by Cara Elliott
“Murdered?” said Cluyne. “That is not humorous, Lady Fenimore.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Charlotte frowned. “I noticed that it was missing and on closer inspection noted that it had been snipped at the roots.”
“You must be mistaken. The head gardener always informs me if any plant dies. Especially a valuable specimen.”
“I am quite certain,” insisted Charlotte. “In fact, Kate and I were examining it just yesterday, and it was in perfect health.”
“You mean to say the Nerilida toxinsis is missing?” she asked.
Charlotte nodded.
“Bloody hell,” she exclaimed, then darted an apologetic look at her grandfather. “Forgive my language. But that is not only an extremely esoteric, exotic plant, it’s an extremely dangerous one.”
“Are you sure?” asked Cluyne in a low voice.
“Yes,” replied Kate. “It’s not common knowledge, but if the beans from the seed pods are boiled with any type of alcoholic liquid, the resulting syrup makes a very potent poison. The native tribes use fermented coconut milk, but brandy or port will also work.” She gave an involuntary shudder. “It is used to coat arrowheads and is far more lethal than South American curare. It’s harmless if ingested, but a tiny nick from a tainted tip or blade can kill a man within a minute. And it leaves no trace—it simply seems that the victim died of heart failure.”
The duke paled. “But only an expert in botany would know that,” he said slowly.
Charlotte looked pensive. “Von Seilig was very interested in plants, wasn’t he?”
“I trust you aren’t suggesting that he murdered himself,” said Kate, more sharply than she intended.
“No, but…” Charlotte shook her head. “I am not quite sure what to think. It’s simply a strange coincidence.”
More than strange, thought Kate. It was sinister. Though, for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why the disappearance of an obscure plant would have any bearing on the colonel’s murder. Feeling a pain begin to pulse against her temples, she turned away from the glare of the wall sconce.
“I confess, it’s sinister. It was a young specimen, and there weren’t many beans. But enough to make a small amount of poison.”
The three of them stood in silence for several long moments before the duke spoke up. “I think we ought to send to Bow Street for a Runner.”
“Please, Cluyne. I tell you that will only cause more trouble—” Spying a flutter of silk in the connecting corridor, Kate bit off her words. “Who’s there?” she demanded.
“Oh, forgive me! I did not mean to intrude.” Lady Duxbury stepped out from the shadows, the swish of her skirts amplified by the uneasy silence. “I felt in need of a breath of air and thought I would not be disturbing anyone if I took a walk through this part of the house.”
“We were just doing the same,” said the duke tersely. “I should not want any of my guests to feel that they are a prisoner in their rooms.”
“How horribly upsetting this must be for you.” Her tone was sympathetic, but Kate thought she detected a glint of malice in her gaze. “Let us hope that the magistrate finds the culprit quickly.”
“Indeed,” murmured Cluyne.
“Well, I am sure you wish to be alone.” Excusing herself with a dimpled smile, Lady Duxbury turned and headed back the way she had come.
As the sound of her steps faded, Charlotte pursed her lips. “What mischief is afoot here?” she muttered.
“What do you mean?” asked Cluyne.
“The countess seems to enjoy playing nasty little games that stir up trouble.”
The corridor seemed to grow colder. Kate rubbed at her arms, trying to dispel a sense of unease. “I can’t imagine what harm she can do. As far as I can tell, wielding her feminine wiles and flirting with attractive men are her paramount concerns.”
“Her brother was quick to offer up unsavory stories about your past,” pointed out Charlotte. “I wonder how he knew such details.”
So do I, thought Kate. But aloud she merely dismissed the comment with a small shrug. “In the scheme of things, Lady Duxbury is the least of my worries.”
The duke shifted his stance uneasily, as if he were standing on dangerous ground. “Cluyne Close has become home to a nest of vipers.”
A fresh chill slithered over her skin.
“Let us continue on to the library,” he added when neither she nor Charlotte replied. “I think I am in need of brandy, to go along with the books.”
“A glass of sherry would be most welcome,” murmured Charlotte.
“You go on,” said Kate abruptly, suddenly feeling the overwhelming need to find Marco and tell him about the missing plant. “I feel a headache coming on and think I shall retire for the evening.”
“I’ll come—” began her friend.
“No, please. I would rather be alone, if you don’t mind.”
Charlotte’s expression betrayed a pinch of doubt, but after a moment she nodded. “Very well. If you are sure…”
“Quite. I shall see you both in the morning.” She squeezed her grandfather’s arm and set off down the side corridor, intending to sneak back to the conservatory through another part of the house.
Common sense said that Marco should be told this new information as soon as possible, she reasoned. Yet at heart Kate knew that it was not logic’s whisper that was stirring the odd little fluttering in her chest. She found herself craving his company, if only for a brief moment. A touch, a smile, even a sardonic word of teasing would help steady her spirit for the long, dark night ahead.
Lud, was she really turning into a helpless horrid novel heroine? A starry-eyed schoolgirl with dreams about fairy-tale heroes?
The arched window reflected her self-mocking grimace as she turned into the alcoved entryway. Pausing, she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her brow to the glass, hoping the chill would help dispel such childish fantasies. In a moment, she would lift her lashes and see the real Kate Woodbridge.
But it was not her own hazy image that she saw through the breath-fogged panes. A quick swipe of her sleeve showed that someone was hurrying along the path leading down to the lake.
Without hesitation, Kate unlatched the side door and stepped out into the night.
Chapter Twenty
Keeping close to the mullioned panes, Marco followed the perimeter path of the conservatory, alert for any sign of movement. Satisfied that all was still inside, he ventured a glance out through the thick glass. Turning the corner of the octagon had brought him parallel with the trellised rose garden and the lawns leading down to the lake. The dark, thorny vines of the climbing bushes twined in and out of the slats, nearly obscuring the painted wood. A breeze tugged at the leaves, scattering a shower of pale petals over the grass.
He was just about to continue on when a movement behind the latticework caught his eye. He froze, waiting for the shape to emerge from behind the screen.
Interesting.
What was Kate Woodbridge doing prowling the grounds late at night? Looking for another victim? No, he was sure she was innocent of murder. But any other reason seemed just as implausible, unless…
Unless she was meeting a clandestine lover.
A lover, he repeated to himself. Given several of his encounters with the lady—the Naples brothel, the deserted conservatory—he knew that she had no qualms about defying the rules of Polite Society. And, after all, she had been quick to offer her body to him as payment for services.
Yet despite all her hard-edged bravado, Marco sensed that she didn’t really have much experience with men. Not that a loss of virtue required much time or effort, he thought sardonically.
In and out…
The door shut noiselessly behind him. Treading lightly over the soft grass, he ducked into the shadows of the privet hedge and quickened his steps to keep her in sight. It was, of course, none of his business if she was heading to a midnight tryst. Revealing her private life, her secret passions, was not p
art of their bargain. But against all reason, some elemental force, some hidden magnetic current, seemed to pull him along.
The clench of his hands was merely for balance, not because of some primitive urge to thrash any man who dared touch her. Marco willed his fists to relax as the sloping lawns gave way to a grove of ancient oaks. The way here was wilder—an ideal place for a rendezvous.
Bloody hell. Marco was a little surprised by the vehemence of his reaction. Kate was perfectly free to take a lover. To slide her tongue into the man’s mouth, to lift her skirts and open her shapely thighs to his touch…
A twig snapped under his errant step.
Up ahead, Kate spun into the gnarled shadow of a tree.
Marco took cover behind a thicket of brambles. From his vantage point he could now see that there was another figure on the path ahead of them. It was a lady who was moving none too quietly over the rough ground to a small clearing overlooking the lake. A faint wash of starlight reflected off the smooth waters, giving a fleeting glimpse of her face as she looked around her.
He hesitated for an instant, then made his move.
“Mmmph!”
His hand quickly smothered Kate’s surprise. “Sssshh,” he hissed, trapping her body against the rough trunk.
At her nod, he slowly released her mouth.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded in a whisper.
“I could ask the same of you,” he replied.
Kate squirmed against his grip, trying to shift enough to keep her eyes on her quarry. “I should think that would be obvious. I’m curious as to why Lady Duxbury is sneaking around the grounds at night.”
“Given the lady’s reputation, I should think that would also be obvious,” said Marco. “She’s likely here for a tumble in the hay.”
Lady Duxbury began pacing in a tight circle.
“A bed would be far more comfortable,” muttered Kate under her breath. “And convenient.”
“Some females like to make love outside the bedchamber.” His groin was now pressing up against her bottom. His senses aroused by the unexpected stab of jealousy, he was acutely aware of her softly rounded shape. “They find an exotic setting adds to the excitement.”
“Thank you for such enlightening information. But if I want a primer on prurient behavior, I shall read Casanova’s memoirs.” Sarcasm laced her throaty whisper, yet a clenching shudder betrayed her body’s reaction to the intimate contact.
“The book is very long and very boring.” He slid his hands down her back, drawing a slow, teasing trail along her spine, and set them on the swell of her hips. As a frisson of fire laced through the layers of clothing, Marco realized that she was not quite so cool to his closeness. “I could give you a far more intriguing guide to the art of seduction.”
“S-stop that,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “It’s… distracting.”
A quick look confirmed that Lady Duxbury was still alone.
“I can’t help it, Kate.” Marco nuzzled her neck, breathing in the heady sweetness of her scent. By now, its essence had entwined itself in his consciousness. It felt a part of him. “You are a powerful distraction.”
She gave a little gasp as he pulled her closer. “It’s not me; it’s the silks and satins that cause the effect,” she stammered. “No doubt you would flirt with the scullery sink if it wore skirts.”
“Si, I am attracted to women, but this is different, cara,” said Marco. “Call me bewitched, call me bedeviled, but you—”
“Sssshh!”
He heard the scrape of boots on the pebbled path and fell silent, his senses on full alert. Facing the challenge of a mission always sharpened his awareness. A rush of anticipation, intoxicating as any brandy, bubbled through his blood. Beneath him, Kate tensed. She, too, was primed for action.
Branches crackled as a man appeared from behind a thicket of gorse. A long black coat muffled his silhouette while his upturned collar and broad-brimmed hat hid his face.
“Damn,” muttered Marco, watching Lady Duxbury greet the newcomer with a voluble cry, only to be signaled to keep her voice down. “I don’t think we’ll be able to make out what they are saying.”
“Perhaps if we moved closer.” Kate tried to twist free.
He kept her pinned to the tree. “No, we can’t risk giving ourselves away.” Craning his neck, he tried to get a peek at the man’s features.
Kate swore softly as the stranger suddenly shifted his stance, turning his back to them. “Did you recognize him?”
“No.”
Lady Duxbury appeared agitated. Flinging up her hands, she fell back a step and shook her head.
A lover’s quarrel? wondered Marco.
Whatever they were discussing, the conversation quickly came to an end. After calming her with a kiss, the man spoke, rapidly and without interruption, then gestured for her to return to the manor house. Lady Duxbury looked reluctant to leave, but a small shove urged her on. Clutching her skirts, she lingered for a last look before starting back up the steep path.
The stranger remained at the edge of the clearing until the sound of her steps died away. Turning to retrace his steps, he kicked viciously at a sliver of stone, sending it arcing into the water. The splash shattered the glassy calm, sending black waves rippling across the silvery surface.
“Our unknown paramour did not come here for a romantic encounter,” murmured Kate. “Any idea who it was?”
“No.” Marco unknotted his cravat and turned his lapels to cover his white linen shirt. “But I intend to find out.”
“And so do I.”
He pushed her back against the tree. “Don’t be a bloody fool,” he said roughly. “You’ll only be in the way.”
“I’m just as good as a man in moving silently through the night,” she reminded him. “Maybe better.”
“Look, we don’t have time to argue.”
“Please.” A flicker of moonlight hung for an instant on her lashes, lighting the look in her eyes.
Marco forced himself to look away. “A diavolo—women!” he said through gritted teeth. “If you dare shed a tear I shall throw you into the lake.”
“I’m a very good swimmer,” she countered.
He bit back a harried laugh. He had never met any female as fearless as Kate. Her courage was fascinating. And frightening. It was one thing for a dissolute wastrel like himself to risk his worthless life. The thought of her charging into the unknown made him want to keep her wrapped in his arms, shielded from harm.
“It’s too dangerous,” he protested.
“I have faced danger for most of my life,” she said softly. “It’s my neck that is at stake, and I’d rather not trust it to anyone but myself.”
Don’t. The voice of reason warned Marco that it would be a grave mistake to give in to her demand.
“Please,” she repeated.
Ah, but when had he ever listened to wisdom?
“Don’t expect me to act like a gentleman. If we run into trouble, it is every man for himself.”
Kate tied the ends of her shawl around her waist. “Well, then, it’s a good thing that I am a female who can fend for herself.”
“Watch where you place your foot.” The whispered warning floated down from the top of the estate wall. “One of the stones is loose.”
Squeezing her fingers into a rough crevasse, Kate climbed nimbly past the trouble spot.
“Try not to make so much noise,” growled Marco. “It sounds as if a troop of Hussars is storming the gate.”
“Skirts are a cursed nuisance,” she replied through her teeth. “I should like to see you try to scale this height with silk flounces tangled around your ankles.”
“I have done so.” He caught her hand and pulled her up beside him. “On more than one occasion.”
“I don’t dare ask,” replied Kate, though she would have liked to. She was growing more and more curious about his past life. The rakehell wenching, the dissolute drinking seemed like a suit of armor rather tha
n his real skin. But whether it was shielding a sensitive nature or imprisoning it was still something of a mystery.
“You should,” shot back Marco. “The stories are quite outrageous.”
“Everything about you is outrageous.” She met his taunting gaze with a level smile. “Or so you would have everyone believe.”
“Don’t let your imagination deceive you, bella. All women want men to be heroes, but I am exactly what I seem.”
“You have no idea what I want,” said Kate softly. How could he, when she herself wasn’t sure how to define the sharpening sense of longing that was cutting at her resolve?
“At present, I hope it is to avoid making a muck-up of this night.” Marco broke off eye contact. “Ready?”
“Lead the way.”
Rolling onto his belly, Marco began slithering along the narrow ledge.
As she followed, Kate squinted into the gloom. The slate-roofed house rose up from behind the spiky silhouette of an unpruned boxwood hedge. It was an unattractive structure, its unbalanced lines and heavy facade smudged in darkness, save for a single flicker of light in one of the lower windows. The wall bordered the rear garden. A row of tall juniper bushes abutted the mortised stone, and Marco dropped down lightly into the shelter of their shadows. The grounds had an air of neglect about them. Clumps of weeds sprouted among the border plantings and the narrow swath of lawn had not been cut in some time.
“The Foreign Office ought to pay its diplomats better,” murmured Kate.
“That, or Lord Tappan ought to curb whatever private appetites are eating away at his coffers.”
“You are one to talk.”
“I can afford my vices,” answered Marco grimly. “The same cannot be said of the baron.” He made a quick survey of the surroundings. “I saw only the front grounds when I was here before. Out there, he has managed to keep up appearances.”
“What else is he hiding?” mused Kate.
“We shall see—metaphorically speaking, that is.” He glanced down at the pooled hems of her skirts. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask you to stay here. If we have to move fast, I fear you will fall flat on your face.”