“If you’re right about him and he’s trying to gain the dukedom for himself, then he wouldn’t be a penniless gamekeeper when he set his sights on her, would he?”
“The only way Joshua will gain the dukedom is if he kills both me and Heywood without anyone noticing. And that won’t happen, since you and I are going to stop him first. So it doesn’t matter how he looks at Gwyn. She’ll never marry him as things stand now. He’s not rich enough for her.”
Grey wasn’t so certain. But then he wasn’t sure he knew her at all. He hadn’t been around when she was growing up. Hell, he’d barely been around since the family’s arrival in England. And the letters from his parents hadn’t done her justice. How could they? Gwyn was in a class of her own. Of course Wolfe was drawn to her. Who wouldn’t be?
“Never mind, then,” he told Sheridan. “Perhaps I imagined their mutual admiration.” Though of course he hadn’t. “On another subject, this place we’re going to tomorrow . . . are these the same ruins you said were near where your uncle died?”
Sheridan nodded. “Did you see Joshua’s expression when Gwyn mentioned having him take her there? If ever that’s an indication of guilt—”
“He’s the one who brought up the ruins in the first place,” Grey pointed out. “He’d hardly do that if he were guilty.” Of something other than lusting after their sister, that is.
“All the same,” Sheridan said, “tomorrow we should manufacture a way to bring him right to the site and witness his reactions.”
“Not ‘we,’” Grey said. “Me.” When Sheridan drew breath to protest, Grey added, “While Wolfe is preoccupied with this excursion, you’re going to go up by the bridge and see if you can locate the pieces of the railing that fell into the river with Father. Finding them will go a long way toward confirming whether the bridge was damaged. While Wolfe is elsewhere is the perfect time—no need to answer any questions.”
Sheridan’s expression cleared. “Good point.”
“Have you searched the site of your uncle’s death?”
“I have. I didn’t see anything. But if there had been evidence of foul play, Joshua had plenty of time to get rid of it. We only made it back to England weeks after Uncle Armie’s funeral.”
“If there’s anything to be found, surely one of us will uncover it.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then there’s naught to find.”
Sheridan crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you sure Bea’s pretty blushes and sweet smiles aren’t influencing you to ignore the obvious?”
Grey bristled. “If you’ll recall, I was skeptical of your suspicions from the beginning, when I’d barely met Miss Wolfe.”
A shadow passed over Sheridan’s face. “Sorry, old chap. I’m just . . . frustrated we haven’t discovered anything concrete.”
So was Grey. But he didn’t want to tell Sheridan what he’d noticed about Beatrice’s reaction to things until he had more confirmation.
The next morning, Grey was surprised when Beatrice entered the foyer alone. “Where’s your brother?”
“I could ask the same thing about yours,” she said archly. “And by the way, for a man who has supposedly been helping me improve my manners the past few days, you could use some improvement in yours. A ‘good morning’ is the usual greeting, I’ve been told. Not ‘where’s your brother?’ barked at the first person to enter your current abode.”
She’d managed a passable version of his tone when he was demanding something. It was disconcerting, to say the least. “Do forgive me, Miss Wolfe,” he said, his lips twitching. “Good morning. How are you today? Where, pray tell, is your brother?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Is that a sufficient greeting for you?”
Biting her lip as if to keep from smiling, she said, “I suppose. And to answer your question—Joshua is outside with the foxhounds.”
“Ah, the dogs again. If you’re hoping they’ll keep me at bay, it didn’t work very well last time with the pointers.”
A blush seeped into her cheeks. “What nonsense. I merely thought they could use the exercise.” When he chuckled, she tipped up her pretty chin. “Where is the rest of your family, Your Grace?”
“So we’re back to ‘Your Grace,’ I see.” When she made no reply to that, he stifled a curse. “Sheridan won’t be joining us. He has too much work to finish before meeting with his solicitor. Gwyn is still getting ready and said to tell you she’d be down shortly. Mother wanted to join us, but forgot that she’d already scheduled a fitting for a new mourning gown.”
Today Beatrice wore the same practical bonnet she’d worn the day they’d walked together before, but this time she’d paired it with a black wool redingote that would be perfectly presentable for a woman in mourning—except for one addition—a green knit scarf wrapped about her neck.
“You look like a rose in bloom.” He had no idea where the idiotic words came from except she did look like that with her cheeks aflame and eyes alight. Not to mention the scarf. “It’s the green,” he said, gesturing to it. “Reminds me of . . . a stem. You know.”
When her color deepened, she looked even more like a rose in bloom. “I couldn’t find my black one, I don’t have a white one, and it’s chilly today.”
Her words spilled out in a rush, as hers often did when she was nervous. He didn’t mind that as much as he ought. He was so used to society women who governed every syllable that he relished being with someone who never did.
“Trust me, I’m happy to see it. I’m growing tired of everyone wearing unrelieved black with only bits of white here and there.” He smiled. “And I doubt the dogs will care whether you follow the mourning attire rules to the letter.”
He’d hoped to make her laugh, but her curt words yesterday proved she was still unhappy with him over their intimate encounter. So he wasn’t surprised when she said nothing.
Not that he blamed her. He’d as much as told her he could never marry her, and without giving her a reason. But how could he tell her of the years he’d spent hardening himself to resist his uncle’s torments and manipulations? That giving a person power over him—even a wife—was too much to bear? That letting someone in, letting them twist his emotions, however unwittingly . . .
No, he couldn’t.
Yet he hated how nonchalant she’d been about their encounter last week: I bear you no ill will, sir. I merely think it wise we do no more dancing in private, if you take my meaning.
He took it, all right. She wasn’t about to indulge in that sort of behavior with a man who wouldn’t marry her. And though it was no more than he’d expected—and he liked to think he would never prey on her in such a way, anyway—it chafed him. Because it meant she could rid herself of her desire for him more easily than he seemed able to rid himself of his for her.
Her continued silence irritated him, prompting him to say what he shouldn’t to get a rise out of her. “I suspect that Mother’s real reason for absenting herself today is to play matchmaker by allowing Gwyn to have your brother all to herself. And me to have you all to myself.”
At last he got a reaction. The stare she gave him would have frozen steam. “You should have told her that wouldn’t work. As you’ve made quite clear, you’re not looking for a wife. Or at least not one like me.”
That was not what he’d intended her to think, and she knew it. “Damn it, Beatrice—”
Gwyn chose that moment to hurry down the stairs. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” She walked up to kiss Beatrice on both cheeks. “Do forgive me for being late. My maid was having such a time fixing my hair. Every little lock of it went whatever direction it wished, no matter how hard she worked. And she’s usually a magician. But then, it takes a magician to control my unruly curls.”
“At least you have curls.” Beatrice smiled. “My hair lies flat and straight no matter what I do.”
Gwyn shook her head as the footman helped her on with her black pelisse. “Your hair is lovely as always.” Then she glanced about. “Where is you
r brother?”
“He’s outside with the dogs. We decided—”
“Now see here, Miss Wolfe,” Grey broke in, his temper finally boiling over, “why didn’t you give Gwyn the lecture about asking where your brother is?”
Beatrice lifted one eyebrow. “Because she greeted me properly before she asked the question.”
His sister chuckled. “Let me guess: You arrived and Grey started barking commands disguised as questions. Is that about right?”
“You know your brother so well,” Beatrice said, smirking at Grey.
Gwyn sniffed. “I hope you gave him what for.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Grey muttered, annoyed with their game. “I’m standing right here, you know.”
Gwyn sauntered up to him. “Aw, poor Grey, forced to be with women who don’t drop into frantic curtseys every time he enters a room.”
“Careful, you impudent rebel,” he warned, “or I’ll scandalize society by asking you to dance at a ball.”
“Pish-posh, I don’t care,” Gwyn said. “I’ll dance with my brother if I please. A little scandal never hurt anyone.”
Beatrice’s face fell. “I do hope you’re right. Because with me they’ll have more than a little scandal to gnaw on.”
“Of course I’m right, Bea.” Gwyn linked her arm through Beatrice’s to lead her toward the door. “We’ll take on society as the vestal virgins of the ton. The gossips might whisper about us behind their hands, but not for long. We have three dukes on our side—no one will dare spread scandal about us or give us the cut direct.”
“Gwyn has a point, Miss Wolfe. You’ll be surrounded by dukes.”
“Two of whom are infamous themselves, Bea,” Gwyn said archly, “so no one will be talking about you, I promise. They’ll be too busy gossiping about Thorn and Grey even while throwing their daughters into my brothers’ paths at every turn.”
“Won’t they be doing the same for Sheridan?” Grey asked.
Gwyn laughed. “Of course. But any gossip about him will be about his saintly character.”
“Right,” Grey said with a bit of sarcasm. Saint Sheridan. His younger brother would hate that moniker, although it suited him.
“Now,” Gwyn said, patting Beatrice’s hand as they walked to the door arm in arm, “what’s this about dogs?”
Grey followed the ladies, but heard not a word of their chatter. He doubted that the gossips would focus on Sheridan’s saintly character if the man uncovered a plot by his relations to murder his father and uncle. That would rouse a different sort of rumors.
And Beatrice would pay the price.
The thought disturbed Grey. He hadn’t considered what would happen to her if her brother was accused of murder. Even if she hadn’t been involved in the plot, she would never again be able to raise her head in polite society. The gossips would dredge up the old scandal about her father’s death by duel, then say that his son had followed in his violent footsteps. They’d add nasty remarks about the major’s lameness, too. When they were done with him, they’d turn to tarring and feathering her for being related to the heinous fellow.
And if Wolfe went to prison? She’d become even more of the poor relation than she was now. Mother could champion her all she liked, but eventually Beatrice would sink into oblivion in the wilds of Lincolnshire, forced into spinsterhood because her brother was a notorious criminal.
Grey wished he’d never become embroiled in this investigation. He was fairly certain Wolfe hadn’t murdered Maurice—the man had no motivation for doing so. And if the major had murdered Armitage, a devil who took advantage of any woman in his orbit . . . well, that was a different matter. Grey hadn’t met a single person who mourned the fellow.
Getting Sheridan to give up his foolish pursuit was the least Grey could do to repay Beatrice for upsetting her life.
Beatrice walked down the steps with Gwyn, ignoring the fact that Grey was behind them. How dared he make comments about his mother matching them up? He had no interest in her as a wife, yet he persisted in pursuing her, probably wanting her as a mistress, the scoundrel.
The barking of the dogs at the bottom of the steps drew her attention in time to catch the way Joshua gazed up at Gwyn breezing down the steps beside her.
Beatrice hid her joy at the sight. At least she hadn’t imagined Joshua’s interest in Gwyn. Now, if only something came of it, Beatrice wouldn’t have to worry about her brother so much. Gwyn was, after all, a very nice lady. If anyone could break through Joshua’s melancholy, it was the merry Lady Gwyn.
Indeed, it was Gwyn who gave a cry of pleasure and knelt down at Joshua’s feet to pet one of the foxhounds. “Oh, look at the little darlings! Your pups are adorable.” Gwyn smiled up at Joshua.
“They’re hardly ‘pups,’” Grey gritted out. “They’re foxhounds.”
Beatrice didn’t know what was irking Grey, but he’d seemed put out with his sister ever since she had come down.
“I know that,” Gwyn said. “I only meant that they’re charming.” She batted her eyelashes at Joshua. “I do love dogs.”
“As I recall,” Grey said, “you used to hate them.”
Gwyn rose to glare at her brother. “That was a long time ago. Before you left home, I did indeed hate them . . . but only because they terrified me. What did you expect? I was six. But then I grew up and Mama got Snuggles, and my entire opinion of dogs changed.”
“What sort of dog was Snuggles?” Beatrice asked, determined to shift the conversation away from Grey’s absurd overprotectiveness.
Gwyn turned to her with a warm smile that transformed her face. “He was the sweetest little pug you’ve ever seen, Bea. You would have loved him. It nearly broke my heart to leave him behind in Berlin, but he was getting too old to survive the trip. Fortunately, Mama says we can find another pug for me in London next time we go.”
“Let’s hope you don’t name that one ‘Snuggles,’ too,” Joshua muttered.
“I’ll second that thought,” Grey said.
Gwyn laughed. “You men! Mama was the one to name our pug, actually. I wanted to name him Pugsy.”
The two men groaned.
“The poor lad probably wanted to crawl under a chair with mortification every time he was around his fellows,” Grey told Joshua. “‘Snuggles,’ indeed.”
“And Pugsy?” Joshua snorted. “You might as well hang a lace ruff around his neck. A male dog should be named something manly, like these two lads—Mercury and Zeus.”
“Ah,” Grey said. “I take it you’re the one with the penchant for the classics?”
“I named every dog in that kennel. If I’d allowed it, Beatrice would have named them all Sunny and Brilliant and Elegant.”
“I never chose any such names!” Beatrice protested.
“And what’s wrong with them, anyway?” Gwyn asked, warming Beatrice’s heart by standing up for her. “Those names sound very sweet.”
“The dogs are foxhounds, not pugs,” Joshua said. “Their purpose is to hunt. They shouldn’t have ‘sweet’ names.”
Beatrice gazed coldly at her brother. “Well, who names a dog Mercury and Zeus? Dogs aren’t characters in a Homeric odyssey, for pity’s sake!”
The man actually blinked. “And what do you know about Homeric odysseys?”
Beatrice sniffed. “I can read, you know. I merely choose to read different things than you. And just for that, you can walk both dogs. Perhaps you’ll get lucky and they’ll do their manly business on your boots! Grey and Gwyn and I will meet you at the ruins.” She lifted her skirts. “Come on, you two. Let’s leave my brother to his foxhounds.”
“You go on with Grey.” Gwyn cast a furtive glance at Joshua. “I’ll keep your brother company.”
“Suit yourself,” Beatrice said. “Though I hope you don’t end up throttling him for being a bloody arse before you get there.”
And with that wholly unladylike remark, she marched off down the drive toward the path through
the gardens that led to the ruins.
Grey headed after her. As soon he’d caught up to her and they were out of earshot, he asked, “What was that about?”
No point in hiding the truth. “My brother infuriates me. Gwyn was being nice, and he still couldn’t resist poking holes in her enthusiasm. He does the same to me, all the time. Him and his manly names. They’re dogs. They don’t care what they’re called.”
“You’re certainly taking this dog-naming business seriously.”
“The dogs are just part of what has put me in a temper.” She was more angry about all the sacrifices she’d made for Joshua, all the secrets she’d kept. And for what? He didn’t seem to care whether he got hanged for murder. And she began to wonder why she cared.
Except that she couldn’t help caring. It had been just the two of them looking after each other ever since he’d come back from the war. It annoyed her that he couldn’t see how much that mattered to her.
I know you don’t believe it sometimes, duckie, but nothing is more important to me than your future.
She sighed. Clearly it mattered to him, too. Which made her only more determined to protect him, even if he wouldn’t protect himself.
“Walk faster, will you?” she muttered to Grey.
“Whatever you wish, minx. Why are we in such a hurry, anyway?”
“I need to talk to you. And I need to make sure my brother isn’t privy to it.”
A darkness descended over his features. “I see.”
From then on, he made no remark as she marched down the path toward the spot where she’d determined she could get him alone.
As soon as they reached it, she tugged Grey through what looked at first glance like a thicket of bushes, but what really shielded a path into a large clearing with a stone bench and more.
He glanced around, obviously taking in the carefully constructed arbor on one end, overgrown with pink Ayrshire roses. “What is this place?”
“It was one of Uncle Armie’s first smaller projects created by his landscape fellow.” She shuddered to think what her uncle had probably used it for, but she knew of nowhere else that couldn’t be seen from the path, nowhere else they could talk privately.
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