Nothing to Commend Her

by Jo Barrett

  "I doubt he would be stupid enough to suggest such a thing. She is Lady Leighton, after all."

  "You've never met Clarkson."

  With that they strolled into his study to face the pot-bellied old magistrate, who was, without a doubt the most avid misogynist Magnus had ever known. And a woman of rank was the worst sort in his hard cold eyes.

  He was sure his wife would win the battle of wills between her and the magistrate. She would hold her own without pulling rank, but knowing such a confrontation would upset her, possibly even hurt her feelings, he refused to allow it to happen.

  And, of course, if the man said one unkind word to Agatha, he might just kill him.

  Magnus took the old man's hand. “Thank you for coming, Clarkson."

  "My pleasure, my lord."

  He resisted the urge to wipe the cold sweat from Clarkson's hand on his breeches. There'd been quite a mess after the fire, so his nervousness was understandable. Clarkson had the misfortune of baring the brunt of Magnus’ ill will toward the world as a whole during his investigation. Although everyone knew it was an accident, Clarkson wanted it all tied up neat and proper.

  Looking back, Magnus was glad of the man's attention to detail, it made sure there was nothing suspicious or suspect left for the ton to gossip about at length, but his questions hadn't been easy to deal with at the time.

  "May I introduce Lord Crittenden,” Magnus said.

  "A pleasure, my lord."

  "Please, sit down,” Magnus said, and took his place behind his desk. Crittenden leaned on the hearth across the room. “I know that my message was somewhat vague, but I wanted to be sure to keep this in confidence,” Magnus said.

  "Of course, my lord,” the old gent nodded, his brow deeply furrowed. “I would never—"

  He held up his hand. “I didn't mean by you, Clarkson. I wasn't sure of any staff you might have."

  "Ah, yes. I quite understand."

  "There have been two, possibly three attempts on my wife's life within the last few days."

  The man's eyes widened and seemingly held true concern, but he was sure the fact the incidents were linked to a woman didn't sit well with him.

  "We have determined her assailant is a woman,” he continued.

  That dropped the man's jaw. “May I ask how you came to that conclusion, my lord?"

  "Because it is a fact,” Agatha said, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Magnus came to his feet and looked at her with the beginnings of a grimace, knowing the altercation wouldn't be pleasant between her and Clarkson, but promptly forgot the reason the man was there the moment he got a good look at her.

  A simple frock of blue adorned her shapely figure to perfection. Without any bows or frippery it hugged her body while making his throb.

  Crittenden crossed to Agatha, took her hand and kissed the back. “Good morning, Lady Leighton."

  That snapped Magnus out of his lusty daze. “Clarkson, this is my wife."

  The old gent, who had stumbled to his feet when she entered, executed a stiff bow. “Your ladyship."

  Magnus stepped around his desk and took her hand. “I had hoped to spare you this,” he told her.

  She smiled up at him, and he warmed inside. “I know. Barstoke was rather—diligent, but I'm afraid I was too quick for him."

  He shook his head with a resigned sigh. Turning to Clarkson, he said, “I'm afraid I wasn't exactly clear before. The reason we know the assailant is a woman, is that my wife has been face to face with her."

  He assisted Agatha into a chair as he spoke, grateful that she was allowing him the honor of telling this tale. He hadn't been certain she would. “Also, Lord Crittenden and I witnessed her attempt to push my wife down the stairs just last eve."

  "Don't forget the note, old boy,” Crittenden said.

  "Ah, yes. The note.” Magnus pulled it from his pocket and handed it over, then leaned on the desk, doing his best not to watch Agatha as she examined Clarkson. The poor man had definitely met his match.

  "I see,” Clarkson said. He glanced at Agatha and her continued perusal then looked back at Magnus. “Do you have any suspects?"

  "There, I'm afraid,” he said, opening his hands wide, “we are at a loss."

  "We have eliminated the staff,” Agatha said, but Clarkson acted as if she'd not said a word.

  "You said possibly three attempts. What were the other incidents?"

  "I was pushed over the cliff and shot at,” she said, her voice tight.

  Magnus knew this wasn't going to go well if Clarkson refused to at least acknowledge her. She'd displayed a fiery temper over the last few days, one that put a beautiful spark in her eyes, but now was not the time for her to filet the gentleman. They needed him as an ally not an opponent. Clarkson may be a bit of a curmudgeon, but he was fair and intelligent.

  "Hmm, shot was a poacher, no doubt. But pushed over the cliff,” Clarkson said, rubbing his jaw with a shake of his head. “Likely just a slippery bit of ground."

  Agatha opened her mouth, no doubt ready to give the man what-for, but Magnus pre-empted her.

  "I thought as much myself, until last night with the intruder on the stairs. Far too many coincidences, and now this note."

  She shot him a narrowed look, her sweet lips pulled into a firm frown. But he winked at her and the frown disappeared. Those bright eyes widened, and he suddenly saw so much behind her spectacles. He didn't dare to hope it was love, but it was sweet and warm and all for him.

  "Yes, the stairs,” Clarkson said, but Magnus couldn't take his eyes off his lovely wife. “Would you and Lord Crittenden elaborate somewhat on what you saw exactly?"

  Crittenden cleared his throat and strode into the fray. “Late last evening, we heard a scream and ran into the hall to find Lady Leighton struggling with someone at the top of the main stairs. They succeeded in pushing her down the first few steps, but she luckily caught herself on the railing."

  "And I ran after the culprit,” Magnus said. “I'm afraid I never caught up with her, however."

  With a sigh, Clarkson looked to Agatha sitting perched on the edge of her chair her hands folded tightly in her lap, her chin tilted just so, daring the man to say one word against her intelligence.

  "Can you give me a description of the culprit, my lady?"

  "Certainly,” she said with a pert nod.

  Magnus hid his grin, as did Crittenden.

  "She stands roughly five feet, five inches tall, weighs approximately eight stone, and has an alto voice. She cursed rather vividly during our encounter. Although dressed as a man, it was quite obvious she was a woman."

  Both Magnus and Crittenden had ceased to smile.

  "Agatha, why on earth didn't you tell me that last night?” Magnus fumed.

  She cocked her head to the side. “You didn't ask for specifics."

  "But—” He shook his head and shot Crittenden a glare as his friend's shoulders shook with bottled up laughter.

  "Mr. Clarkson, however, needs all the information he can attain to discover her identity,” she said. She looked at the old man, his eyes wide in shock. “Isn't that so, sir?"

  He nodded weakly.

  "I am afraid, however, that I didn't see her face or discover her coloring,” she continued. “She wore her hair tucked beneath a cap, and unfortunately, she managed to knock away my glasses during our encounter."

  She tapped the tip of her chin, completely unaware that she'd flummoxed them all. Magnus beamed with pride, besides the fact that she'd withheld very pertinent information.

  "Now that I think on it, she wore a distinctive perfume. Yes, that's the thought that was bothering me last eve.” She dropped her hand to her lap and returned Clarkson's gaze. “I'm afraid I don't know the scent, but I would recognize it if I were to smell it again. It would suggest she is a lady of means, don't you agree?"

  "Um, er, yes.” Clarkson blinked several times, and took a long deep breath. “This is all very—unusual."

  "Quite,” A
gatha replied.

  "Do you, perchance, have any enemies, Lady Leighton?"

  "Not that I am aware of. I was not a sociable sort before I married. I rather preferred to stay in my—” she glanced at Magnus then back to Clarkson, “I have other more studious interests that keep me from such things."

  "I see,” he said, but clearly did not.

  Magnus gave him credit. His wife had to come as quite a shock to the man's system. She was rare, unique—and all his.

  Clarkson turned his furrowed brow to Magnus. “I don't wish to sound,” he glanced at Agatha, then looked back to Magnus, “distasteful in polite company, but is there perhaps a, um—"

  "It's quite all right, Mr. Clarkson. I can see that you wish to talk man-to-man. I shall leave you gentlemen to continue the discussion. I must see to a few things regarding our guests. My husband has my thoughts on the matter and you now have my description of the assailant."

  She rose to leave, although Magnus knew she didn't wish to. The simple act of wanting to save Clarkson the discomfort of her presence, a crotchety old man who barely held in his disdain for women in general, endeared her even more to him.

  She paused at the door and looked at Magnus. “I shall be in the small parlor if you need me."

  He smiled warmly at her and she smiled in return before leaving the room.

  His feelings for her grew with every passing hour. She may never be able to love him, nor would he ever forgive himself for sentencing her to half a marriage, but God help anyone who tried to take her away from him.

  Clarkson cleared his throat. “As I was saying. Do you, perchance, have a mistress, my lord?"

  "I know that cost you,” Magnus said, strolling into the parlor several minutes later.

  Agatha lifted her head from her writing and swiped a stray tendril from her cheek. “I don't know what you mean."

  Chuckling, he said, “Coy? That isn't like you."

  She set aside the day's menu, having made not a single change in Cook's suggestions, and rose. “No, it isn't. But as I'm sure you've noticed, I've difficulty in holding my tongue, and thought it best if I were to retreat for the time being."

  He turned her to him, and she lifted her gaze to meet his. “I like that you speak your mind. But you are right. Clarkson isn't someone we wish to alienate at the moment."

  "You do?” She blinked, clearing away the ridiculous expression she knew she was wearing. “I mean, do you really like that I'm so plain speaking?"

  He chuckled again, and she so loved the sound. Gently, he tucked the stray tendril behind her ear, and pulled her against his broad chest. “I do. Very much."

  She smiled, but the sweet feeling lasted only a moment. Absently studying his attire, she smoothed the already smooth lapels of his coat. “Mr. Clarkson doesn't hold me in very high regard."

  "He is a fair man, for the most part."

  "Is it because of—never mind.” She forced a smile and looked up at him.

  His brow furrowed as he gazed into her eyes. “Is it because of what?"

  "Nothing, it's not important. Just a silly thought,” she said, backing out of his arms, although there was no place she'd rather be.

  "Agatha, you don't have silly thoughts.” He pulled her back against him. “What is it?"

  "I—I thought it was—I though it was because of your first wife. She was...I'm nothing like her.” She looked away, unable to bear the pain that would cloud his features.

  He cupped her cool cheeks in his hands and looked into her eyes. “You are Lady Leighton, my wife, and my choice. And I am glad you are nothing like her.” He kissed her so tenderly tears sprang to her eyes.

  "Do you two ever stop?” Crittenden said with a loud chuckle.

  "You keep interrupting us and I'll be the one to find you a wife,” he growled.

  Agatha giggled and buried her face in Magnus’ coat, hiding her happy tears, before putting a respectable distance between them. Her marriage, her life was turning out to be far different than she'd ever imagined.

  "And here I come with good news,” Crittenden chuckled.

  "So you've succeeded then?” Magnus asked.

  "Yes, I've convinced the throng, or rather their ring leader, my mother, to leave your house. It will take a few hours before they've all risen and gathered themselves to leave, but Mother assures me it will be done."

  "I take it you've sacrificed yourself?” she asked, relishing the feel of Magnus arm slipping around her waist.

  George grinned. “Only that I shall join them, but not before or on the altar."

  She smiled. “I shall miss you."

  "I, for one, shall be glad to be rid of the lot of you,” Magnus said.

  Crittenden laughed. “No doubt.” He sobered and glanced over his shoulder. “As soon they are settled into whatever dreary pursuits they engage in at Haverton House I shall return as quickly as possible."

  Agatha glanced up at her husband then looked to George. “But why—” He had disappeared before she could receive an explanation. “He's not returning because of his mother, I take it."

  "No,” Magnus said. “We'd thought it best to remove as many possibilities from the immediate premises as possible, but Crittenden will return to help keep watch."

  "Watch over me, you mean.” She turned in his arms to face him. “Has it occurred to either of you, that by removing the guests, you've forced the assailant back into hiding? I'd hoped to see if I could determine which lady is in the habit of wearing that odd scent. Now, I'll not have the opportunity."

  "Without having to play host, it will be easier to keep you safe.” He tapped the tip of her nose.

  "I want it duly noted that I disagree with your plan."

  He grinned. “Only noted? No argument?"

  "Well, it would've been more prudent to eliminate the ladies in attendance first, although I doubt any of them are the one, but I also know you to be a stubborn man. No doubt Lord Crittenden is as well, leaving me quite outnumbered."

  He chuckled. “Duly noted on all counts. Now,” he said, pulling her tight against him. “Where were we?"

  Determined to push out the unpleasantness of their current dilemma, she linked her hands behind his head. “Somewhere about here, I think."

  He lowered his lips to hers and she sighed in absolute pleasure. She hoped the rest of the women in the world were lucky enough to experience such bliss, if only in one kiss. A long dizzying kiss.

  He touched her breast, and she leaned wantonly into his hand. Oh, the feel of his long tapered fingers caressing her, warming her, filling her head with all sorts of tantalizing thoughts. Could they do more, have more together?

  "Begging your pardon, my lord,” Barstoke said.

  With a growl, Magnus dropped his hand, and set her away. “Yes?"

  "You've a visitor."

  "Good lord,” he muttered. “More guests?"

  "A Miss Reynolds, my lord."

  "Miss?” Agatha looked to Magnus.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps your friend has a sister or wife."

  He looked to Barstoke. “Show her into the library.” The old gent left, closing the door behind him. “As much as I would prefer to pick up, yet again, where we left off, you've a visitor to meet and I should see to our other guests."

  "Yes, of course,” she said, her gaze focused on nothing in particular, confusion over this new visitor and the events of the last few days crowding her thoughts.

  "All will be well,” he said, and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then disappeared.

  She left the parlor, hoping her galloping heart would slow down before she faced her visitor. Did she know what she'd done? Had Mr. Reynolds sent her in his stead because he was horribly angry with her?

  Wringing her hands, she cast a silent prayer to heaven along with an apology for her lie, and made her way down the hall.

  She swallowed hard then entered the room.

  With eyes of bright blue, hair of spun gold, a delightful laugh echoed across the space. “I knew it,�
�� the woman said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You're A. Trumwell, are you not?"

  Agatha nodded at the beautiful woman standing before her in a smart traveling gown. “Yes, but who exactly are you? I mean, what is your acquaintance with Mr. Reynolds?"

  She laughed heartily. “I am K. Reynolds. Not what you expected, I imagine. I'd begun to suspect you some time ago and was dying to find out for sure. You can't imagine my disappointment when I met your father and assumed he was you.” She planted her hands on her hips and shook her head with a smile. “But I was right. I usually am,” she said with a nod.

  Agatha moved her leaden feet across the floor. “You—are—"

  "That I am."

  "You wrote The Modern Man's Guide to Farming?"

  "Yes, I did. A nice bit of work, if I do say so myself."

  "But how—why—I think I need to sit down.” She eased herself onto the settee, her gaze still on the lovely woman standing before her.

  "If I'd known this would be such a shock, I would've written and told you instead of springing it on you like this. I'm so sorry,” she said, taking a seat beside Agatha.

  "No, I'm quite all right, it's just been a bit of a day.” She looked at the woman again, and a smile spread across her face followed by a hearty laugh. Miss Reynolds joined in, and they both laughed until their sides ached, and that is how Magnus found them.

  The laughter pulled him into the library. Bridley Hall had been silent and solemn for far too long. But he'd not expected to find his wife laughing.

  He'd come once he'd seen to the final preparations for his guests departure, not quite sure if he would need to play her champion or not, knowing nothing of this Reynolds woman or the gentleman his wife had corresponded with. But finding Agatha laughing heartily was not what he expected.

  Swiping a happy tear from her eye, she rose and took his hand. “Miss Reynolds, may I present my husband, Lord Leighton, the Earl of Pensby.” Agatha looked up at him, her smile still bright. “This is Katherine Reynolds, my friend from America. Apparently, he was a she all along."

  With a bow he took the lady's hand. “A pleasure, Miss Reynolds. You'll forgive my shock."