For the Love of the Baron

by Callie Hutton

  “No, listen. This morning I came across information that cast the missing journal into a whole new light.”

  “What is that?”

  “Lord St. Clair is dead.”

  Marigold sucked in a breath and stumbled. Lord Stanley’s strong arms kept her from falling to the ground. “Dead? He was a young man. He seemed in fine health when we saw him only a couple of days ago.”

  “Exactly. I find the entire thing questionable.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  He twirled them out of the way of another couple who were moving much slower. “First, I buy the journal and that very night—or morning—it is stolen. There is no doubt about that. My staff and I have torn the house apart. The journal is not there. Then the man who sold it to me ends up dead.”

  “You think they are connected?”

  Lord Stanley shrugged. “Let’s just say I have a large problem with coincidences.” Once they reached the open French doors, he dipped and turned, and maneuvered them outside to the patio.

  “Nice move, my lord.” Marigold grinned. He grinned back, and something strange and interesting fluttered in her stomach. She was not used to his non-stuffy side. That new side was a view she could get into a great deal of trouble with.

  As much as her opinion of the man was changing, she still didn’t want to encourage him—or herself—in any romantic way because Lord Stanley would just not suit. She’d turned down numerous of offers over the years, but never had she second-guessed herself. Most men of the ton, and certainly the ones who courted her, opined that women had their place.

  At afternoon calls, visiting modistes, selecting ribbons, gossiping, and managing their lord’s households. That was not her intention for the rest of her life. She loved her interest in anatomy and did not want to push it aside to plump up some lord’s imagined consequence.

  Instead of taking her arm, he intertwined their fingers together and tugged her down the steps into the garden. They strolled a safe distance away to keep from being overheard, but close enough to the doors of the ballroom that scandal should not touch them.

  Marigold looked back at the French doors and chewed her lip. “I should tell Lady Crampton where I am.”

  “We shall only be a moment. I want to tell you my theory and see what you think of it.”

  “You are soliciting my opinion? A mere woman? Good heavens, Lord Stanley, I am very impressed.”

  To her great surprise, he reached out and touched her lightly on her cheek, drawing his finger down to her jaw. Her lungs seized, and she had the absurd desire to lean in and touch her lips to his.

  “Yes. I am seeking your opinion. It has come to my attention that you are not all fluff and nonsense, Lady Marigold. The question remains, why do you present yourself so?”

  Because his voice rose on the last word of his statement, she assumed he’d asked her a question, but for the life of her she could not conjure up his words. He moved closer until their bodies were almost touching. “Why do you hide your intelligence?”

  Oh, that was what he had asked her. Right now, any intelligence she possessed had vanished. “I’m not sure.”

  He grinned, as if he knew the effect he as having on her. Instead of leaning in farther to give her the kiss she hoped for, he pulled back and continued to walk. “My theory is St. Clair was killed for the journal.”

  Luckily, with them continuing the stroll, she had gained back some of her senses. “What do the police think?”

  He hesitated. “They say his death was an accident.”

  Marigold studied him for a moment. “But you think otherwise.”

  “Yes. As I said, I am not a huge fan of coincidences.”

  He turned them so they were walking back to the patio. “What do you think?”

  Marigold sighed. “Your theory makes a great deal of sense. But there is only one way to lay the matter to rest. In my mind, at least. I believe we need to view St. Clair’s body.”

  Lord Stanley came to an abrupt halt. “What?”

  She regarded him with her most innocuous expression. “View the body. See what it is that makes the police believe it was an accident when we think it was not.”

  “So you think it wasn’t an accident as well?”

  “I do. But my mind says we must be sure. If we learn St. Clair was murdered—and most likely for the journal—then there is something of great value in the book. And, the book is by rights, yours.”

  He gave her a curt nod as they continued up the steps from the garden to the patio. “Fine. In that case, I will go to the morgue later tonight to do my research. I understand they are holding him there while they trace another family member.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Did you not just say the body needs to be viewed?”

  “I did. But you are not going to the morgue. We are going to the morgue.”

  Chapter Six

  “I really don’t think this is a good idea.” Jonathan hurried Lady Marigold from the back door of her townhouse to where his carriage stood a block away. “It would make much more sense if I did this alone. I mean, a gently-bred woman breaking into the morgue in the middle of the night? I must have been addlepated to consent to this.”

  “If it eases your conscience any, my lord, I did not give you much of a choice. I insisted upon coming.”

  “Yes, but I am the idiot who agreed to it and am now absconding with you in the dark of night. If we are seen by anyone in the ton, your reputation is ruined.”

  Lady Marigold waved her hand in dismissal. “Nonsense. It was my decision, and I very much doubt if my reputation would be ruined. I am practically on the shelf now, anyway. No one wants a bluestocking spinster.”

  He couldn’t understand Lady Marigold’s disparagement of herself. Did she not see all the men who flocked to her at every ball? Who lined up, practically licking their lips, to have the chance to hold her in their arms and dance? Foolish woman. She had no idea of her appeal.

  They settled into the carriage, and Lady Marigold pulled her pelisse closer to her body, shivering.

  “Here, come sit on this side, and I will keep you warm. There was a blanket under the seat, but my housekeeper took it to have it cleaned, and hasn’t yet returned it.”

  “I get a bit nauseous when I sit with my back to the horses. Can you move over here?”

  Jonathan switched seats and wrapped his arm around Lady Marigold’s shoulders, pulling her close. She continued to shake, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the cool, damp night, or her nerves. “Are you certain you want to do this? You can wait in the carriage and I can conduct the examination by myself.”

  “No. I have never had the opportunity to see a dead body.”

  “Thank God.”

  She turned her head to regard him. “This would do quite a bit for my studies in anatomy.”

  Her lips were close. Much too close. All he had to do was bend about two inches and they would kiss. Something he’d recently been considering far too much. The walk in the garden when they’d decided on this crazy adventure had left him frustrated and uncomfortable. Again, her flowery scent drifted from the warmth of their bodies pressed together. He had to get this situation cleared up so he didn’t have to continue to be in her company. She was a distraction to his normally clear thinking, and kept him up nights remembering her laughter, her blonde curls, hazel eyes, and womanly curves.

  She would never be the woman for him, so he had to stop these constant visions of Lady Marigold sprawled on his bed, naked as the day she was born, her golden hair spread over his pillows. He shifted in his seat.

  In the interest of keeping his attention on what they were about to do, he pulled back and patted her hand. “I would like to one day talk to you about anatomy. I have made some discoveries myself and it amazes me how much new information about the human body is uncovered each year.”

  “Especially with the monthly Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine. There is always new and excit
ing information there.”

  Jonathan reared back. “How do you manage to read that magazine? It’s only for men.”

  She smiled in a way that wanted him to forget about the magazine, forget about the morgue and take her someplace quiet, dark and secluded.

  “I ordered a subscription in my papa’s name. When it comes, Macon, our man at the door, knows to give it to me.” She looked like the cat who stole the cream.

  “Very clever, but I’m beginning to think you are a lot cleverer than you let on.”

  “So you’ve said.” She moved her head and edged the curtain aside. “I believe we have arrived.”

  Ensuing quiet, almost a somber mood descended on them. The driver opened the door and let down the steps. Jonathan climbed out first and turned to help Lady Marigold down. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait in the carriage? It will not diminish my respect for you in any way.”

  Lady Marigold shook her head. “No. This is something I will never have a chance to do again. I shan’t let the opportunity pass me by.”

  The woman said the strangest things. “I should hope you never have the opportunity to view a dead body again. ‘Tis not a pretty sight.”

  Lady Marigold took a deep breath. “Nevertheless, I am ready.”

  He reached out and again took her hand rather than placing it on his arm. For some reason, holding her thus anchored him, made him feel that whatever they were going to see they would handle together, and possibly clear up the mystery of the journal.

  They went around the back of the building. Jonathan had done surveillance earlier in the day, thankfully under cover of drizzle and dark clouds. With everyone hurrying along, heads down, or umbrellas up, no one had paid him any attention. He had found a window, pushed it open just slightly, and placed a branch there to keep it open.

  Jonathan had to feel his way along the bricks until he reached the window. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was still open. Without a word to Lady Marigold, he pulled the stick out and pushed up the window. He waited for a moment to listen for any sounds of someone checking the room.

  Nothing. Except the heavy breaths coming from him and his partner in crime.

  He waved to Marigold and leaned in close. “Stay here,” he whispered. “I will climb in the window and pull you in after me.”

  She nodded, and he placed his hands on the window sill and pulled himself up, landing in the dark room with a thud.

  ***

  Marigold cupped her hands together and blew into them. Despite her gloves, her fingers were ice cold. Perhaps it wasn’t just the weather, but the idea that she was about to view a dead body. A body she and Lord Stanley believed had been murdered.

  Stanley stuck his head out the window. “Here, take my hands.”

  Marigold reached up and grasped his hands, and he began to pull her up. “Place your feet against the bricks, or you might get scraped as I pull you up. Sort of like you were walking up the wall.” Even though his voice was low and soft she felt as though he was shouting.

  She did as he said and within minutes she was inside the building, standing alongside him in the darkest room she’d even seen. She moved closed to his side.

  “Are you well?”

  “Yes.” She wrapped her hands around her body and shivered. “It’s just that I don’t exactly care for dark places. Or small spaces.”

  “Let’s get this over with.” He took her hand and they walked across the room, wincing when they hit a squeaking board. “I asked for the layout of the building from a friend who had been here before to identify his brother’s body when he drowned.” Lord Stanley shivered. “The room where the bodies are kept is in the basement. They did not do an autopsy on St. Clair because the police said he tripped over something while intoxicated and hit his head against the brick on his fireplace.”

  He opened the door, and after looking side to side, pulled her out and they continued down the corridor to a very narrow staircase. Marigold held back when Lord Stanley started down the steps. He looked back at her with raised brows.

  “It’s so dark. And so narrow.” Sweat beaded on her forehead and she wiped her damp palms against her skirts.

  “I can return you to the carriage.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I will be all right.”

  He eyed her with concern, took one step down, then came back up to where she stood and wrapped his arm around her waist. “Tuck your head into my shoulder, and I’ll lead us both down.”

  Feeling rather peculiar, but grateful for his understanding of this weakness without laughing at her, they began their descent. The closer they grew to the basement, the stronger the odor that assailed them.

  “Oh, my, that is some very strong smell.” The scent was so strong, her eyes were watering.

  “Dead bodies do have an aroma about them. Place your hand over your face and breath through your mouth.”

  The basement was everything from her worst nightmares. Dark and damp with water dripping from the windows and down the walls from the rain outside. Jars with strange looking items in liquids were lined up on shelves along the walls. Two bodies lay on tables, with sheets covering them. Based on the bumps on the chest of one body, that one was a woman, which left the other body St. Clair.

  “Suppose no one steps up the claim him? He can’t continue to lay here and rot. The stench is already strong.”

  Lord Stanley choked, trying hard to hold back a laugh that he wasn’t successful doing. “Yes. Well, it certainly seems something would be done sooner than later. You are right, he can’t remain here for long.”

  Still clinging to Lord Stanley’s hand, they both approached the table with the body that most likely was St. Clair. She began to shiver and instructed her body to behave itself. She was a strong woman. She had seen pictures that would cause most women, and even some men, to run for the chamber pot to relieve themselves of their last meal.

  Lord Stanley’s hand shook as he reached for the thin sheet covering the body. Slowly, he pulled it down, both gasping when St. Clair’s face was revealed.

  Without light, they had to look closely at his head. Luckily, their eyes had adjusted to the dark so they could see fairly well with the tiny bit of light coming through the windows.

  “Here is where he hit his head.” Stanley pointed to a mark on St. Clair’s head. A puncture wound. “This looks to me as if he was pushed into the fireplace. Most likely at a pointed edge. See how deep the wound is? He hit it with some force.”

  Trying very hard to keep her last meal down, Marigold examined the wound, still holding her hand in front of her face, trying very hard not to breath. “Yes. I agree.” Steeling herself, she leaned closer to the man’s mouth and sniffed. She reared back and turned away, covered her mouth to keep everything that was inside where it should be.

  “Why did you do that? The smell is bad enough.”

  “I didn’t smell any alcohol near his mouth.” With that statement, and feeling a bit steadier, she drew the sheet down and sniffed his clothing.

  “Someone dumped alcohol on his clothes. But with no odor near his mouth, he was most likely killed and then whoever killed him splashed him with alcohol, so it would appear he tripped while drunk.

  “Yes, that’s what the police said.”

  They were both staring at the man when Marigold screamed as something hit her on the back of her neck.

  Chapter Seven

  Jonathan grabbed Marigold’s flailing arms as she swatted at herself and continued to scream.

  “Marigold! Stop screaming, they can probably hear you all the way in Bath.”

  She continued to slap at herself and shake uncontrollably. “Something hit me in the back of my neck.”

  Just then a very scraggly feral cat landed on the table, right next to St. Clair’s head. They both jumped back as the animal hissed at them, its back arched, then chomped on the man’s head and ran off with his toupee clamped between its teeth.

  Marigold slumped against Jonathan. “Oh, my Go
d. I shall never recover from this.” He could see the pulse in her neck throbbing and she clutched her chest as if she were to collapse at any moment.

  Completely rattled himself, he took a moment to compose himself, then grabbed her hand. “Let’s leave. We’ve seen enough.”

  Marigold tugged his hand as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “The sheet! We must cover St. Clair up, or they will know someone was in here.”

  He shook his head and continued. “No, they’ll blame it on the blasted cat. Hopefully, right before they shoot it.”

  They raced up the stairs and into the room where they had entered the building. Jonathan shoved open the window and climbed out. He held up his arms. “Place your hands on my shoulders and I will lift you out.”

  Marigold did as he bid, and he lifted her, sliding her slowly down his body until her feet hit the ground. They were both panting as if they’d run a race—which they had. “Are you well?”

  She turned and grabbed his hand, dragging him down the alley. “I’ve been better.”

  As if the hounds of hell were at their heels they made their way out of the alley and to the carriage sitting quietly at the curb. Jonathan slammed the door so smartly, the entire carriage rocked.

  They’d been in the carriage for several minutes before their breathing returned to normal. “That was quite a fright.” Jonathan viewed Marigold as they passed a street light. The poor girl’s complexion was as white as new snow. “Are you sure you are well?”

  She bent over, grasping her middle. “I will be fine in a moment. I believe my blood is not circulating to my head. I feel a bit lightheaded.”

  Leave it to a woman knowledgeable in anatomy to find a different way to say she was about to swoon. Jonathan joined her on her seat and rubbed her back as she continued to rest her forehead in her lap.

  After a few minutes her breathing eased, and she slowly sat up. “Better.” Her smile, combined with the tension of the evening, did something to his insides that had him acting so stupidly, he should have laughed. Had he been rational.