“You do realize that is the reason many of the women are so openly hostile toward you. Not only do you have a shady past and mysterious manners, but you also intrigue their husbands. They cannot compete with that.”
I did not for a moment believe this nonsense and told him so. “Please, Lord Stratford. If you’re finished telling me Banbury tales, I would like to ask your opinion on a far more interesting topic. I’m told you are a great patron of the arts. Have you visited the Royal Academy recently?”
He smiled indulgently, as if he were placating a woman denied some bauble. “I have.”
I ignored his expression and pushed on. “What was your opinion of Thomas Cole’s exhibit? I read that his American landscapes are quite exceptional. That the colors and textures of the untamed Catskills seem almost fantastical.”
He appeared to contemplate the matter as he took a drink of his wine. “They are certainly in the class of our John Constable’s paintings. And I believe Cole uses light and shadow to even better effect. However, they do have an almost otherworldliness about them. Yes, ‘fantastical,’ you said? I believe that would be the appropriate word.”
I nodded, taking a bite of potato. Rarely did I harbor any interest in returning to London, except when news of an extraordinary exhibit reached me. Then the desire to view new art not created by my own hand almost overrode my good sense and self-preservation. I had contemplated journeying to Edinburgh with Philip to scour the few museums and art galleries there, but I already knew they could not compare with the quality and variety of exhibitions in London.
I sighed, pushing the fanciful thought from my head.
“Your own portraits are exceptional,” Lord Stratford stated, which made me flush happily from the praise. He turned and lifted his eyebrows at me. “And don’t think that you have fooled those of us who know our art that K. A. Elwick is not actually Lady Darby,” he murmured in low tones.
I glanced around the table to make certain no one had overheard him. I had not been so naive as to think I could fool everyone, but I never expected to be asked so pointedly about the matter. I didn’t know whether to answer the implied question or dance around it. Gratefully, Lord Stratford saved me from my own dilemma.
“Portrait of a Forgotten Woman is particularly captivating. I was quite put out when the Duke of Norwich outbid me for it.” He frowned.
“Lord Marsdale’s father?” I asked in some shock.
A bit of the devilry from our earlier conversation returned to his eyes. “Indeed.”
I scowled at my plate, uncertain I liked the idea of Marsdale’s father being an admirer of my work. Did Marsdale also know that K. A. Elwick was my alias? Was that the real reason he had been plaguing me since he arrived?
“Where do you paint?” Lord Stratford asked, seemingly oblivious to my distraction. “Do you have a studio here at the castle?”
“Um . . . yes. It’s at the corner of the top floor of the east wing, facing both sunrise and the south.” He would realize this location provided the best access to the most natural light. The Highlands were not exactly an ideal location for large quantities of unfettered sunshine, particularly in the winter, and one had to make do with what one had.
“Would you be willing to show it to me? And perhaps some of your works in progress?”
I blinked at him. The earl was continually surprising me with what came out of his mouth. And somehow this seemed the most absurd remark of all. I narrowed my eyes in suspicion, and he smiled as if reading my thoughts.
“I promise I have no ulterior motives,” he replied, making me blush yet again. “Well, other than maybe to gain an advantage over the competition when your next collection goes up for bidding.”
I realized he was trying to flatter me, and because of that, his words failed to please me like spontaneous compliments did. Even though he was an avid art collector, his request to see my studio still seemed off somehow. It would have been much more believable had he asked to view my finished pieces in a comfortable parlor away from the fumes and mess of my studio.
“I will have to think about it,” I replied vaguely, not ready to grant the earl permission without considering the matter further.
He smiled as if he understood my hesitation. “Of course. Take your time. After all, none of us are going anywhere for at least another three days, are we?”
Feeling a small shiver run down my spine at the reminder, I returned his smile tightly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rather than join my sister and the other ladies in the drawing room after dinner, I decided it would be best to slip away. In all honesty, I did not want to sip tea with a bunch of women who politely tried to hold back their animosity toward me anyway. I suspected the fragrant black tea would taste like ash and Alana’s mood would only continue to darken in the face of the others’ hostility toward me. So it seemed in the best interest of all for me to disappear.
Unfortunately, Lady Westlock was not so willing to allow me to escape unscathed. When I turned right instead of left as I exited the dining room, she grabbed hold of my arm, digging her fingernails into my skin. “I’ve got my eyes on you,” she hissed with enough venom to splatter me with her spit.
I yanked my arm from out of her grasp, feeling the scratches her claws left behind, and reached up to swipe the wetness from my cheek with the back of my hand. “So does your husband,” I remarked under my breath dryly.
I hurried away and had almost managed to slip out of sight down the hall, when I heard Philip calling my name. I sighed and reluctantly stuttered to a halt, waiting for him to catch up with me. Whatever he had to say must be important if he was willing to excuse himself from the men drinking port at the dining table.
“Not interested in joining the ladies, eh?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He grimaced in sympathy and glanced back the way he had come before speaking again. “I only wanted to tell you that Beowulf and Grendel did not find anything.”
My heart sank, having hoped the two wolfhounds would turn up something—a piece of clothing, the murder weapon, the baby’s grave.
“There was a spot just inside the tree line of the forest near the maze that they pawed at quite ferociously, but after a thorough search, nothing was uncovered. I suspect the killer may have laid something there before moving it to a more concealed location. The dogs were probably smelling the traces of blood left behind.”
I sighed and wrapped my arms tightly around me.
Philip reached out to touch my arm in commiseration. “Are you retiring?”
“Yes,” I said with a nod. “After I retrieve a book from the library.” There was no need to explain how or why that might take some time.
“Then I’ll bid you good night.” He turned to go, but then stopped and glanced back at me. Worry tightened his features. “Lock your door tonight, Kiera. And every night from here on out until the murderer is caught.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end at the implication that he feared for my safety. Perhaps he only worried about the lack-wits like Lord Westlock or the drunken aggression of the guests at dinner, but even those people could do real damage to me if they chose. In any event, after the letter I received last night and the strange shifting shadows today, I had every intention of locking my door, and likely propping a chair beneath the handle as well. I didn’t know if it was the killer or an angry guest who was watching me, but if it was the murderer, I doubted they looked kindly on my efforts to assist Gage with the investigation.
I swallowed and nodded.
Satisfied with my acquiescence, Philip returned to the men in the dining room.
The hall seemed open and shadowy now that he had departed, and I stood for a moment gazing into the dark corners where the light from the candles could not reach. I knew my apprehen
sion was due partly to the anxiety Philip’s warning had stirred up in me, but I also could not help feeling that someone was watching me. Though from where, I could not tell.
The gloom of the castle had never bothered me before, not even at night. I normally found it more atmospheric than eerie, more melancholy than frightening. But tonight, like last night, was different.
Perhaps the blame for that should fall squarely on the murder, and the knowledge that a killer walked among us, yet for me it also had a great deal to do with Lady Godwin’s corpse itself. With Sir Anthony’s death, I had escaped the necessity of ever having to deal with another dead body beyond that of a loved one’s burial. Or, at least, I thought I had.
But somehow another one had found me. Somehow another corpse had shown up on my doorstep. I knew it was fantastical to think of it in such terms, but surrounded by the darkness and shadows of the old castle, I couldn’t help but look over my shoulder to make certain yet another one had not appeared.
Quaking from my ridiculous imaginings, I took a deep breath and exhaled. Then, squaring my shoulders, I marched down the corridor past the grand staircase leading to the bedchambers above, determined not to look either to my left or to my right, lest I see something I did not wish to.
As I passed through the portal leading to the back half of the main hall block, a man stepped into my path from the shadows beneath the stairs. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest.
“Good evening, Lady Darby,” Marsdale pronounced with a sly grin and an almost mocking bow.
I skidded to a halt and pressed my hand over my pounding heart to keep it inside my body. “What is the meaning of this?” I gasped, wanting to reach out and smack him like a meddlesome brother. “Did you intend to scare me witless?”
“Ah, well, I could have revealed myself earlier, when you were staring into the shadows as if looking for ghosts, but I assumed that would give you even more of a fright.” He sidled closer to me, leaning into my personal space. I could smell the whiskey on his breath. “Besides, I wanted to be close enough to stop you from fleeing if you attempted to do so.”
I leaned back, tempted to retreat away from him a step or two, but I knew my withdrawal would only amuse him and give him an excuse to touch me in order to illustrate his point. “If you wanted to speak with me, why didn’t you approach me earlier in the drawing room, like a civilized human being instead of skulking about like a . . .” I sucked in a harsh breath at the realization of what I was about to say, and the knowledge that it could be true. I stumbled back a step, studying the emotions that played across Marsdale’s face.
“A what?” he prodded, his face lighting with interest. “A murderer?” It was absurd, but he seemed pleased by this prospect. He took a step, closing the distance between us again. “Tell me, Lady Darby,” he murmured, lowering his voice as he reached up to flick a wayward curl away from my face. I stiffened. “Do you find me that . . . wicked?” he whispered the last into my ear.
A shiver ran down my spine from the gust of his hot breath against my skin and the thought that he might indeed be an evil man. Leaning away from him, I looked into his face.
It was clear he was enjoying this—toying with me—as if it were some grand game. However, I sensed no real malice behind it, only boredom and selfishness. There was also a weariness, a fatigue, in the faint lines around his mouth and eyes, and a thinly veiled sadness in the droop of his eyelids.
Marsdale was not the murderer. I was at least ninety percent certain of that.
But in the interest of that other ten percent, I still sidled sideways away from him. “Murder is not a game,” I told him with a glare. “And neither are my affections.”
“Ah, but I’m not playing for your affections, am I?” he replied, allowing his voice to drop to a gravelly timbre.
I supposed many women might have fallen prey to this ploy, including Lady Godwin; however, his deepened voice did nothing except make me want to roll my eyes. “Marsdale,” I began with weary patience. “I realize that I present some kind of mystery to you, but I assure you, it’s not intentional.”
Rather than being miffed, Marsdale seemed entertained by my efforts to gently reject him. “So that’s what you and Stratford were talking about at dinner. I wondered how he made you blush so prettily.”
I stumbled for a moment, unaware that he had been watching us, and uncertain how to respond. I certainly wasn’t well versed in the art of rebuffing men’s advances. The few times I received unwanted attention as a young woman, I had simply walked away. I was seriously considering such an option now.
Marsdale chuckled at the evidence of my distress. I frowned, not enjoying being the source of so much amusement, and turned to follow my instinct.
“Oh, come now, Lady Darby,” Marsdale called after me. “You can’t say you aren’t enjoying my attentions. Otherwise you would be discouraging me.”
Exasperated, I turned to scowl at him. “I am discouraging you.”
“No, you’re not.”
I gritted my teeth to stop myself from cursing. “Yes, I am,” I bit out.
He smiled at me as if I were bird-witted. “No, you’re not.”
“I think I know my own mind.”
He shook his head and sighed. “So beautiful, but so naive.”
I lifted my eyes to the heavens in search of patience, or perhaps inspiration in how to deal with this vain, infuriating man. “What do I have to do to convince you I’m not interested? What do I have to say to get you to leave me alone?”
A roguish grin spread across his face as he leaned toward me. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me in your bed.”
I blushed a fiery red clear to the tips of my ears. Marsdale chuckled, but I was not about to be cowed now. Swallowing my maidenly sensibilities, I leaned into his face and stared directly into his dark brown eyes. “Marsdale.”
He widened his smile, flashing his teeth wolfishly.
“I do not want you in my bed.” I whirled away from him with a rustle of plum silk and resumed my march down the hall.
“Maybe not,” he called after me. “But you do want in my bed.”
I shook my head in irritation and hurried down the hall before he could follow me. His laughter rang after me.
Darting around the corner, I dashed into the library, relieved to find it empty. Marsdale had delayed me so long, I was worried Gage and Mr. Fitzpatrick had somehow bypassed us and reached the room first. Knowing how little time there was to waste, I gathered up my skirts and clambered up the spiral staircase tucked into the corner of the chamber to the loft above. As long as Gage did not notice the stairs and decide to investigate, I felt safe that I would not be discovered.
Careful to remain out of sight, I tossed a cushion on the floor near the southern wall and settled into position. From my vantage point, I would not be able to see their facial expressions, but at least I would hear the inflection of their voices.
They appeared barely two minutes after I was seated, and I roundly cursed Marsdale for stalling me for so long. Several moments longer and they would have passed us in the hall. I wondered what Gage would have thought had he caught me there with the Duke of Norwich’s notorious son, and also one of our suspects. Then I wondered why I cared.
Gage gestured for Mr. Fitzpatrick to have a seat in one of the deep brown chairs positioned before the fireplace. I had expected him to conduct their discussion there, where the setting seemed more cozy and intimate than in any of the other seating areas in the expansive library. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, warding off the chill of the Highland evening. I peered over the edge of the loft at the flames in longing. It was cool up near the eaves, so high above the room’s only heat source, and the thin shawl I had worn to dinner was not sufficient enough to warm me. I glanced across the loft at the tartan blanke
t thrown over the sofa but decided it would be too risky to fetch it now. One creak of the floorboards and I would be found out.
Mr. Fitzpatrick settled into his seat and took a hasty drink from the glass of ruby port cradled in his hand. I wondered whether he was nervous because of the situation or because he felt guilty about something. It seemed safe to assume he knew exactly why Gage had asked for this little tête-à-tête. More than one person had been conscious of Mr. Fitzpatrick’s relationship with Lady Godwin.
From this height, I could not see Gage’s facial expression, but I could imagine the reassuring smile he had given each of the people he interrogated so far. I somehow didn’t imagine him taking a strong-arm approach with Mr. Fitzpatrick. The man was too genial, and clearly already intimidated by Gage, if the restless bouncing of his knee was any indication.
“Fitzpatrick, I’ll get straight to the point,” Gage said affably after taking a drink of his own glass of port and setting it aside. “I need to ask you a few questions about Lady Godwin and your relationship with her.”
He bobbed his head in response. “I figured as much.” He sighed heavily, as if preparing to face an arduous ordeal. “What would you like to know?”
Gage rested his elbows on the chair’s arms and clasped his fingers over his stomach, much as he had the previous night in my room. “It is fairly well known that you lately conducted a liaison with the countess.”
Mr. Fitzpatrick shifted in his seat. “That is true.”
“When did this liaison begin? How long ago?”
Mr. Fitzpatrick leaned his head back, contemplating the matter. “It was just before His Majesty King George’s death. So . . . seven, eight weeks?”
In other words, the end of June. Much too recent for him to be the father of her baby.
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