Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery)

by Huber, AnnaLee

  Determined to ignore him for the time being, I turned back to my own letter and took up a piece of parchment to pen a response. I expressed my relief to hear of their safe arrival and thanked him for the information about Dr. Sloane. Then I asked if Philip could also make a few inquiries about Donovan, particularly at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh. The man’s insolence and sly manner had raised my hackles, even more so than Mac’s surly attitude and belligerent replies, and I wanted to be sure he was who he said he was.

  I slipped the letter and its reply into the pocket sewn into the side of my pale green dinner dress trimmed with white lace and crossed the room to rejoin the others. Gage still sat at the desk in the corner struggling over a response to his own letter.

  Michael had been explaining to his sister and her husband about our trip to Mr. Wallace that afternoon and Mr. Paxton’s theories about Mary Wallace’s disappearance.

  “Oh, how awful,” Laura exclaimed, pressing her hand over her heart. “I can’t imagine how Mr. Wallace must be feeling. Does he think the constable’s theory might be correct?”

  Michael’s gaze strayed to mine. “I received the impression he wasn’t ready to believe such a thing. Not yet, in any case. Not without proof.”

  “Well, of course. I should think if it were my child I would want to be certain every possibility had been exhausted before I even considered such a thing. Who wants to believe their child is dead, especially by such horrible means?” She glanced at her husband. “I would rather think they were missing, no matter how anxious I was for their safety.”

  We fell silent, considering her words.

  Laura sighed. “So sad.” She tilted her head to the side in thought. “It reminds me of the Duke of Montlake’s daughter. Do you remember when she went missing . . . oh, it must be several years ago now?”

  Michael nodded, but I shook my head, having been in London.

  “It was big news, splashed all over the newspapers in Edinburgh, her being a duke’s daughter and all. Apparently she was taken from her home near St. Andrews in the middle of the night. Vanished without a trace. The duke searched far and wide for her, even offered a handsome reward for information regarding her whereabouts, but no credible source came forward. The old duke died last year, still without having found her. They say he died of a broken heart.”

  “Could she have run off?” I asked. “Perhaps with a suitor her father had not approved of?”

  Laura smiled grimly. “It’s not likely. Lady Margaret was the apple of her father’s eye. He doted on her so. I don’t think he would have denied her anything. And, in any case, she suffered from the falling sickness.”

  I lifted my eyebrows in surprise.

  “She rarely left her father’s estate, except to travel to Edinburgh once a year to replenish her wardrobe, and she confided in a mutual friend of ours once that she hated even to do that because the travel was certain to bring on the fits.”

  “What do they think happened to her?” I asked, curious what could have befallen such a girl. If she had been kidnapped, certainly the culprits would have sent a ransom note.

  “The authorities suggested she might have fallen into a hole or crawled into a cave while having a fit,” Lord Keswick replied.

  And they had not been able to find her? I screwed up my mouth in response to that bit of ridiculousness.

  “Or . . .” he glanced cautiously at his wife “. . . that she had been injured after being taken, either by her captors or because of a fit, and so the villains had never contacted the duke asking for her ransom.”

  “Quite an honest group of kidnappers,” I commented wryly. In my experience, though it was limited, if a man would stoop to abduction, he would have no qualm in lying to get the ransom without returning the captive.

  Lord Keswick’s mouth quirked upward in a semblance of a smile. “Yes.”

  In any case, sad as Lady Margaret’s story was, by now she was likely dead, and if not, she would never be found. I could only hope she was happy wherever she was.

  Gage dropped into the chair between Lord Damien and Michael, a frown still marring his otherwise handsome features.

  “Trouble?” Michael asked.

  He pressed his lips together tightly before responding. “Just my father being my father.”

  Which was a rather curious statement. Michael opened his mouth, but hesitated to speak, as if uncertain whether to ask him to elaborate.

  Gage glanced up at me before turning to his friend. “Nothing to worry about.”

  I could tell he was lying, but I wasn’t going to push the matter. Not here anyway. Not only would it be impolite, but I knew he wouldn’t answer anyway. If he wouldn’t talk to me about the events at Gairloch, his time in Greece, or the real reason for his being here, he wasn’t likely to discuss his father with me.

  “Your father fought in the war against France, didn’t he?” Miss Remmington surprised us all by asking.

  She had been quiet this evening, even more so than this afternoon. Seated in the far corner of the room, she held a book open in her lap, but I had yet to see her flip a page. Her puckered brow made me suspect she was worried about her friend. I could understand that. I was worried for Miss Wallace myself, and I had never met the young woman. What I did find curious was the sideways glances she had been sending Michael’s way all evening. Being seated across the table from her at dinner, I’d had plenty of opportunities to observe these apprehensive looks, but I was no closer to understanding what was behind them.

  “Yes,” Gage replied guardedly. “He served in the Royal Navy for almost forty years.”

  Which was about as brief an answer as a man could give about the service of Captain Lord Gage. He was not only a war hero but also a great friend to the king and many other highborn citizens, who frequently called upon him to help them out of troublesome situations. His son often assisted him in these matters, which was why Philip had asked him to conduct the investigation into Lady Godwin’s murder at his estate two months before, and how I had come to be acquainted with him.

  “Do you recall . . .” Miss Remmington began hesitantly. “Did he come home with nightmares?”

  I glanced at her in curiosity, wondering why she was asking such a thing.

  Gage fastened her with a sharp look. “I don’t know, Miss Remmington. I don’t believe so.” She dipped her chin as if he had confirmed something for her. However, before she could speak, he added, with a twist of his lips, “But I really wouldn’t know.”

  I glanced at Gage, curious whether he realized how revealing that statement was about his relationship with his father.

  “And, in any case, you must remember he served on a ship. Although he fought at Trafalgar and such, he spent much of the latter part of the war on the blockade and running troops and supplies back and forth from England.”

  Her mouth tightened at that, and her eyes dropped to the unread pages in her lap.

  “What’s troubling you, dear?” Laura’s voice was soft with concern.

  Miss Remmington glanced at Michael first and I followed her gaze. Why did she keep looking at him that way? I caught Gage’s eye, and from the watchful expression I saw there I could tell he understood far more than I did.

  Miss Remmington lifted her chin, as if prepared for a confrontation, and addressed her sister-in-law. “I just don’t understand why Lord Dalmay had so much trouble forgetting the war. Especially when other soldiers did not.”

  I frowned at the girl’s petulant tone.

  “Elise!” her brother snapped, but Laura reached over to lay a restraining hand on him.

  “No,” she said calmly. “Don’t scold her. She has a right to ask.” Then she turned back to Miss Remmington with a grim smile. “We don’t know exactly why. But that’s not really a fair assessment, now, is it?” She tilted her head, urging the girl to consider the matter. “How can we know ho
w many returning soldiers struggled with the same problems as William?”

  “But surely we would have heard about it if they had.”

  “That’s not likely.” Gage stared down at the swirled pattern of the rug before him. “Battle-hardened soldiers are far more likely to endure in silence. It’s all they know. And if they were to admit to having difficulties, who would they tell?” he asked Miss Remmington. “Our society doesn’t exactly welcome such confessions.”

  I bowed my head. One only had to look at the old Lord Dalmay’s reaction to his son, and his decision to place him in a lunatic asylum, to understand that. Our nation was eager to welcome home conquering heroes, not broken men.

  But Miss Remmington was not placated by such answers. “But, truly, how bad could it be? Men have always gone off to war and come home again. The history books don’t talk about them coming home with nightmares.” Her hands fisted in her lap and she scowled. “It seems to me Lord Dalmay must have done something particularly awful if it troubled him so much.”

  A bolt of pure fury shot through me, stiffening my spine. “And who are you to judge? You who’ve never been asked to take up a sword or a rifle and kill someone in the defense of your king and country. War is a nasty, horrific experience, not handsome men in uniform marching side by side with flashing sabers. It’s slogging through muck, and scrounging for food when the supplies do not come through. It’s witnessing the devastation trampling armies have wrought on the countryside and the livelihoods of innocent people. It’s watching your friend die in a muddy field full of corpses.”

  “Kiera!”

  “Or watching a crow pick out the eyes of a soldier long dead by the side of the road.”

  “Kiera!”

  I broke off at Gage’s second shout, throwing him a mutinous look.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  I turned to see the others staring at me with horrified expressions. Miss Remmington’s face had bleached of all color, and her eyes were wide with shock. I dropped my gaze. I knew I’d gone too far, but, really, the girl deserved it. How dare she! What gave her the right to condemn William, especially when she understood nothing about what he’d been through? She could show a little compassion at the very least.

  Damien rose from his seat to pour a cup of water and crossed the room toward Miss Remmington. “War is not like that,” he protested, glowering at me over his shoulder. “You’re just trying to scare Miss Remmington, and I think it quite ill-mannered of you.”

  “And what do you know of it, Lord Damien?” I snapped, angry that the pampered marquess’s son should criticize me. “Have you ever seen a battlefield? Are you saying that soldiers aren’t forced to shoot and stab and slash, trying to kill as many of their enemy as they can before the enemy kills them? Do you think that bullets and blows do not strike home? That blood does not flow? Well, you’re deluding yourself, for I can assure you that battlefields are not a pretty sight. They are not populated by tin soldiers to be tipped over and stood up again at will.”

  Damien, who had kneeled beside Miss Remmington to help her with her glass of water, glared daggers at me. His face reddened at my insult to his intelligence. “And how do you know?” he spluttered. “You’ve never been to a battlefield, so you don’t know what you’re talking about either.”

  I turned away, staring sightlessly at one of the Goya tapestries hanging from the wall. My hands gripped the arms of my spindle-backed chair so hard that I thought the wood might just crack in my bare hands. In my mind’s eye I could see one of the worst of William’s paintings—the chaos, the carnage of battle—an ocean of broken and bleeding bodies in blue and scarlet and green surging up against a crumbling wall. It looked like one of the nine circles of hell.

  I closed my eyes, trying to erase the image. “I’ve seen pictures,” I murmured. Opening them, I looked into Michael’s soft gray ones, seeing the same tortured recognition. I pushed to my feet and mumbled some excuse before fleeing the room.

  I’d only made it to the first landing on the central staircase before Gage caught up with me. I’d heard him calling my name, but I hadn’t wanted to stop. Not here, not now—where anyone could see. My thoughts were too disordered to fight, my emotions too unguarded. His hand wrapped around my arm, pulling me to a stop and forcing me to face him.

  “Gage, not . . .”

  “Shhh . . .” he soothed, and he wrapped me in his arms and pressed my head against his chest, where it fit just below his chin.

  I let him. I didn’t fight. Mainly because I had not expected it, and so I had no defense against such tenderness. I had anticipated a scolding, an argument, not this gentle assault.

  I closed my eyes and drew a sharp breath, inhaling Gage’s scent and his spicy cologne, and allowed myself to relax into his hold. I had forgotten what it was like to be held like this by a man. The strength of his arms, the sense of being protected, cherished, sheltered. My father had never been particularly demonstrative with his affection, not since I was a little girl and he would cradle me in his arms or hold me on his lap, and my brother had followed suit. Sir Anthony certainly hadn’t been the affectionate type, nor had I wanted him near me after the first fortnight of our marriage and the revelation of his deception. So it came as something of a shock when I realized how much I’d missed this undemanding affection. It warmed something deep inside me I hadn’t even known was cold and consoled me in a way I had not thought possible.

  When finally he released his tight hold on me and allowed me to look up into his face, I hardly knew what to say, but I felt much more capable of speaking without falling apart.

  “What happened in there?” he asked softly.

  “Bad memories, I guess.” I sighed, knowing I had more to admit. “And I lost my temper.”

  He nodded. “Miss Remmington’s criticism was startling and uncalled-for, but I never expected you to react so furiously.” His pale blue eyes searched mine.

  I dropped my gaze, knowing an explanation was necessary. “He’s not here to defend himself. And I couldn’t just let her comments stand. But you’re right. I shouldn’t have responded so angrily.” I pressed a hand to my forehead. “Or vividly.” I grimaced. “Did I really say something about a crow pecking out someone’s eyes?”

  His eyebrows raised in gentle chastisement. “Yes.”

  I groaned, allowing my head to fall back. I would need to apologize to both Miss Remmington and Damien for my harsh comments, though the idea left a sour taste in my mouth when I thought about the remarks they’d made that had sparked my responses in the first place.

  “I’ll make an apology,” I muttered. “But I don’t understand how Miss Remmington could suggest such an awful thing about William.”

  “I’m more interested in why.”

  I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean?”

  Gage glanced over his shoulder at the base of the stairs and down the corridor toward the drawing room. Then, taking hold of my arm, he escorted me up the staircase. “Miss Remmington is certainly something of a hoyden, but she does not strike me as the type of person who would make such nasty accusations for no reason other than to cause trouble. She’s upset about something. And if I’m not mistaken, it has to do with Michael.”

  “So you noticed the suspicious glances she’s been sending him all evening, too?”

  His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “How could I miss them? She may have thought she was being subtle, but she failed to recognize she had two nosy busybodies seated across from her at dinner.”

  I arched my eyebrows, humored by his absurd description of us.

  “Speaking of which . . .” He stopped and turned to me. “You were very quiet at dinner.”

  I felt a blush slowly begin to burn its way up my neck and into my cheeks.

  He cleared his throat. “I hope something didn’t put you off your appetite.”

  “No,” I r
eplied, not wanting him to think I’d disliked his . . . attentions earlier, or for him to think I was some sort of green girl, bashful and unworldly. “I just . . . I don’t . . .” I then stammered, proving exactly how inexperienced I was.

  There was a gleam in his eye, telling me he had returned to his normal conceited self. “Yes, sometimes I have that effect on people.”

  I scowled at him and replied tartly, “And here I thought I was the only one having difficulty coming up with words simple enough for you to understand.”

  Gage chuckled and drew me away from the stairs where we could hear others below stirring. “In all seriousness,” he said, still sporting a grin, “what do you know of Miss Remmington? Is there any reason to suspect something between her and Michael or William?”

  “Not according to her, or anything I’ve observed.”

  “Agreed. Then it must be something she knows. Perhaps something we don’t.”

  I considered the possibility.

  “In which case, one of us will need to get her to confide in us . . .” He trailed off expectantly.

  I frowned. “Me?”

  He nodded.

  I sighed. “Which means I really will have to apologize to her.”

  He smiled tightly.

  “Fine,” I griped, wrinkling the pale green silk of my skirt between my fingers. I heard the crinkle of paper. “But it can wait until tomorrow.”

  He did not push the matter further and I began to feel guilty for being so snappish. I really needed to get some rest. The previous night’s sleeplessness and the long day had taken its toll on my temper and my self-control.

  “I’ll wish you a good night, then,” he said, stepping closer.