by Ann Lacey
“I haven’t seen you since that nasty business of stolen art pieces from the Duke of Davenford’s collection.” Leaning forward as if to conspire but in a voice that shook all four corners of the room, he commented, “I knew it was the footman all the time! What have you been up to these days? You look like you’ve shed a few pounds.”
That’s what a hospital stay will do for you, Garren inwardly muttered, but outwardly he retorted, “I’ve been doing some traveling on the continent.” He used the same untruth as he had earlier in the library. Unnoticed by Lord Langless, he signaled Nyle to save him from his lordship’s eardrum-splitting vocals and any further talk of the Davenford theft, a case he had been secretly involved in as a Royal Guardian.
Comprehending, Nyle quickly complied. Before Lord Langless could roar another word, he introduced Garren to Lord Avery Flemington while strategically guiding Lord Langless over to the vicar, who was a frequent dinner guest at the manor and had more tolerance for his lordship’s blaring vocals, being slightly deaf in one ear.
“I seem to recall seeing you give an exhibition bout in Bristol, Flemington. Very impressive. Your opponent never saw that left hook coming,” Garren praised, drawing a modest grin from the pugilist.
“That was well over a year ago. I don’t know if I’d be as sharp now as I was then.” Avery laughed. “Although I do try to stay fit with multiple forms of exercise.” A brief conversation on the subject of boxing and fitness ensued before Nyle returned and took Garren to meet some of the others, including Mr. Sandler Leedworthy, the Marquis Calder Brightington. Leaving his last suspect, Viscount Radley Simon-North, yet to be identified.
Mr. Sandler Leedworthy, he found, was knee deep explaining the many uses of camphor oil to a yawning Marquis Calder Brightington, who appeared grateful for the interruption. “Marquis Brightington, didn’t you attend Lord Flemington’s exhibition bout in Bristol last year?” Garren queried.
“Bristol? Hmmm . . .” the Marquis pondered. “I was there along with Viscount Simon-North, but not for Lord Flemington’s exhibition. We were there at my cousin’s house party and stayed a fortnight.”
“My mistake,” Garren said, noting that Leedworthy made no mention of the fact that he also had been in Bristol at that time, supposedly attending a lecture at a local college.
Using his height to his advantage, Garren searched over the heads of those gathered until his gaze fell on Thora. She was dressed in a soft blue gown, her hair swept upward and plaited to form a crown atop her head, and through which a golden cord was intertwined. She was standing next to one of the room’s marble columns, looking very much like a Grecian goddess to be worshiped, and talking to a tall, fair-haired gentleman.
“I was hoping to have a word with Somerville’s sister, but it seems her attention has already been captured” Garren said aloud. And, as he expected, the man with Thora was quickly identified.
“That’s the ever-charming, raffish Viscount Radley Simon-North with our hostess,” Sandler Leedworthy provided.
Garren detected a hint of resentment in the scholar’s voice.
When Garren’s gaze returned to the couple, his own resentment rose. Viscount Radley Simon-North leaned far too close to their hostess. Without having met the man, Garren instantly disliked him. His animosity could have stemmed from that the fact that Viscount Radley Simon-North was one of the four men on his list, or that he was the type of man whose good looks made it effortless for him to enchant a female of any age. Or was it the way the Viscount gazed seductively into Thora’s eyes?
Like some wild animal protecting its own, Garren had an urge to pounce on the man and bloody his smiling face. Controlling this inexplicable feral reaction, he acknowledged Thora with a casual nod and soon found that his gaze wasn’t the only one to have settled on her.
“My word, Somerville, your sister is looking temptingly stunning this evening,” the Marquis commented.
Although Garren’s own thoughts were running the same course, it irked him that a possible murderer had spoken the words, and he felt his muscles twitched.
Nyle raised a threatening brow. “My sister does look lovely this evening but do remember that Thora is my sister, Brightington. And like most brothers, my instincts to protect her border on the irrational.”
“As it should be, Somerville,” Mr. Leedworthy agreed while Brightington mumbled a weak apology. “And I imagine it is none too easy a pastime to safeguard one with such a strong will as your sister possesses.”
Though he understood a brother’s impulse to express a warning should one of the two men in their company be the killer, Garren needed Nyle to remain outwardly calm. Seeing Nyle’s jaw tightening at the further mention of his sister and wishing to lighten the mood, Garren added jokingly, “And not when the lovely creatures have a habit of changing their minds every five minutes.”
Luckily, his joke succeeded and the men chuckled. He then quickly changed the subject by seeking their opinions on New Zealand becoming a colony.
As the men debated, a more sedate Nyle checked his pocket watch and discreetly motioned to his sister that the procession of guests to the dining room should begin.
Noticing, Garren watched as Thora, accompanied by the overly attentive Viscount Simon-North, moved gracefully across the room to her brother. He stood spellbound, absorbing her every movement, from the soft, swishing sound of her silk skirts as her hips gently swayed, to the bodice of her gown—though modestly cut, it did not disguise the fullness of her breasts—to lips so delicately pink and enticing that the thought of kissing them was making his mouth water.
Joining the group, Thora introduced Viscount Simon-North to Garren, who strained to mask his distaste for the man. In passing him to take her brother’s arm, a whiff of her scent drifted up to Garren’s nostrils. As soft and sweet as a field of flowers. Infused with her smell, he studied her profile as she stepped by, noticing her skin was as flawless as a white rose petal. Inwardly, he struggled to suppress the lurid images flashing in his mind of sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her upstairs to his bedroom, throwing her across his bed, and doing wicked things to her with his lips and tongue.
Good God! What had come over him? He was fantasizing like an untried lad. Trying to rationalize his licentious craving for Thora, he inwardly reasoned the motive was not because she was exceptionally lovely but that he had been held hostage in a hospital bed for weeks, recovering from a gunshot wound, where the only female to tend him was a thickly made nurse who could probably go more rounds in the ring with Lord Avery Flemington than any man in the room. His long days of convalescence must have heightened his needs. Yes, that was it, he assured himself as he followed behind brother and sister but found himself focusing on a loose curl at the nape of Thora’s neck that rhythmically bounced with her every step.
The hosts led their guests into the dining room, taking their places at each end of the long table while the guests filled in the chairs along each side.
While numerous courses of game, poultry, and fish would eventually be served, dinner began with a parsnip and pear soup, broiled salmon drizzled with parsley sauce, and baked trout lying on a bed of creamed cucumbers.
The vicar’s wife sat on Thora’s left, giving her a sympathetic glance. “How are you, dear?” she whispered. The vicar’s wife knew first-hand how deeply Ivey’s loss had affected her. Many times the kindly woman came out of the church office to help her arrange the flowers on Ivey’s resting place in the church’s cemetery. Later, when they were done, she would bring the tearful Thora into the vicarage for tea and a chat.
“I’m fine thank you,” she replied, forcing a smile although thinking of Ivey in the cold, dark ground caused a sharp stabbing pain in her heart. It was hard for Thora to bear the woman’s pitying eyes. Thankfully the woman’s attention was captured by one of the younger Langless girls who wanted to know if G
od ever takes naps.
Leaving the vicar’s wife to explain the sleeping habits of the Almighty, Thora turned to the guest on her right, the Marquis Calder Brightington, who was gazing at her as if she were one of the entrees. Feeling a bit unnerved but remembering that he was one of her suspects, Thora gave him a sweet smile as most women would, for Marquis Brightington was an attractive man. He had sandy hair and long tawny lashes that shaded pale green eyes which at times appeared disarmingly predatory. Like the serpent in the garden who tempted Eve, was it the Marquis Brightington who had lured Ivey to her much-too-early demise?
Ever the fashionable dresser, Marquis Brightington’s finely tailored ebony jacket was cut to give prominence to his broad shoulders and expertly tapered to stress his narrower waist.
Resolving not to be ruffled by his good looks or his intimidating gaze, Thora looked directly into those pale green eyes and asked, “Will you be joining the pheasant hunt tomorrow, my lord?”
“Indeed I shall,” he excitedly retorted, her question breaking through his fixed concentration. “I do love the sport. In fact, your brother, Viscount Simon-North, Lord Flemington, and I have a standing wager to see who will bag the most birds.”
How eager he is to kill something. For a brief moment, Thora could have sworn that the Marquis’s eyes glowed as he spoke of the hunt.
“And what of Mr. Leedworthy, isn’t he partaking in this gamble?” she asked.
Wearing a look of disdain and moving closer, he hissed, “Leedworthy would much rather look on the pages of a book than over the barrel of a gun! It makes one wonder what kind of man finds all his enjoyment between the bindings of some novel.”
Thora stole a glance at the mild-mannered Sandler Leedworthy. His round spectacles mirrored the table’s candlelight, shielding his grey eyes.
He seemed harmless enough until Marquis Brightington leaned even nearer and cautioned, “I’d be wary of Leedworthy, my dear. Remember one can never tell a book by its cover. Behind that meek exterior could lay a shameful nature.”
Thora held back a gasp when she again peeked over at Leedworthy and found him staring intently at her. Giving her a weak smile, the bespectacled man returned to his dinner, occasionally having a word or two with Floris who sat on his left and seemed to hang onto his every word like a schoolgirl who bore a crush for her instructor. Whoever had murdered Ivey had to be clever. He had performed his despicable deed under the noses of a houseful of guests and Sandler Leedworthy owned a brilliant mind. Could he be the one? Was Marquis Brightington right? Was Leedworthy’s meekness merely a façade? A mask?
As more entrees were served, Thora suddenly had the feeling that she was being observed, not by anyone she dubbed a suspect but by Lord Huntscliff. Yet each time she stole a furtive glance at her brother’s old school chum he appeared deeply engrossed in conversation with both the Lady Boothwell and Lauryn, each woman vying for his attention as he sat sandwiched between them. Either he was accustomed to having women flirting with him or he’d been born with the patience of a saint, for he didn’t seem to mind their persistent questions. Furtively, she watched as he dipped his head to listen to the Lady Boothwell cackle.
“Oh, Lord Huntscliff, you must tell me more about your visit to the continent. I was only telling my husband the other day that it’s been ages since we were abroad. With all those marvelous cities to see, how did you ever tear yourself away?”
It was in all honesty that Garren discussed his overseas journeys with the two females flanking him, only they weren’t as recent as he led them to believe. He would have rather been sharing them with Thora who was sitting at the far end of the table and whom he’d been observing with lightening quick glances.
Nyle must be testing his reserve in placing him beside the woman, Garren thought as he answered the annoying female. “I missed England, especially at this time of year when the larkspur is in bloom.”
“Oh yes! I agree, my lord,” Lauryn rushed in before Cecilia’s mother resumed her domination of Lord Huntscliff’s attention. “Summer in England is lovely.”
Thora, who had been listening, turned her head toward Lord Huntscliff, only this time she was stunned to find his dark eyes locked on her with a nerve-shattering stare as he said, “Yes, lovely, very lovely.” There was no way of stopping the flush of red that crawled up her neck to settle in her cheeks. Not wanting anyone to notice, Thora quickly picked up her water glass and brought it to her lips, draining it slowly until the heat in her face cooled.
When dinner ended and the women left for the parlor to have tea, the men stayed behind for a glass of brandy. Abstaining from spirits, the vicar and Lord Langless chatted over coffee. The remaining male guests took their filled glasses and moved to the end of the table away from Lord Langless’s thunderous vocals.
“What say you, Huntscliff, are you joining tomorrow morning’s hunt?” Viscount Radley Simon-North asked, downing a second rather large glass of brandy. “If you’re interested you can join our wager. The man who bags the most birds wins a healthy purse.”
Nyle shot the viscount a look of pain. “Now you’ve done it, Simon-North! You might as well turn over the winnings to Huntscliff now. He has the sharpest eye of anyone I’ve ever gone up against.”
Viscount Simon-North raised one of his fair brows and smiled confidently. “He hasn’t won yet. I’m sure tomorrow will hold some surprises.” Casting an eye toward Sandler Leedworthy, he queried, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come out with us, Leedworthy. Your pallor is becoming as sallow as the pages of those old books you read.”
“I’d rather improve my mind than my aim, Simon-North. You should try it sometime,” Leedworthy snapped back.
“You’re starting to sound like my old nanny, Leedworthy. Can I help it if my hobbies require more, let’s say, active participation?” Viscount Simon-North said with a smirk.
“And what hobbies are those?” Garren questioned.
“Just the usual,” Lord Avery Flemington chimed. “Women, gambling, and spirits!”
Simon-North threw his golden head back and gave a hardy laugh, stretching his lips to show a set of perfect white teeth. “Yes, those are my hobbies and thank you, Flemington, for putting them in their proper order!”
Marquis Brightington placed a hand on Simon-North’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze as if to silence him. “Now that you’ve revealed your wayward side, Radley, which I must confess mirrors my own and that I’m sure of many a man, let’s hear from someone else. What are your pleasurable pursuits, Huntscliff?”
Garren looked directly into Brightington green eyes, eyes that appeared to be evaluating him. “I try to keep my pursuits balanced. Like Mr. Leedworthy, I do enjoy reading but I also like the outdoors, fishing and hunting, and, of course, I find a woman’s company most pleasurable,” Garren returned with a slight smile. Giving a slight groan, he added, “I do ride, but a recent injury has limited that pleasure to short jaunts for the time being.”
“Shame,” Marquis Brightington said, seeming to a certain degree satisfied with his assessment of his host’s old school chum. “Somerville has quite a fine stable which I intend to take advantage of during my stay, and hopefully, I can persuade one of the ladies to join me.”
“Take anyone you wish, Brightington, but—”
Lord Flemington’s words were cut off when Lord Landless approached and loudly proposed that they should join the ladies, leaving Garren to wonder who Avery Flemington was about to warn Brightington away from.
Entering the parlor, Garren was immediately seized by the Lady Boothwell and her daughter, Cecilia, whom she all but dragged to his side, insisting he repeat his travel stories to the obviously disinterested young woman. He had hoped that he would have an opportunity to chat with Thora, but as he glanced over at the settee where she was sitting, he saw that she’d welcomed Lord Flemington to sit next to her a
nd listened intently to his views on exercise and how it can improve a person’s body. What a waste of time. Clearly Thora didn’t need any improvement. She was perfect. If only he could rid himself of the Boothwells who were sticking closer to him than a new penny postage stamp on a letter. When at last Nyle came to his rescue, Thora was no longer with Flemington. She was now standing laughing at something Viscount Simon-North had said. Damn the man and his golden good looks.
Garren started to move toward them, but as luck would have it he was snagged again, only this time by Lord Langless, who caught his arm and dragged him into a conversation on the morrow’s upcoming pheasant hunt. The evening wore on, and the only time he had a chance to say anything to Thora was when she came over with Lauryn and Floris to bid goodnight, as all three ladies were planning to retire. He gave her his most charming smile but was disappointed when it went ignored. He noticed that Lord Flemington’s face bore a forlorn expression as he watched the three young women leave the room.
But for which female? Garren wondered.
Looking over at the only remaining young woman, Cecilia Boothwell, he noticed that though she was engaged in a conversation with Nyle, her eyes stole furtive glances at someone else in the room. Interesting.
As guests continued to retreat upstairs to their rooms, Garren, too, decided it was time to retire. After saying goodnight to the remaining guests, he left the parlor and entered the main hall.
Mercer, Nyle’s manservant, shuffled past him, uttering a courteous, “Sleep well, my lord.”
Thanking him, Garren headed toward the stairs. Midway up the staircase, something made him give Mercer a backward glance. He saw the servant speaking with someone, a man whose face was hidden by the newel post at the bottom of the steps. Garren didn’t give it a second thought, assuming it was most likely a guest with a request of some sort. An oversight he would soon regret.