by Ann Lacey
Questions, questions, but no answers. The questions swirled inside her head and it started to ache. Deciding to set aside the case, Thora sank deeper into the water, bringing it up to her chin. Relaxing in the sweetly-scented water, she forgot her irritation with the man and let her thoughts drift to Lord Huntscliff and that kiss he gave her inside the storage room of the boathouse. If only he had meant it and not used it as a ploy to quiet her, she wistfully sighed. Then, of course, she would have called him by his given name. Garren suited him. She repeated it, only this time aloud. “Garren, oh, Garren. Oh, stop this,” she commanded, scolding herself for daydreaming like a silly schoolgirl. For all she knew Lord Huntscliff may already have someone in his life. The thought of him with another woman made her sit up with a start, causing a wave of water to spill over the rim of the slipper tub and wet the floor. Did he have a woman waiting for him in London? Had he left the Royal Guardians for the sake of his lover who found it unbearable to be apart while he was away working on a case? She had to find out. There was only one thing to do. Ask Nyle! Getting up out of the tub, she wrapped her robe around her and then tugged the bell cord for Molly.
“If I live to be one hundred years old, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the stench of Lord Langless’s feet after I pulled off those damn boots,” Mason groaned. With his face squeezed in disgust he went on, “But that wasn’t the half of it! Then he had me take off his stockings. Good lord. I’ve never seen such ugly toes. Corns. Bunions. There were more things growing on that man’s feet than in Greenwich Park!” Mason lamented inside Garren’s room later that evening.
Garren chewed his inner cheek, struggling to hold back his laughter as he listened to Mason’s whining. He went over to table where a bottle of brandy and glasses were kept then poured some into a glass and then moved back to Mason, who had dropped his weight wearily into an arm chair. “Here drink this, you deserve it,” Garren said, handing the glass of brandy to Mason.
“I do indeed, and more than one. Somehow, someway, Huntscliff, you’re going to pay for what you put me through this time round,” Mason stated, taking the glass.
As Mason drained his glass, Garren turned away to release a few chuckles before returning to his colleague to ask, “Your assignment, what was he up to today?”
“He pitched a few horseshoes with Viscount Simon-North and was quite pleased with himself upon winning. Later he went riding,” Mason reported. “Do you think he was the one who killed the Boothwell girl?”
“No,” Garren said emphatically.
“You know who did then, don’t you?”
“Yes. I believe I do,” Garren answered then told him who he believed to be the killer. Garren watched his friend’s reaction carefully.
A seasoned investigator, Mason hid his shock well. Experience had hardened him. “Are you going to send for the constable?”
“Not yet. At the moment I have no proof,” Garren stated as he began to dress for dinner.
Mason left his chair and helped himself to another glass of brandy. Setting aside the case, he returned to his seat and watched with interest as Garren carefully selected his dinner clothes.
“Planning a special evening, my Lord?” Mason asked with mock subservience. “Oh let me guess,” Mason teased, “conferring with the lovely Lady Thora Mannington.”
“I wish you would take your guise more seriously, Mason. Servants are supposed to hold their tongues,” Garren said, glowering at his colleague.
Mason rose and moved over to Garren to straighten his perfectly tied white cravat. Bowing his head in exaggerated servility and widely grinning, Mason uttered, “Oh forgive me, my Lord, but might I suggest that tonight you hold back your tongue.” Laughing, he quickly jumped backward, narrowly avoiding one of Garren’s huge fists.
Mason was still laughing when Garren left his room, slamming the door behind him.
Downstairs in the drawing rooms, the guests were beginning to gather. Nyle was standing with Lord Langless pretending to listen to the older man’s recant of his earlier military exploits. His mind was on Thora, and he suddenly felt very old. Where had the years gone? He wondered. It seemed like only yesterday they had come home from their parents’ funeral. He was one and twenty and Thora only ten years old. He could still recall the terror in her voice when she took his hand and looked up at him, pleading, “Please don’t ever die, Nyle. Don’t leave me. Please don’t ever leave me!”
She had been a brave little solider all through the funeral, but coming back home to the manor that suddenly seemed so quiet and empty her courage faltered and she’d started to cry. Slipping a handkerchief from his pocket, he dried her tears and held it to her nose for a healthy blow. Wrapping an arm around her slight shoulders, he led her to a chair and told her to sit then lowered himself to her level.
“I have no intention of ever doing that, Thora. I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck with me for a very long time.” After assuring her of his life expectancy, he gave her a hug and then teasingly yanked on one of her long plaits. “I’ll be around long after you’ve outgrown wearing these,” he said, bringing a smile to her lips.
Over the following years, he’d done his best to raise Thora, and perhaps she was more outspoken and independent than most young ladies and knew more about pistols than a woman should, but he was proud of her. She had turned into an intelligent and beautiful woman—a prize for any man. Like she had done in her younger years, she entered his study trying to disguise her true purpose with a few complimentary statements.
“Nyle, you’re looking exceptionally handsome this evening,” she flattered.
Instinct told him she was up to something. He watched as she strolled around the room, building up her courage as she had done many times before, preparing herself for whatever she was trying to waggle out of him. He leaned back in his chair, knitting his hands together on his flat stomach and waited.
“I’m so fortunate to have such an accomplished brother. You always make me so proud,” she went on to say.
Her last adulation only served to prove she was about to beseech him with some form of outrageous appeal. Last time she’d acted like this she’d wanted him to put an extension onto the manor for an art studio. An unreasonable request as she handled a paintbrush with as much grace as a butcher wields a meat cleaver.
“Your friend, Lord Huntscliff, has led an interesting life, hasn’t he? I mean, as an investigator, he must have been put into some dangerous situations,” Thora said, lowering her face to avoiding the scrutiny of his eyes.
So it was Garren she wanted to learn more about. “I’m sure he has.”
He was purposely being vague and he could tell from her pout that it was having an effect on her.
“I would imagine that as an investigator he had little time for any serious relationships.”
“I would assume so, but then again Garren has always been closemouthed about the women in his life,” Nyle answered, holding back his mirth at seeing his sister’s frustration with his ambiguous replies. “Why the sudden interest in Huntscliff’s love life?”
He watched Thora’s cheeks pinken as she stumbled for words. “It was just . . . just that the ladies were asking about him, and I knew so little about him.” She took a moment before frankly asking, “So is he linked to anyone romantically?”
Nyle regarded her in a speculative way before answering. She didn’t fool him with her lame attempt at idle curiosity. She was keen on knowing if Garren had a relationship with someone, but just how keen? “I don’t think it’s my place to tell you. I suggest you ask Huntscliff,” he said, knowing that a lady would never ask a gentleman such a forward question.
Thora’s shoulders slumped.
He had presumed correctly. His sister was definitely interested in Garren, and not as an investigator. He thought for a moment. Thora and Garren. What an excellent matc
h!
Taking pity, he added, “All I can tell you is that I am not aware of his attachment to anyone at the current time.” Thora had never been one to hide her emotions, and he clearly saw his sister’s face brighten when he told her he didn’t know of any romantic involvement in his friend’s life.
Excusing himself from Lord Langless, Nyle left the drawing room and went to his study where he poured himself a generous glass of brandy. In an awakening flash, it occurred to Nyle that his promise to never leave her could very well be broken, not by him, but by Thora herself.
Garren’s eyes immediately searched and found Thora, but to his displeasure, once again, she was chatting with Viscount Simon-North and he was green with envy. Lord, she looked beautiful. The gown she was wearing was a deep sapphire trimmed with silver braid, her mass of chocolate hued curls were pinned to one side, letting a cascade of delectable tresses flow over her one shoulder, and at her ears and throat were shimmering diamonds that paled in comparison to her radiant beauty. “Good evening, Lady Thora,” he greeted cordially while merely nodding to her companion Simon-North.
“Lord Huntscliff, how good of a fisherman are you?” Thora asked sweetly. Then, seeing his confusion, she softly laughed and explained. “Tomorrow my brother is taking the boats out on the lake to do some fishing, and I was wondering if we can count on you to bring in a large catch.”
Garren’s lips stretched, giving her a brilliant smile. “I’m quite adept at catching whatever I go after.”
“That sounds like a challenge to me,” Viscount Simon-North remarked loudly, drawing attention from the others in the room. Quickly the guests gathered around. “Let’s make our little fishing outing a contest and draw teams,” the viscount excitedly proposed. “Each member of each team will put up ten pounds and whichever team brings in the most fish wins the pot.”
“And I’ve got a new Nottingham reel that I will put up as first prize to the man who catches the most fish!” Nyle announced, heightening the group’s enthusiasm.
Lord Langless excluded himself from partaking in the challenge, saying he’d much rather fish from the tree-shaded shore where he could take refreshments from the picnicking ladies, instead of sitting out in a boat in the middle of a lake with the sun frying his skin like bacon in a pan.
Not wanting Lord Langless to be the only male guest excluded from the wager, Thora stated that if there were no objections she would like to team with the elder gentleman on shore. Her thoughtfulness received a grateful nod from Lady Langless.
Ruling her out as any serious competition, there were no protests from the other men. The men wrote down their names on slips of paper and dropped them into a silver bowl. Lady Langless was asked to draw two slips at a time to determine the teams. The first team selected was Lord Flemington and Marquis Brightington. After two more papers were drawn, Viscount Simon-North was paired with an unenthusiastic Sandler Leedworthy, leaving the last team of Garren and Nyle.
Patting Lord Langless on the back, Lord Avery Flemington chuckled. “You are a sly one, your lordship. With Lady Thora the second half of your team, you’ve outfoxed us all by having the prettiest partner to spend the day with.”
“Thank you, Lord Flemington,” Thora said, acknowledging his compliment. “But beware,” she warned, “I am a good fisherman, er, fisherwoman as well.”
While her opponents chuckled, Garren was stung with an arrow of envy at the ease with which Lord Flemington had bestowed his flattery and the geniality of Thora’s acceptance.
A lively discussion ensued, and the ladies, save Thora, excitedly chose teams to rally behind. Floris was giving Sandler Leedworthy words of encouragement, telling him that she had little doubt of him winning Lord Somerville’s new reel. Leedworthy eyed her with less certainty.
As the group proceeded into the dining room, Lauryn Mayfield slid next to Garren, revealing that she had chosen Lord Flemington and Marquis Brightington’s team to win. “If Lord Flemington is as good at fishing as he is at boxing, then he’s sure to win that reel.”
“You may be right,” Garren replied, sensing she clearly wanted Flemington to win. Inwardly, he was perplexed. What magic does Flemington possess? First he has Thora listening to his dreadful poetry recitation. Now Lady Lauryn is anxious for him to win the fishing contest. Perhaps he should take up pugilism, or at the very least have his nose broken.
Conversation at dinner continued to be centered on the fishing tournament. The contest seemed to entice everyone’s interest and dull the memory of Cecilia’s unfortunate accident.
Yet there were two at the table who seemed less enthusiastic, Nyle sharply observed. Thora and Garren both seemed to have other matters on their mind. He fought back a grin. There was something definitely brewing between those two.
If she could read Nyle’s thoughts, Thora would have had to confess that her brother was right. Fishing was the furthest thing from Thora’s mind. Stealing furtive glances at Lord Huntscliff, she wished she was sitting beside him instead of Lady Langless. There was something about Lord Huntscliff that made her quiver inside. It was a strange attraction, the likes of which she had never experienced before. As shameful as it sounded, she wanted to be near him, for him to touch her, to feel his large, warm hand at the small of her back, pressing her body to his, molding her to his hard, muscular frame. She wanted to see his dark eyes full of passion, wanted to kiss his lips that were so tender yet demanding, beckoning her to disregard her inhabitations. Her thoughts had wandered too far for she suddenly felt herself blushing. The heat of her burning cheeks bid her to take control of her wayward thoughts, which proved difficult. Though her eyes remained on her plate, she could feel Huntscliff’s heavy stare upon her. Forcing herself to remain composed, she lifted her gaze to give him a somewhat trembling smile.
Thora’s smile brought a brief pause to his Garren’s yearning. Sitting just a few chairs from Thora was torment. He longed to have her near, to be able to smell her scent and hear the softness of her voice and gaze into eyes so blue that he could drown in their depths. Only it was Viscount Simon-North who was having that pleasure. Remembering what Mason had learned about the man, of the letters from the brokenhearted women Simon-North had used and callously tossed aside, prompted a surge of animal rage that had Garren wanting to leap across the table to bury in the center of the man’s face. A woman’s voice reached his ear, bringing him back to sanity. It was Lady Langless.
“I’m looking forward to tomorrow and the contest,” she confessed. “My Floris has chosen Viscount Simon-North’s and Mr. Leedworthy’s team to win. I, of course, as a loyal spouse, chose my husband and Lady Thora, but my other three younger daughters have already decided the winners will be you and Lord Somerville,” she said.
“I hope we won’t disappoint them,” he said, smiling at the youngest Langless females who blushed and giggled.
When dinner ended, the men rose from their chairs respectively as the ladies left their seats and slowly retreated to the drawing room. As Thora passed the now-standing Lord Huntscliff, a whisper reached her ears.
“The back terrace in an hour?”
She gave him a discreet nod and walked past, wondering how she was going to endure waiting those excruciating long minutes.
After an hour of boring chatter with the ladies, Thora was able to slip away from the drawing room on the pretense of checking with the kitchen staff for tomorrow’s outing. Once she had closed the door to the drawing room, Thora lifted her skirts above her ankles and swiftly ran to the back terrace. Anticipation had her heart beating like a drum. The sparely lit back terrace was long, took up nearly the width of the manor, and was disappointingly empty. Her only accompaniment was a thick cloud of fog stretching up from across the lawn to wrap its ghostly arms around the manor. Not the ideal setting for listening to poetry.
Projecting out from the walls of the upper floor were severa
l widely spaced oriels, each creating a patch of darkness beneath them so black that one could easily disappear into their shadowy depth. Mischief taking hold of her, Thora slipped into one such pocket of blackness, her arms stretched out like that of a blind man until her hands felt the wet, mist-coated stones of the manor’s outer wall. Hidden, but still able to see someone approaching, she decided to wait until Lord Huntscliff came by, thinking it amusing to suddenly pop out and give him a good scare and teach him a lesson for keeping her waiting. It wasn’t long before she heard footfall. Someone was coming. The fog and darkness cloaked the figure’s face but she could tell by the form cutting though the gray mist that it was a man. Lord Huntscliff.
As she waited for him to draw near, she readied herself to jump out and surprise him when she realized something was amiss. The height wasn’t right to be Lord Huntscliff. It wasn’t Huntscliff. The realization brought icy fingers of fear. The lone figure seemed to be searching for something . . . or someone.
Thora gulped. Was he looking for her? Was it the killer? Had he seen her leave the manor and followed her? Then she remembered the police rattle. She started to reach for it when it hit her. The gown she was wearing had no pockets and she had left it upstairs. What a fool! She chided herself. She had been so sidetracked by her meeting with Huntscliff that she forgot it. Where was Huntscliff? Why wasn’t he here?