No other had been so constant, so unchanging and unwavering in his readiness to support and protect her. Not her father, not Granville. No one else.
Charles was the only man in her life she’d ever turned to, the only man, even now, she could imagine leaning on.
She sat back in the curricle, felt the breeze caress her cheeks. It seemed odd to be sitting next to him after all their years apart, and only now comprehend just how much she’d missed him.
CHAPTER 9
THEY RATTLED INTO THE STABLE YARD, AND THE GROOMS came running; Charles tossed them the reins and came to hand her down.
For a moment, he seemed distracted, then he focused on her. “I’ll come over and we can go to Branscombe Hall in your carriage. You might suggest to Nicholas that he drive himself there.”
She arched a brow, but he merely said, “I’ll be here at seven-thirty.”
He took her arm and walked her to the edge of the lawn. “I’ll see you then. I want to check that pair before I leave.”
Releasing her, he stepped back, saluted her, and turned away. Remaining where she was, she watched him walk back toward the stables.
Waited. Caught his eye when he glanced back.
Saw the exasperated twist of his lips as he stopped and, hands rising to his hips, looked back at her.
She laughed, shook her head at him, then turned and headed for the house. He wanted to go and play horses with the grooms and ask God only knew what questions, and he didn’t want her cramping his style. All well and good—he should simply have said so.
A cynical smile curved her lips. Surely he didn’t imagine she wouldn’t guess and remember to interrogate him later?
Later was seven-thirty, when true to his word he strode up from the stables. She heard his footsteps in the hall and left the drawing room to join him.
He’d entered from the garden; he walked out of the shadows at the back of the hall into the light cast by the chandelier.
Her breath caught; she felt her chest tighten, felt her heart contract. All he needed was an earring dangling from one lobe to be the walking embodiment of any lady’s private dream.
Halting, he arched a brow at her.
Smiling at her own fantasy, she went forward. He was perfectly turned out in an evening coat the same color as his eyes, a dark, intense blue one shade removed from black. His shirt and cravat were pristine white, his waistcoat a subdued affair of dark blue and black swirls, his long legs draped in black trousers that emphasized rather than concealed their muscled strength.
The cut of coat, waistcoat, the style of his trousers, was austere. On any other man, the effect would be too severe, yet he exuded an impression of high drama, of larger-than-life abilities—a strong hint of the piratical remained.
She raised her gaze to his face, only to discover his had reached her toes, clad in gilded Grecian sandals and fleetingly, flirtingly visible beneath her skirt’s hem. She halted before him.
He looked up—slowly—his gaze tracing the lines of her gray-blue silk gown. The hue was several shades darker than her eyes, chosen to complement them and her fair hair. She’d had her maid dress her hair in a stylish knot, leaving tendrils trailing to bob about her ears and caress her bare shoulders.
Just as his gaze did before lifting to her throat, her chin, her lips, finally meeting her eyes. He looked into them and smiled. As if he was some fantastical beast and his only thought was to devour her.
Ruthlessly, she suppressed a shiver. Casting him what she hoped was a worldly, cynical, and warning look, she gave him her hand.
His smile only deepened; his eyes flashed as he raised her fingers to his lips and lightly kissed. “Come. Let’s go.” He turned her to the front door as the sound of wheels on the gravel reached them. “Did Nicholas go ahead?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “He was rather unsure what to make of our arrangements. He left in his curricle about ten minutes ago.”
“Good.”
The footman was holding the carriage door; Charles handed her in, then followed, sitting beside her on the mercifully wide seat.
As the footman shut the door, she asked, “Why good?”
“So that by the time we arrive, he’ll be involved with other guests. I want to watch him, but from a distance, not as one of the same circle.”
Relaxing against the seat as the carriage rolled down the drive, she digested that, then remembered. “What did you learn from the grooms?”
He was looking out of the window. She waited, confident he would reply, yet she would have given a great deal to know what he was thinking.
Eventually he said, “Nicholas has been riding out during the day and at night. Sometimes to Fowey, sometimes to Lostwithiel and beyond. Not as constantly as he did in February, but often enough. As far as I can make out, he could have killed Gimby, but there’s no evidence he actually did.”
After a moment, she asked, “Do you think he did?”
Another long pause ensued, then he looked at her. “Gimby wasn’t simply killed—he was interrogated, then executed. I’m having a difficult time seeing Nicholas as interrogator-cum-executioner. I can imagine him ordering it done, but not getting his hands soiled with the actual doing. He may well be guilty of Gimby’s death, but might never have set foot in that cottage.
“And no, before you ask, I haven’t any idea who he might have got to do the deed. I doubt they’re local, which means they shouldn’t be that difficult to trace. I’ve put the word around that I’m looking for news of any passing stranger—we’ll see what turns up.”
The gates of Branscombe Hall loomed ahead. In short order, the carriage rocked to a halt; Charles descended and handed her down.
Lady Trescowthick, waiting to greet them inside her front hall, all but cooed at the sight of them—not, Penny reminded herself, because her ladyship thought there was anything between them, but purely because she’d succeeded in getting them both, as individuals, to her event.
Parting from her ladyship, they walked to the archway leading into the ballroom; Penny glanced sidelong at Charles.
He saw, raised a brow.
Lips twitching, she looked ahead. “Just as well most of the unmarried young ladies are in London, or you’d be in serious trouble.”
“Ah, but I’m entering the arena well armed.”
“Oh?”
His hand covered hers on his sleeve. “With you.”
She nearly choked on a laugh. “That’s a dreadful pun.”
“But apt.” Pausing on the threshold, he scanned the room, then glanced down at her. “It would be helpful if you could resist temptation and remain by my side. If I have to guard my own back against feminine attack, I won’t be able to concentrate on Nicholas.”
She threw him a look designed to depress pretension, not that she expected it to succeed, then swept forward to greet Lady Carmody. Yet as she and he commenced a slow circle of the room, she bore his words in mind; he hadn’t been joking. In this situation, staying by his side undoubtedly qualified as doing all she could to further his investigation.
Ladies had always chased him; at twenty, he’d been a magnet for feminine attention, far more than his brothers had ever been. And he hadn’t been the earl then, not even next in line for the title.
She’d been one of the few who had never pursued him—there’d never been any need. She’d simply let him chase her.
And look where that had landed them.
Ruthlessly, she quashed the thought. Thinking of such things while he was anywhere near wasn’t wise. Let alone when he was standing beside her.
True to form, he glanced sharply at her.
She pretended not to notice and gave her attention to Lady Harbottle. “I had no idea Melissa was feeling so low.”
“Oh, it’s just a passing thing. I daresay now she’s been a week in Bath she’ll be right as rain again and back any day.” Lady Harbottle smiled delightedly at Charles. “I know she’ll want to hold a party as soon as she gets back—to renew old acq
uaintances, if nothing else.”
Charles smiled, and pretended he couldn’t see the speculation running through her ladyship’s head. The instant an opening offered, he steered Penny away. “Refresh my memory—didn’t Melissa Harbottle marry?”
“Yes. She’s now Melissa Barrett. She married a mill owner much older than she. He died over a year ago.”
“Ah.” After a moment, he asked, “Am I to infer that her trip to Bath wasn’t to try the waters?”
“Melissa?” Penny’s incredulous tone was answer enough.
“So she might now be described as a widow with aspirations?”
“Quite definite aspirations. She’s now wealthy enough to look rather higher than a mill owner.”
“If by any chance she asks you, do be sure to tell her to look somewhere other than the Abbey.”
She chuckled. “I will if she asks, but I doubt she will. Ask me, that is.”
He swore beneath his breath and steered her to the next group of guests.
It was a relaxed affair. Most of the local gentry who’d resisted the lure of the capital were present; it was indeed a useful venue to renew acquaintances and realign his memory. Whenever any lady with a daughter yet unwed eyed him too intently, he glibly steered the conversation in Penny’s direction—most took the hint. Some, indeed, suspected rather more.
Their speculation didn’t bother him, but he took care to avoid jogging Penny’s awareness to life. Juggling her while dealing with a serious investigation was difficult enough without fashioning rods for his own back.
A waltz, however, was too much of a temptation to resist.
“Come and dance.” He caught her hand and drew her through the still-chattering guests.
“What…? Charles—”
Reaching the dance floor, he swung her into his arms, and into the swirling, twirling throng.
Penny frowned at him. “I was going to say I don’t want to waltz.”
“Why not? You’re passably good at it.”
“I spent four Seasons in London—of course, I can waltz.”
“So can I.”
“I’d noticed.” She could hardly help it; she felt as if her senses were whirling, twirling, around him.
He smiled, and drew her a fraction closer as they went through the turn, predictably didn’t ease his hold as they came out of it. “We’ve danced before.”
“But never a waltz—if you recall, before, it was considered too fast.” For good reason, it seemed. She’d never felt anything but elegantly graceful when waltzing with other men. Now she felt breathless, close to witless.
The waltz might have been designed as a display for Charles’s brand of masculine strength. With effortless grace, he whirled her down the room. Heads turned as they passed; others looked on in patent envy.
She had to relax in his arms, let her feet follow his lead without conscious thought, or she’d stumble—and he’d catch her, laugh, and set her right again. She was determined she wouldn’t let that happen, that for once, she’d match him on a physical plane.
And she did. Calmly, serenely.
Not, however, without paying a price.
It was impossible not to note how well they suited, he so tall, so large, she a slender reed in his arms, but tall enough, with legs long enough to match him. Impossible not to be aware of how easily he held her, how much in his physical control she was, albeit he wasn’t truly exercising that control; this time, in this exchange, she was a willing partner.
That exchange itself tightened her nerves, left her senses in a state of abraded alert. In the cocoon the revolutions of the waltz wove about them, it was impossible not to know, to feel, just how powerful was the attraction that, contrary to her expectations, still existed between them.
Impossible not to know that she still evoked the same sexual interest and intentness in him. Impossible not to acknowledge that she reacted to that, responded far more deeply, in a more fundamental way than was wise.
His hand spread low on her back, burning through her thin gown, his other hand engulfing hers, were not simple contacts but statements, his hard thigh pressing between hers as they whirled through the tight turns both a memory and a declaration.
Her senses quivered; the moment shook her, yet focused on him, on staying with him and not letting him sweep her wits away, she realized that however much she felt and knew and experienced, he did, too.
That last was apparent when the music ended, and he reluctantly slowed, halted, and released her. She heard the breath he drew in—as tight, as constricted, as her own. The knowledge buoyed her; if there was weakness here, it wasn’t hers alone.
“Nicholas,” Charles murmured. Nicholas was standing a short distance away, talking with Lord Trescowthick; he looked rather pale, his stance was stiff, and he shifted frequently. “He seems rather tense. Is he always like that?”
Penny studied him, eventually replied, “He wasn’t when he first came down last year, but over the past few months, yes. He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping all that well.”
“Indeed.” Charles took her arm. “There are at least five gentlemen present I can’t place.” She’d already filled him in on the marriages he’d missed over the years, and the deaths, and the changes they’d wrought in the local community. “Five is more than I would have expected at this time of year. Let’s see what we can learn about them.”
The guests had spread out, making it easy to drift from group to group. They approached Lady Essington, Millie and Julia’s formidable mother-in-law; a large, heavyset gentleman had remained by her side throughout.
He proved to be a Mr. Yarrow, a relative of Lady Essington, come to the milder Cornish coast to convalesce after a bout of pneumonia. A taciturn man in his late thirties, he had hard hazel eyes and seemed hale enough.
Lady Essington, an old gorgon, was not of a mind to let Penny leave on Charles’s arm; indeed, Charles wondered if she had designs on Penny with a view to Mr. Yarrow. The impasse was resolved without him having to resort to earlish arrogance by Mr. Robinson, a local gentleman who requested Penny’s hand for a country dance.
Charles let her go. Extracting himself from Lady Essington’s clutches, he retreated to the side of the room to wait, not patiently, for Penny to return.
Propping against the wall, he swiftly reviewed his dispositions. With respect to Penny’s safety, his pickets were in place, all the elements of his plan to protect her now she’d returned to the Hall successfully deployed. As for his investigation, that was proceeding as fast as was wise; there was nothing he could do beyond what he already had in train until he heard back from Dalziel.
In his personal pursuit of Penny, he was still reconnoitering the terrain. He was too wise to ride blithely in and end in a quagmire, as he somehow had all those years ago; this time, he was going in extrawarily. He’d learned her reason for not marrying all the gentlemen who’d wooed her; quite what that told him of what would convince her to say yes he hadn’t yet worked out.
That was one point he needed to pursue. Another was why she didn’t agree that she was the perfect wife for him. She’d been bothered by his recitation of the obvious; that didn’t bode well. He was going to have to learn what her reservation was and work to address it.
And, knowing her, work it would be; influencing Penelope Jane Marissa Selborne had never been easy.
He straightened from the wall as she returned to his side—of her own volition, so he didn’t have to go and openly reclaim her hand, for which he gave due thanks; he needed to avoid being obvious, but there was a limit to his forbearance.
Retaking the arm he offered, she dismissed Robinson with an easy smile, then glanced up at him. “Who next?”
It was the investigation that had brought her back. Nevertheless, he was grateful for small mercies.
He looked across the room. A well–set up gentleman in his late twenties stood talking to Mr. Kilpatrick. “Any idea who he is?”
“None. Shall we find out?”
Together, they crossed the room.
Mr. Julian Fothergill was an ardent bird-watcher come to the district intent on spotting all the species peculiar to the area.
“Quite a challenge to do it in a month, but I’m determined.” Brown-eyed, brown-haired, with pale patrician features and an easy smile, Fothergill, a few inches shorter than Charles, was a distant relative of the socially reclusive Lord Culver. “I remembered the area from when I visited as a boy.”
They discussed the local geography, then moved on to join Lord Trescowthick and a Mr. Swaley. A gentleman of middle years, middle height, and wiry build, Mr. Swaley was staying with the Trescowthicks. He became rather reserved when Charles politely inquired what had brought him to the district. “Just looking around—a pleasant spot.”
With an amiable expression, but tight lips, Swaley added nothing more.
Charles didn’t press, but, smiling easily, extolled the virtues of the district. Realizing his tack, Penny did her part; it soon became clear that Mr. Swaley’s interest was focused more on the land than the sea.
“Though what that tells us,” she murmured as they moved on, “I can’t imagine.”
Charles said nothing but steered her to where Mr. and Mrs. Cranfield of nearby Cranfield Grange were entertaining the fourth mystery man.
He’d alerted his grooms and sent word to the smuggling gangs to let him know of any itinerant visitor. Gimby’s murderer, however, might move in higher circles; none knew better than Charles that executioners could be as aristocratic as he. He’d warned Dennis Gibbs not to assume Nicholas was the murderer, specifically not to let that assumption blind him to other potential candidates. That was excellent advice.
Mr.Albert Carmichael, a gentleman Charles guessed to be much his own age, was indeed a houseguest of the Cranfields. Before he could ask what had brought Carmichael to the area, the man asked about the local hunting, then progressed to what shooting might be expected and when, and what type of fishing was to be had, both in the rivers and the sea.
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