My eyes widened in appreciation. The soaring two-story chamber was topped with a decorative hammer-beam ceiling, and its walls were covered in portraits of the Dalmay family’s many noble ancestors. Such artwork was a feast for my eyes, and I planned to spend many an hour over the next few days devouring their canvases, dissecting the pieces to discover just how the various artists had achieved their effects. It had been quite some time since I had been given the opportunity to study another’s artwork—I had long ago exhausted the paintings at Gairloch Castle of their educational value—and I felt a thrill at the chance to do so now.
Philip and Alana joined me in my examination of the beautiful chamber. Black-and-white tiles covered the floor, leading to the creamy marble of the staircase and the red runner trailing up the center of each riser. The stair rail was molded in black rod iron and topped with warm oak. The furniture positioned in the room had appropriately been kept to a minimum. Two red wingback chairs and a round table topped with a floral arrangement of fragrant asters and bellflowers were all that occupied the space.
As we stood absorbing our surroundings, a man rushed in to greet us through a door on the left, his footfalls echoing off the walls of the cavernous chamber. A wide, boyish grin flashed across his face, summoning an answering smile to my own.
“Cromarty, I’m so glad you could join us,” Michael Dalmay exclaimed.
“Glad you could accommodate us,” Philip responded, clasping his proffered hand.
A subtle undercurrent of tension tightened Michael’s shoulders, as if in the excitement of seeing us he had forgotten our real reason for being there. “But of course. You’re always welcome,” he demurred. His eyes still warm and bright, he turned to bow over my sister’s hand. “Lady Cromarty, how lovely it is to see you.”
“Thank you,” she replied with obvious pleasure. “But when did we become so formal? Alana, if you please. After all, were you not the young man who took a pair of scissors to one of my braids?”
I laughed, having forgotten about that particular incident.
Michael’s gaze flicked toward me, his soft gray eyes dancing with mirth. “Aye. And I discovered I wasn’t too old for my father to take a switch to me. I couldn’t sit for nearly a week.”
“Well, it was no more than you deserved,” Alana proclaimed with mock indignation. “My other braid had to be lopped off at the shoulder to even it out. I was mistaken for a boy for almost half a year.”
“Oh, Alana, you could never have been mistaken for a boy. Even at the age of nine.”
She blushed becomingly, giving her wan cheeks a welcome wash of color.
“And it taught you an important lesson.” He leaned toward her. “Young ladies should never spy from haylofts upon adolescent boys. Not if they don’t want an eyeful.”
“And an earful,” Alana added with a teasing arch to her brow.
This time it was Michael’s turn to blush. Nearly all of the tension that had tightened his frame moments earlier was gone, and I was grateful to Alana for putting him at ease, whether it had been her intention or not.
He turned to take my hand, flashing me the same dimpled grin I remembered from childhood. Even at eight years my senior, Michael had never acted too old or important to pay attention to a quiet little girl. Nor too mature to tweak my nose when I was ignoring him in favor of my sketchbook. “Lady Darby. Kiera,” he corrected, likely hoping I wouldn’t also dredge up some embarrassing story about our shared past. “You are looking very well. The Highlands must agree with you.”
“They do. Though I cannot say I will miss their cold and darkness this winter.”
His grin widened in agreement. “Still painting, I hear.”
“I am,” I answered in some surprise.
“Caroline has spoken of little else in the past few hours,” he replied by way of explanation, though it only served to perplex me further. But before I could ask for clarification a loud commotion called our attention to the entryway. “Ah, the children,” our host exclaimed.
The next few moments were occupied in assisting the rather frazzled-looking nanny in wrangling the children. They were all introduced to Michael and then herded up the stairs toward the nursery. “Laura’s babe is also there. I imagine the little scrapper will enjoy the company,” Michael told us.
“Oh, yes. I had forgotten your sister welcomed her first child but a year ago,” Alana said. “What is the lad’s name again?”
“Nicolas. And what a charmer he is. You’ll see.” His eyes shone with genuine affection for his little nephew. “Now, I imagine you would like to rest and refresh yourselves after your journey. We normally dine at six o’clock,” he declared, opening his pocket watch and then snapping it shut again. “I would be happy to ask Mrs. MacDougall to postpone it another half hour if you would like to join us. Or I can have trays brought to your rooms.” The last was directed at Alana with some measure of sympathy. The man had not missed the signs of her recent illness.
“Oh, we don’t wish to be an imposition,” Alana began.
“No imposition,” he declared, interrupting her. He reached out to take her hand between his own again. “I’m simply glad you are all here.” He smiled warmly in turn at each of us, but I thought I detected some measure of sorrow in his eyes. The somber emotion confused me. The tautness that had returned to his frame I could understand, as he undoubtedly knew why his future mother-in-law had sent for us, but sadness seemed oddly out of place. Unless he worried Philip would advise his aunt to end Michael and Caroline’s engagement, or be unable to convince her not to. But what could Michael have done to warrant such a drastic measure?
In the next moment, he blinked and the sheen of grief was washed away, making me wonder whether I had seen it there at all. “What shall it be?” he asked Alana.
My sister glanced at her husband, who gazed down at her, waiting for her to make the decision. “We will dine with you,” she said with a smile.
“Excellent. Then, if you’ll follow me.” Michael offered me his arm and guided us toward the stairs, allowing Philip and Alana to fall into step behind us.
Catching my gaze on the portraits hanging above, he patted my hand where it rested on his arm. “Still painting mostly portraits?”
“Yes.” I waved my arm at the array of artwork decorating the chamber. “This is quite a collection.”
He nodded. “Aye. The whole host of Dalmay ancestors since the barony was granted over three hundred years ago. There’s more hanging in the dining room, the drawing room, and the library.” My eagerness must have shown in my eyes, for he chuckled. “You are welcome to wander at your leisure.”
“Thank you.”
He waved it away. “Someone should appreciate it.”
I glanced up at the wry tone of his voice.
He smiled tightly. “I’m afraid I find the gaze of all my forefathers bearing down on me rather heavy.”
I did not reply—not knowing what to say—but I was more certain than ever that the conflicting emotions I had seen in Michael’s face had been real, and I was intensely curious as to why. Was the possibility of losing his fiancée all that distressed him, or was there something more?
Before I could ask, however, our host’s attention was diverted by a man at the top of the stairs. Michael’s arm stiffened beneath my hand, and I glanced between the two men, trying to read the silent communication passing between them, for it obviously distressed Michael in some way. Even though the man was not attired in the Dalmay livery, from the hunched posture of his shoulders and the worn appearance of his clothing I could see that he was a servant. A gardener, perhaps, or the stable master? But what one of those employees would be doing on the upper floors of the manor, I could not fathom.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Michael’s subtle nod, and then, as quickly as the man appeared, he was gone.
“I must apologize.” Michae
l turned back toward me to announce, “There is a matter I must see to.” His soft gray eyes were strained. “I’m afraid it cannot wait.”
“Of course,” Philip replied. “Think nothing of it.” The tone of his voice told me he believed the matter had something to do with the usual running of an estate, but I was not so certain.
And if the gaze Michael continued to level at me was any indication, he was aware of my interest. He did not seem worried by it, merely attentive, and this in and of itself heightened my curiosity even more. I wished we were alone, so that I might ask him. Only Alana’s and Philip’s presence behind us kept me from voicing the questions forming on my lips.
Michael’s gaze broke away from mine. “Mrs. MacDougall will see you to your rooms,” he informed us as we approached the landing where his housekeeper stood waiting for us. “I look forward to seeing you at dinner.”
Then, with a quick bow, he hurried around a corner and out of sight, in the same direction the mysterious servant must have gone. I glanced over my shoulder to see if my sister and her husband had noticed the strange altercation, but they seemed consumed by their own worries for Alana’s health and the reasons behind Lady Hollingsworth’s summons.
I turned back to the housekeeper, listening absentmindedly to her greeting while most of my attention remained with Michael and the grizzled servant. I couldn’t help wondering if there had been something Michael wanted to say to me. Would he approach me later, or would time and distance persuade him to hold his tongue? I was anxious to join the others in the drawing room before dinner, if for no other reason than to catch a few moments alone with our host.
CHAPTER FOUR
Having washed the dust of the road from my face and hands, I dressed quickly in a marine blue gown with ivory lace trim, the least rumpled of my evening gown choices, for it lay at the top of my trunk. Its sloped shoulders and slightly puffed sleeves were the latest fashion, or so Alana had told me when she’d ordered it for me six months before. After affixing the matching marine blue belt around my waist, I allowed Lucy, my maid, to fuss over my deflated hair; however, I refused to let her curl the fashionable ringlets that graced the sides of most ladies’ heads. I was impatient to see Michael, and ringlets would take far too long to perfect. A simple knot would have to do.
Ignoring my maid’s petulant expression, I slipped out of my chamber to retrace my steps to the entry hall, when the sound of a shrill voice brought me up short. The sound was emanating from the suite my sister shared with her husband across the hall, and, though I had never heard the ever-proper marchioness speak in such a strident manner, the voice was undoubtedly Lady Hollingsworth’s.
I hesitated, wondering whether I should join the members of Philip’s family gathered in his suite. The shrieks and outrages Lady Hollingsworth uttered penetrated the wood door, as well as the calmer rumble of Philip’s voice, but the words were indistinct. I could not have eavesdropped on their conversation even had I wanted to.
Curious as I was to understand why Lady Hollingsworth had insisted her nephew attend her to sort out whatever problem there was with Michael and Caroline’s engagement, I was none too eager to encounter Philip’s stodgy aunt again, particularly while she was in the midst of a tirade. Shaking my head at her display of theatrics, I turned away from the door to my sister’s suite and marched down the hall. Alana would inform me later of everything I needed to know, and I could avoid falling under the marchioness’s critical gaze for a little while longer.
Trailing my fingers over the smooth oak of the banister, I descended the stairs toward the entry hall. Unbidden, my eyes lifted once again to the vast number of portraits plastering the walls from floor to ceiling. I felt like a honeybee buzzing among the flowers of the garden of Versailles, overwhelmed by the beauty and abundance and uncertain where to alight. My gaze drifted toward the wall on my left as I approached the first landing, falling on the portrait of a Georgian lady. A delicious shiver of excitement ran through me as I leaned closer, certain Gainsborough must have painted this. The knowing look in the young lady’s eyes, the almost poetic positioning of her amid the deep shadows of an arbor—classical techniques of the famous artist—were aspects I had tried to emulate in my own paintings.
So caught up was I in tracing Gainsborough’s brushstrokes with my eyes that I failed to notice the footsteps descending the staircase behind me. In fact, it was not until an all-too-familiar voice spoke just over my shoulder that I realized I was not alone.
“If I did not know you better, I would suspect you were ogling the young lady in that portrait, Lady Darby.”
I stiffened in surprise.
“As it is, I imagine you’re making her quite uncomfortable with so close an examination of her . . . attributes.”
His voice was husky with amusement, and I did not need to turn to look at him to know his pale blue eyes were twinkling wickedly. My gaze lifted anyway, to ensure that the devil behind me was truly there and not conjured by my active imagination. Handsome as ever, Sebastian Gage stood before me, making my heart trip over itself inside my chest.
He looked past me at the portrait and tilted his head in thought. “Although, for all we know, she might be quite the saucy minx and thoroughly enjoy your intimate inspection.”
I scowled as the impish smile curling the corners of his lips stretched even wider. “I was not ogling her breasts,” I protested, feeling my cheeks heat even as I spoke the words.
“I’m sure you weren’t,” he murmured in agreement, though the light in his eyes seemed to belie his words. “Of artistic interest, was it, my lady?”
“It’s a Gainsborough,” I declared. The artist’s name should be explanation enough.
His eyes lifted to the portrait once again before returning to me. “I see.” And clearly he did, for he did not taunt me or request that I elaborate.
We stared at each other, and for the first time the significance of his appearance struck me.
Vivid recollections flooded my mind and tangled my emotions into knots. Memories of Gage verbally sparring with me over the facts of the murder we had solved at my sister’s house party. Of him cradling me in his arms as we floated in the loch after I had been shot, and the kiss he may or may not have pressed on my icy lips. Of the last time I had seen him, when he had tried to sneak away in the predawn light without even saying good-bye.
No one had ever created such conflicting emotions inside me—irritation, fondness, longing, and anger. He challenged and confused me, and the moment I thought I knew who he was and what he wanted he would do something to alter my opinion. One moment he had turned his back on me callously, and the next he was gazing at me with such tenderness that it took everything inside me not to throw myself into his arms. I couldn’t understand him, or my reactions to him, and that made me agitated and wary. And more than a little resentful.
“You look well,” Gage said just as I snapped, “What are you doing here?”
The flush in my cheeks turned fiery at the petulant tone of my voice, but I refused to retract the question. Especially since my annoyance only seemed to amuse him further.
“I was invited,” he replied much too calmly. “Michael Dalmay and I are old friends from our university days.”
I could not dispute his assertion. As my brother-in-law had been friends with both Gage and Michael at Cambridge, it only made sense that the two men were also acquainted. However, I was suspicious of his so-called invitation, particularly when, to my knowledge, all of the other guests were in one way or another related to the betrothed couple.
“I thought you were working an investigation in Edinburgh.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I was. I finished what needed to be done there about a fortnight ago before accepting Dalmay’s gracious invitation.”
I narrowed my eyes, uncertain if he was mocking me.
“I suspect your invite was at the hands of Lady Hollingswort
h. Or should I say, Cromarty’s was.”
I frowned at his subtle dig and lifted my chin. “You suppose right. Although I can, perhaps, claim a longer friendship with the Dalmays than either of you.”
Gage’s gaze turned curious.
“We grew up together, on neighboring estates.”
“But Dalmay must be almost eight years older than you.”
“Aye,” I replied with a small smile. “As are you.”
He scowled.
“I assure you, such an age difference did not stop him from pulling our braids or indulging in rowing races on the River Tweed.” I smiled wider at the memory. “Nor did the seven-year age gap between Michael and his older brother prevent Will from joining in our antics, as well. When he was home,” I added as a saddened afterthought. It had been many years since I had allowed myself to think so much about the older Dalmay boy, and the memory of him tugged at something inside me.
My mention of Will seemed to have a similar effect on Gage, for his gaze turned watchful. “You knew William Dalmay, then?”
I nodded. “He was a good man.” I glanced over my shoulder at the Gainsborough portrait. “And a gifted artist in his own right.” I sighed. “Who knows what he would have become had it not been for the war.”
I turned back to find Gage watching me closely. I furrowed my brow in question, wondering why his gaze was now so concerned. He opened his mouth to speak, and then, as if thinking better of it, shook his head.
“Shall we join the others in the drawing room?” he asked, unclasping his hands from behind his back and offering his arm to me.
I stared up at him, wondering if I could force the information out of him that he had decided not to share. I suspected not. Not when his brow had been wiped so clear of any trace that his thoughts had ever turned dark. I knew from experience that this man would not be driven to answer any questions he did not already want to. And so today’s enigmas would be added to the already long list of unresolved business between us.
Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) Page 3