Return of the Viscount

by Gayle Callen

  As if her own brother didn’t want her found.

  Cecilia felt the prick of tears again, put her palms over her eyes, and willed them away. Crying wouldn’t help.

  A knock on her door made her straighten, and she tried to compose herself as she called for the person to enter. She wasn’t surprised to see her husband, his gaze focused darkly on her, taking everything in. With her old garments on, and her hair pulled back with a simple bow, she felt unmade, unkempt, which was the most ridiculous thing to think at such a time. But Lord Blackthorne seemed to do that to her.

  He closed the door and leaned both hands on his cane as he studied her.

  “Do I pass inspection?” she asked wryly.

  “You clean up well.”

  She almost laughed at that even though she wasn’t amused.

  “How do you feel?”

  She hesitated. “It hurts to take a deep breath.”

  “Your ribs.”

  “So the doctor informs me. I have some aches, but he says I was very lucky, and there’s nothing he can do for me except prescribe rest and warm baths for my pain.”

  In her mind, she was in the cold mud again, feeling the rain start, wondering with terror what it would be like to waste away like a trapped animal.

  “Try not to think about it,” he said, his voice gentler.

  She blinked at him. “We’ve been acquainted just over a week, and already you read me too well.”

  “Too well? Do you not think I’ve spent the last several hours imagining what might have happened if I hadn’t found you? From the looks of you, you’ve done the same.”

  She gave him a weak smile.

  “So tell me what happened,” he continued, his voice businesslike again. “And then we notify the constable.”

  Her head came up. “No. Surely some poacher dug a hole to—”

  “Enough with these games where you pretend to ignore the truth,” he interrupted.

  He limped toward her until she had to arch her neck to look up at him.

  “You don’t believe any of this was an accident, and I’m done going along with your games of fancy, where you wish things were different.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “We’re all concerned about you, and we’ve shared information. Miss Webster confided your concerns to Appertan, who confided in me. You think someone might be trying to harm you—or even kill you.”

  She’d said that to Penelope, but hearing the cold, hard words from her husband’s mouth felt . . . different, and very real. “I . . . I imagine I shall keep my secrets from now on.”

  He groaned and ran a hand through his dark hair. “That’s your response? That you wish you’d said nothing? Would you prefer I think you had some bad luck, so that when this villain succeeded, we could have only complained about how we wish we’d known?”

  She looked away from his focused gaze, hearing the frustration in his voice even though he didn’t raise it. He was not a man to lose control, to react without thinking. “Lord Blackthorne—”

  “My name is Michael. I’ve been ‘Sergeant’ or ‘Blackthorne’ for so long that I forget what my Christian name sounds like. I would like you to use it.”

  “Michael,” she said in a soft voice.

  Some part of him must have relaxed, for he spoke in a more normal tone. “When you fell into the hole, you saw and heard no one?”

  “Not until you arrived.” She folded her hands at her waist.

  “And since this all started at the time of my arrival, do you think I’m capable of this?”

  “No.”

  “What can I say to convince you that—” He broke off in sudden realization of her denial. “My rescue today must have convinced you of my innocence.”

  “Not really. I simply . . . never believed you capable of it even when I wondered if I was being naïve.” Her father had known Michael for years under the worst sort of conditions and only had high praise for him. Ever since his arrival, although they disagreed about their marriage, he’d abided by her wishes and even tried to help her brother.

  “Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes momentarily tender.

  The answering sweet ache deep inside her was unsettling.

  He cleared his throat. “Then call the constable,” he said again.

  She briefly closed her eyes. “And what would I say, Michael? That I tripped down the stairs? That a maid admitted she thought she’d accidentally bumped the bust that fell on me? And now—a hole? The constable sees poacher traps every day!” And the most damning reason: the person with the best motive to harm her was her brother, whose life she controlled. But since he could take all of that control away from her—and she so loved him—she refused to believe he might be guilty and didn’t want anyone else tarnishing his reputation by suggesting it aloud. “Michael, I have no proof.”

  “But if we talk to the constable,” Michael continued, “then he’ll be on the alert.”

  “Any more than you already are? You live here.”

  “Are you saying you trust me to take care of you?”

  “I don’t know what I believe.” To her dismay, her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat to cover the weakness. Was she really like her mother? Cecilia had tried so hard to be confident in her own worth, but her mother could never trust in that, could never trust the men in her life. Maybe Cecilia was the same way, and she’d never realized it. She didn’t trust Oliver to manage the estate; she didn’t trust Michael to be a husband to her. Those fears had made her mother a miserable, clinging woman who’d destroyed every small happiness that came her way.

  It all came down to trust, and Cecilia didn’t know how to trust anyone but herself. How could that be, when she’d had such a wonderful father? Perhaps she thought no man could ever compare. Was a lack of trust the reason she never wanted to marry, why she was so content to take over the estates herself? Putting herself in someone else’s hands seemed like the worst mistake imaginable. It was better to be alone.

  “We need to cancel this dinner,” he suddenly said.

  He was standing near the window, looking out on the park, his expression cool and composed. Appertan Hall was just a place to him, but to her, it was an integral part of her life, as necessary as her blood. And somewhere out there was a person who wanted her dead.

  “This dinner might have suspects,” she said. “You’re a soldier—isn’t it your duty to investigate?”

  “I’ve already begun.” He glanced at her pointedly.

  “You have? What have you learned?”

  “I don’t have time to lay it out for you today—unless you’re canceling the dinner.”

  She lifted her chin. “No.”

  Then he came to her, so swiftly she almost fell back a step. He caught her as she began to sway, his hands cupping her waist, his face leaning toward her.

  “I will keep you safe, Cecilia,” he whispered with urgency.

  How could he? If someone who knew and loved her wanted her dead . . .

  But no, that was a fatalistic attitude. The villain didn’t have to be Oliver. Perhaps there was someone else.

  She stepped back, and Michael’s warm hands fell away from her waist. “Then I’ll see you for dinner,” she said.

  He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then he pressed his lips in a straight line, nodded, and limped toward the dressing-room door.

  He suddenly stopped, and said over his shoulder. “Don’t mistake a simple limp for weakness, Cecilia. I will ensure your safety, whatever I have to do.”

  And then he left, and all she could do was hug herself. Sometimes she wished she were the type of woman who would fling herself into a man’s arms and beg to be rescued.

  But she would never let that happen.

  Cecilia spent much of the day in her bedroom, where Mrs. Ellison came to consult her about the seating for the dinner party and a problem with the menu. Cecilia was glad to think about something other than the suspicions buzzing endlessly around in her
brain. When Mrs. Ellison hinted that they could still cancel because of the unfortunate accident, Cecilia firmly refused.

  Late in the afternoon, Talbot informed her that Penelope and Oliver were awaiting her in the library. She would have preferred to talk to them at dinner, where she wouldn’t have to relive the accident again. But she had no choice. She went downstairs, glad for Talbot’s escort, and entered the book-lined room, with its leather furniture. She saw the way that Penelope glanced worriedly at the plain gown Cecilia was wearing, and Oliver stared at her over his brandy glass.

  As Talbot pulled the door shut behind him, Cecilia looked down at herself, and said lightly, “You caught me before I could prepare for dinner.”

  Penelope rushed to hug her, then gripped her upper arms and stared into her eyes. “You look as if nothing has happened!”

  Cecilia felt as ancient and tired as a god who’d lost his powers. “Believe me, my aches and pains tell me otherwise.”

  “There’s a bruise on your cheek,” Oliver said.

  Cecilia touched it with her fingers. “I thought Nell did an admirable job hiding it.”

  “But I know you too well,” he said, turning to refill his glass.

  The tightness in her throat threatened to choke her, to cause a terrible waterfall of tears.

  “Do you know who dug the hole?” Penelope asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you think someone meant to take down a deer?” Oliver tilted his head as he studied her.

  Cecilia hesitated, wondering if he was implying that he didn’t believe her. “I hope so. But I understand that both of you repeated my concerns, and now Lord Blackthorne knows I believe these are more than accidents.”

  Penelope winced. “Oh, dear. I thought your brother deserved to know. Was that wrong of me?”

  Cecilia took her hand and gave a tired smile. “No, I understand your concern.” Then she glanced at Oliver. “I imagine you thought my husband should know.”

  Oliver shrugged. “Seems you didn’t bother to tell him. Was that because you think he’s trying to kill you?”

  Penelope gasped aloud, and Cecilia stiffened, surprised to feel herself defensive on Michael’s behalf.

  “No,” Cecilia said. “There’s no motive for him to do so. He will inherit none of my money. And he was Papa’s good friend for many years.”

  Oliver shrugged. “He and I discussed many different suspects.”

  “He offered to tell me everything.”

  “As you should have done with me,” Oliver countered.

  He looked mutinous and angry, as if he realized she didn’t trust him. But how could he know the depths of her suspicions? Even she didn’t want to consider the worst.

  Penelope glanced at each of them with concern. “You have had a terrible day, Cecilia. If I’d known, I would have come earlier to help you deal with this dinner party.”

  “Mrs. Ellison has it so well in hand that even I have had little to do today, but it is very sweet of you to offer.”

  “You could sit and relax, and I would be happy to read to you.”

  Cecilia opened her mouth to decline, but Penelope seemed so anxious to help in any small way. She finally smiled. “That would be lovely.”

  Penelope glanced at Oliver. “Do you mind, Oliver?”

  He gestured with his glass. “Good of you to help. I’ll be in the billiard room.”

  Anything to escape, Cecilia thought, faintly smiling as she watched him leave the room. But her smile faded, and her chest hurt, but it wasn’t because of her fall that morn.

  Was she losing her last brother?

  Michael went down to the drawing room before the dinner guests were due to arrive. Dozens of lamps had been lit to emphasize the ancient weapons displayed high on the stone walls. Fresh flowers festooned each table, and the smell was almost overpoweringly sweet.

  It was difficult to think about entertaining guests after what had happened that morning. And it was a mark of Cecilia’s bravery—or stubbornness—that she was going through with it. He stalked to the French doors and looked out through the windows at the gardens, where dusk had fallen. Long shadows crept across the ground like fingers pointing at the castle.

  Logically, he understood that since the “accidents” had begun right after he arrived, she might suspect him. But she didn’t, as if she’d grown to trust him. He felt elated and hopeful, until he remembered the bust shattering on the marble, and looking over the balustrade to see Cecilia gaping up at him from where she’d tumbled to the floor. She’d almost fallen down the stairs the first night he arrived. Yet she’d gone on denying what had happened, pretending everything was all right.

  He’d thought the way she kept her distance from him was about their marriage, his insistence on remaining in the union and her resistance to the whole idea. And then there was her brother and his many problems, and the future certainty that she’d have to give up running the empire she’d nurtured. There were so many reasons for her to be upset—he’d just never considered that she was frightened for her life.

  After leaving her earlier, he’d gone to meet with Talbot, who’d already looked into the new servants again. The page, Francis, was the only one hired without references, but he was a parish boy, whom everyone knew. Talbot had heard a story or two about the boy brawling with friends, or fishing when he should be working, but nothing that would implicate him as a murderer. But then again, a page had tasks all over the house, errands for this person or that. He’d least be missed. But dig a hole to kill his mistress? That would achieve nothing but her death, and how could Francis possibly want revenge against a mistress beloved by the entire staff?

  The new watchman, Parsons, had grown up in Enfield, moved to London as a young man, then recently returned to support his wife and two babies. His London references were impeccable. And as for timing, the watchmen had a nightly schedule where they checked in with each other routinely as they patrolled the grounds. A watchman would have been noticed if he was lurking in the Hall the day the bust fell. And Susan, the maid? He’d seen her face during the incident, believed down to his soul she’d been shocked and horrified. And again, her brothers Tom and Will lived in the Hall, too. What motive could she have? Servants as suspects just seemed so implausible.

  Voices disturbed Michael’s rumination, and he turned, realizing he stood in the shadows by the French doors, for Miss Webster and Appertan had not seen him. She was obviously besotted with the young lord, worshipping him with her eyes when he wasn’t looking, smiling and tossing her head when he might be admiring her figure. Michael felt so much older than either of them. It seemed long ago that a young girl wanted to impress him. And even then, it had only been because of the lies his father told about the status of their family.

  Though Appertan seemed to expect such feminine attention, there was a distant focus to his eyes if Miss Webster wasn’t speaking. Michael wondered if he worried for his sister—or worried he might get caught. How was Michael supposed to make sure Cecilia was never alone with him again? He was her brother! Michael had put together a contingent of servants, led by Talbot and Mrs. Ellison, to make certain that Cecilia never went anywhere alone, though his proud wife would certainly protest.

  It was Mrs. Ellison who escorted her into the drawing room. Michael gritted his teeth, remembering the way the housekeeper had reddened when she’d told him Cecilia’s wish to make her entrance without him.

  “She’s beside herself right now, my lord,” Mrs. Ellison had whispered. “Give her time. She’s used to being on her own, poor thing.”

  He’d acquiesced reluctantly, and now, as Cecilia arrived, he felt himself relax at last. For just a moment, she paused on the threshold, and he saw her gaze take in Appertan and Miss Webster, who stood talking quietly together, not noticing her. Her blue eyes, usually so lively, looked momentarily bruised and sad. Michael couldn’t imagine what it would be like to wonder if the brother she’d helped raise was a villain.

  When Appertan
glanced up at her, Cecilia blossomed with a smile. It was all an act, but in that moment, she shone with a radiance that made Michael ache both in sympathy for her and in painful desire. Her blond hair was upswept, and several tiny ringlets danced about her ears and brushed her shoulders. Her gown matched the deep blue of her eyes and sparkled with beading across her square-cut bodice. Her bare shoulders looked vulnerable and tempting at the same time, and her cleavage was close enough to the edge of propriety as a married woman was allowed, enough to make her husband practically drool. Her waist was tiny, and her hips flared out, emphasized by the sweep of her skirts and the graceful way she moved.

  When their gazes met, everything else seemed to stop. If he had seen her across a London ballroom, he’d have known she was out of his reach, a goddess among mere mortals. He noticed only distantly the pleased smile Miss Webster granted Appertan, as if to tell him she approved of Cecilia’s marriage. Appertan didn’t smile back.

  But Cecilia was Michael’s wife, and he meant to keep it that way, whatever her brother thought. He limped toward her now, surprised when she swept into a curtsy that allowed him to see even more of the valley between her breasts. Other men would see that sight tonight, and he didn’t like the ugly jealousy that stirred in him. How would it be, night after night, imagining her half a world away from him, meeting the rakes of Society?

  “You look handsome tonight, my lord,” she murmured.

  “My trunk of clothing finally arrived from the steamship,” he said. “Even in Bombay, we had need of evening garments, but of course, you must remember that.”

  “We did try to copy English society as much as possible,” she admitted.

  Now that he was closer, he could see the bruise marring her cheek beneath the powder. He cupped her cheek, lightly touching it with his thumb. He felt her shiver.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked quietly.

  She shook her head. “Only if one presses hard.”

  He allowed himself one last brush of her skin, then let his hand fall away.

  “Be careful,” he murmured. “You realize, of course, that you can never leave this room unattended.”