had also been friendly and practical. Her behavior was even stranger when one considered that Abby was the wife of the man Laura herself loved. Abby had not known Laura, but Laura would have realized who Abby was as soon as Abby introduced herself.
At the time, Abby had thought her kind, but perhaps she was merely deceitful. Surely Laura must resent Abby, who had married the man Laura loved. Worse, she must know that Graeme had been forced into it. Abby and her father had ruined Laura’s life.
And wasn’t it quite a coincidence that Laura had been at that party, that she’d been right beside Abby on the stairs when she stumbled? Abby frowned, trying to remember exactly how the fall had occurred. She could not remember whether Laura had been next to her the whole time or if she had just suddenly appeared when Abby stumbled. Wasn’t it possible that she had given Abby a push as she stepped down onto the stair beside her?
But why then would she have reached out and grabbed Abby’s arm to keep her from falling? Abby had grabbed the banister; she probably would not have had a worse fall than stumbling to her knees or lurching into the banister. Perhaps, seeing that her plan hadn’t worked, Laura had taken her arm so that Abby would not suspect Laura of being the one who pushed her.
Laura would know that Graeme would turn to her if Abby was out of the way. He still loved Laura—look at the way he had rushed to her today the moment she beckoned. Perhaps the two of them had to discuss their plans.
No. It was impossible. Abby would allow the possibility that Laura might be plotting against her, despite Abby’s initial impression of her, but she simply could not accept that Graeme would try to harm her. If she was so wrong about his character, if he hated her that much, then Abby preferred not to know. She would rather just meet her fate.
chapter 28
Graeme strode impatiently up the street. Blast it. This note couldn’t have come at a worse time. As he and Abby had looked at the accounts, there had been a few moments of closeness, of normalcy. Hope had swelled in him. He had thought that if he could just talk to Abby, if he told her how much he wished everything was the way it had been between them, how he missed her presence, not only in his bed, but everywhere in his life, that she would listen and understand. Perhaps she wished the same thing. They could bridge this gap between them, have a life together with their child.
But just as he was groping for the right words to say, Norton had come in with that note. The sight of Laura’s familiar hand, the stamp she always used on the seal, had astonished him. His first thought had been alarm. Abby would be upset, just like the other night. Worse. He had the uneasy feeling that Abby would find it difficult to believe that he did not routinely receive letters from Laura.
For an instant, he considered ignoring the note. But even as he’d thought it, he knew he could not. The moment had been broken. It would look odd to stick the thing into a drawer without reading it—he remembered quite well what he had thought when Abby did that very thing so many weeks ago. Abby would be bound to ask questions. Besides, no matter how inopportune or annoying it was, Laura would not write to him without an important reason. She had never tried to contact him before.
Once he’d read it, he knew he had to go see her immediately. There must be something very wrong; Laura would not ask him to call on her for something trivial. And it was truly alarming that she had said it was urgent. Laura was one of the steadiest, most composed people he knew.
Torn between worry and frustration, Graeme trotted up the steps of her cousin’s house and knocked. It was something of a shock to see a different footman open the door, but at that moment the butler emerged from the hallway.
“Lord Montclair.”
“Hello, Boggerty. Good to see you.”
“And you, my lord. Miss Hinsdale said you would be arriving. She’s in the music room.”
“Of course.” Graeme smiled. The music room was where he had often found Laura, her blond head bent over a sheet of music, her graceful fingers flying over the keys.
Boggerty ushered him to the door and left quietly. Graeme stood for a moment, watching Laura. He had not talked to her the other night, too busy chasing after his fleeing wife. She looked much the same as ever—light blond hair pinned into a braided coronet, neat and practical, the strawberries-and-cream complexion, the plain gray dress, and the intense concentration on her face as she read the music. The years sat kindly on her face; at twenty-eight, she was still
lovely.
His heart warmed to see her. He missed her friendship—her wit, her warmth, her steadiness. Perhaps it would be possible to be friends again—but no, it would be too upsetting to Abby. It was too bad, he thought. Under different circumstances, Abby and Laura would have liked each other.
He must have made some noise, for Laura glanced up and saw him. “Graeme! You came.” She popped to her feet and started toward him.
“Of course. Did you think I would not?” He bowed formally over her hand.
“I hoped you would, but . . .” She shrugged, her cheeks turning pink. “Well, it’s a trifle awkward, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Somehow the admission made things less uncomfortable, and Graeme smiled at her more naturally. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. So are you. Please, sit down.” She gestured toward a chair and sat down across from him. “I quite liked your wife. She’s a lovely woman. I’m very sorry for the other night.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I didn’t know who she was at first, and when we introduced ourselves, I didn’t know what to do. I felt as if I were deceiving her, but what could I say? I hoped I could get away without any awkwardness or embarrassment.”
“But I came blundering in.” He paused, then said, “But surely this is not why you wrote me.”
“No. Oh, no, of course not. I hesitated about sending you that note; I wouldn’t have . . . only . . . Perhaps I am being foolish, but I was worried, and I—I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Do about what? What’s the matter? May I assist you in any way?”
“No, it’s not about me. It’s about your wife.”
“Abigail?” His eyebrows rose. “I don’t understand.”
“I thought what happened on the stairs was simply an accident, so I really didn’t think anything about it at first.”
“The stairs? What do you mean? What happened on the stairs?”
“Lady Montclair falling. At the party the other night.”
“She fell?” Graeme jumped to his feet. “When? What are you talking about?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No. She did not.” His mouth tightened, and he took his seat again. “Tell me what happened. Was she hurt?”
“No. She didn’t fall to the ground; she just stumbled and began to fall. I happened to be walking down the stairs beside her, and I grabbed her arm. She caught the railing.”
“That’s bad enough.” He scowled. “Why the devil didn’t she tell me?”
“Perhaps she didn’t think it was important.”
“Of course it was important. A fall—she could have lost the baby.”
Laura’s eyes widened. “Oh. You mean she’s—”
“Yes.” He smiled faintly, feeling pleased, proud, and slightly embarrassed.
“I’m very happy for you. And Lady Montclair.” If there was a faint tremor in her voice, it was quickly suppressed. “But that makes me even more concerned. As I said, I put it down to an accident, but this morning, Mrs. Penwyler came to call, along with one of her friends, and one of them mentioned Lady Montclair. Cousin Elizabeth said something about Lady Montclair almost falling—I had told her, you see—and Mrs. Penwyler said Lady Montclair was always stirring things up. She said Montclair’s wife was always acting as if something had happened to her—falling in the river and getting trapped in a fire. She intimated that Lady Montclair had set the fire herself, just to attract attention.”
“What rubbish.”
“Well, you know Mrs. Penwyler; she’s a harpy. But the thing is, it didn’t sound at all like the woman I met.”
“No, of course not. Abby is more likely to pretend nothing happened than to dramatize a situation.”
“I also thought it was very peculiar that she had had several ‘accidents.’ I thought about that ‘accident’ on the stairs. And it seemed to me, looking back on it, well . . . that she had been pushed rather than that she had stumbled.”
“Pushed!” Graeme’s heart began to pound in his chest. “Are you sure?”
“No. That’s just it. I’m not. The whole thing happened very fast, and I was more intent on catching her arm than anything else. I didn’t actually see anyone push Lady Montclair. But I didn’t see her stumble, either. She lurched forward and to the side very suddenly. It didn’t appear that she had caught her toe in her skirts or anything like that. I think I was the one who then stepped on her ruffle and tore it as I jumped to catch her arm. She wasn’t hurrying. There were people in front of us, so she couldn’t have.” Laura stopped, uncertain. “Am I being foolish, Graeme?”
“No. Not at all. I am the one who’s been a fool.” He shoved a hand back through his hair. “God help me, I’ve been blind. I thought the danger long past. I thought she was safe with me. I was sure no one could have gotten into the house to set the fire.”
“Safe from what? What danger?”
“That’s just it. I’ve no idea. I’ve been so caught up in my own feelings I’ve ignored everything else.” He stood up. “I have to go. I’m sorry, but I—”
“There’s no need to apologize. Of course you must go to her.”
Graeme rushed out, in such a hurry that he did not realize until later that he had forgotten his hat. He hailed a hansom this time, unwilling to waste even the time of walking. As he rode, his mind raced, dread, frustration, and anger rising in him. When the carriage pulled up in front of his home, he fairly shot out of it, tossing money at the driver without even asking the amount.
Charging up the steps, he strode through the front door, nearly bowling over a footman. He went first to the less formal sitting room downstairs, but only his grandmother and her companion were there. “Good heavens, Montclair, what is the—”
But he was gone before Lady Eugenia could finish her sentence, pounding up the stairs and into Abby’s bedroom. Abby was staring out the window, and she jumped and whirled around at his abrupt entrance.
“Graeme! What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” he shot back, all the emotions that had been building in him rushing up in a surge of fury. “What the devil are you doing? Why didn’t you tell me you fell on the stairs? Did you think I didn’t deserve to have even that bit of knowledge about you?” She made no reply, only stared at him in astonishment. It served to fuel his anger. “Don’t you realize what could have happened?”
“Of course I realize it!” Abby snapped back, breaking out of her momentary paralysis. “It’s not as if I set out to stumble on the stairs! I didn’t hide it from you; I had other things on my mind at the time.”
“Yes, I know, you were too busy punishing me because you met Laura.”
“What?” Her voice rose, and she practically jumped forward. “How dare you accuse me of hurting you! I gave you what you’ve wanted all along—your freedom. Now you’re castigating me because I had an accident? Because I didn’t report to you? You don’t control me.”
“I understand that you don’t want me, but, damn it, I am still your husband. You had no right to hide it from me.”
“I didn’t hide it from you.” She held herself rigidly, fists knotted at her side. Her voice was tight, but level. “Clearly it would have done no good if I had. Obviously you have your own sources of information. I would ask who told you about the accident on the stairs, but we both know the answer to that.”
A prickle of unease ran through him.
“No, don’t bother to lie.” Abby’s voice was acidic. She dug into her pocket and threw a piece of paper at him. It fell to the floor at his feet. He didn’t need to pick it up to see that it was Laura’s note. “I know you’ve been with your . . . friend.” Abby’s mouth twisted bitterly.
“I wasn’t going to lie.” Graeme’s chest was so tight he felt as if he might choke. “And yes, she is my friend. Yours, too, more than you know.”
“Mine?” Her eyebrows lifted mockingly.
“Yes, yours. She asked me to call on her because she was wor
ried about you.”
“What? Oh, yes, I am certain she was most concerned about me.”
“She was. You may not care to acknowledge it, but Laura is a kind person. Fair and honest. She would never wish you ill.”
“Yes, yes, I am well aware what a paragon she is.”
“Stop being so bloody contemptuous. Laura was worried. She heard about your other accidents. She is afraid you are in danger.”
“In danger? Well, she should know.”
“I should have known—but you didn’t see fit to tell me that someone tried to push you down the stairs.”
“What could you have done about it? It had already happened.”
“What I can do is make sure it doesn’t happen again. You’re going to Lydcombe Hall.”
“I beg your pardon. You intend to pack me off to the estate, like some mad aunt? You think I’ll quietly do as you bid and—”
“I am sure you will not quietly do as you’re bid,” he thundered back. “Ever. But, by God, this once I intend to make sure you will be somewhere safe and secure.”
“As soon as I get away from here, I’ll be safe and secure!”
Graeme’s eyes widened. There was a moment of dreadful silence. “You think that I—that I am the one who is trying to kill you?” He felt as if she’d slapped him. “Abby . . .” Unconsciously he took a step back. “You believe I could want to harm you?”
Abby reached out, looking stricken. “No, Graeme . . . I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m sorry. I know—I told Molly you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Molly? You’ve thought about it, you’ve been discussing it—discussing me—with your maid?” Now a saving anger was rising up in him.
“I didn’t think anything—apparently I am the only one foolish enough to think no one wanted to kill me. But Molly was worried. She thought—”
“That I would murder you. I see. I might have known you would value your maid over your husband.” He swung away, then turned back, saying acidly, “You needn’t worry. You won’t be bothered by my presence at the Hall. I will remain here. I intend to find out who is behind this. But you will go to Lydcombe Hall, where I can set men to guard you. And though you don’t trust me, you can rest easy, knowing that your maid is there to protect you.”