Lady Westlock’s face flushed as bright as a beet. “He didn’t attack her. He thought she was the murderer.”
“And bashed her over the head.”
The whispers across the hall grew feverish with speculation.
“Figgins,” Alana called to her butler without taking her eyes from Lady Westlock. “Note the time. I want you to make certain Lord and Lady Westlock have departed Gairloch in exactly fifteen minutes. If they fail to make that deadline, I give you permission to expel them by force.”
Lady Westlock’s jowls quivered with indignation.
“As you wish, my lady,” Figgins replied without even batting an eyelash at the absurd command.
“You’ll regret this,” Lady Westlock threatened.
Alana answered swiftly and decidedly. “No, I won’t. I would have tossed you out four days ago had we known for certain that neither you nor your husband was the murderer.”
Lady Westlock gasped.
“Be glad I didn’t set you upon the road in the middle of the night.” With a swish of her lavender skirts, my sister turned to stride off.
I remained behind a moment to gloat, wanting the countess to know that although I allowed my sister to defend me, I did not hide behind her skirts. Lady Westlock’s jaw was locked in anger.
“Have a safe journey.” I glanced at the long clock. “Best hurry. You only have fourteen minutes.” Then with a twirl of my own skirts, I followed my sister through the door.
Had Lady Westlock been able to pull the mace down from the wall, I was quite certain she would have followed her husband’s example and bashed me over the head as well.
• • •
Much to my sister’s disappointment, the Westlocks departed before their quarter hour passed. And though their luggage and servants straggled behind a half an hour later, Alana decided it would not be fair to penalize them for their employers’ rudeness. She believed it likely the maids and footmen were punished enough in working for the baron and his harridan of a wife.
The Smythes, as well as the other guests, swiftly followed, one by one, until the great hall and drawing room were blessedly empty. I was surprised when many of them went out of their way to speak with me before they departed, thanking me for my part in the investigation and inquiring after my health. I understood that most of them were only trying to maintain appearances, or prevent themselves from being thrown out on their ear like the Westlocks, but I could tell that some of them were genuinely trying to make amends for their earlier suspicions of me, even if they never actually uttered an apology. I knew better than to expect one. The nobility was notoriously poor at admitting they were wrong. I only hoped my example would encourage them to be more skeptical of gossip, even as I was aware that these very same people would be racing southward to spread the tale about what had happened here. They would be dining out for weeks on such juicy morsels of information.
By noon, the only two guests remaining at Gairloch were Mr. Gage and Lady Stratford, who had not left her chamber since retiring to it after the ordeal on the boat. I knew Alana was looking after the countess and her maid, so I felt no need to bother them. In fact, I suspected Lady Stratford might rather I stayed away. So when she sought me out just before luncheon, I was shocked, to say the least.
I had settled onto a settee in the sunny family parlor with my sketchbook when the swish of skirts across the floor alerted me to someone’s presence. I glanced up with a smile, expecting to see Alana, only to find Lady Stratford hovering in the doorway. She wore a lovely black crepe traveling costume trimmed in braid. I recognized the gown. It had been borrowed from my sister, though it had clearly been altered, and rather swiftly, to fit the petite countess.
I set down my book, waiting for her to advance into the room. She seemed nervous, her hands wringing the kid leather of the gloves encasing them. I pressed my hand against the arm of the settee to help me rise, and that little movement seemed to jostle her out of her stupor, for she met me halfway across the room. Her eyes searched mine frantically, and I realized she was at a loss for words—something I had never expected to witness from the poised Lady Stratford.
Taking pity on her, I offered her my wishes for a safe journey. “Must you leave so soon?”
“Thank you,” she replied with trembling breath. “But, yes. I need to go. I . . . I need to get away from here. I think I’ll do better at my great-aunt’s.”
I nodded, understanding her need to escape the place where so many dark and terrible things had happened.
“Faye is coming with me, and . . . Lady Godwin.”
I knew Philip had arranged for a wagon to transport Lady Godwin and her child’s coffin, as well as her belongings. With the full coterie of Stratford and Godwin servants accompanying her, I was certain Lady Stratford would make it to her great-aunt’s home near Glasgow safely, and I told her so.
Her gaze dropped to her hands. “I . . . I wanted to express my gratitude for what you did for me,” she added softly, her words stilted with emotion. Her head lifted, and she seemed determined to look me in the eye as she said what came next. “And . . . I wanted to apologize for . . . what my husband . . . did to you . . .”
I reached out to take her hand. “No,” I said gently, shaking my head.
Her eyes flared wide with panic. “But . . .”
I squeezed her fingers to stop her. “Your husband’s actions are not yours to atone for.”
She blinked quickly over her suddenly bright eyes.
“Whatever evil your husband wrought, it was not your doing.” Those words twisted inside me, and I smiled sadly. “Believe me, I know.”
It had taken me sixteen and a half months after Sir Anthony’s death to finally realize that. I didn’t want Lady Stratford to take that long to figure it out. We, none of us, should have to live in the shadow of others’ misdeeds.
She looked at first as if she might like to argue, but then I could see her come to the realization that, by doing so, she would also be condemning me for my husband’s actions. The light in her soft gray eyes shifted, and she seemed to study me with a new understanding. Her head bobbed once in acceptance, and then she pulled her hand from mine to search for a handkerchief in her reticule. She dabbed at her eyes and gave me a watery smile.
“Well.” She took a deep breath, regaining her composure. “My carriage awaits.”
I nodded.
She looked as if she wished to say more, but instead she merely acknowledged my nod with one of her own and turned to go. I watched her leave, hoping she would be able to make peace with all her husband had done.
At the door, she hesitated and then looked back over her shoulder at me. “When you’re in London next, I hope you’ll call on me,” she declared, sounding more like her old self.
My eyes widened in astonishment, and she smiled. Then with a swish of her skirts she was gone before I could form a response.
Alana appeared in the doorway only moments later. She glanced after Lady Stratford’s retreating form with a satisfied smirk, clearly having heard her closing remark. “Close your mouth, dear,” she told me. “It’s terribly unbecoming.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
At a quarter of an hour before dawn, the upper corridors were cold and deserted by all but the mice. Not even the chambermaids had yet ventured into the family rooms to stoke up the fires, or at least they hadn’t in my chamber, but I didn’t normally rise at such an ungodly hour. I shouldn’t have had to do so this morning.
Closing my door softly, I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders and set off down the long, shadowed hall. The hush of night rang in my ears, as yet unwilling to give over to the day. Two short days ago, I would have been frightened to travel down this corridor alone at night, fearful of what might lay in wait for me in the darkness. With Lord Stratford’s death,
the castle’s solemn passageways had lost their terror. Their stones seemed to cast off the gloom as they had cast off the guests, and returned to their melancholy sentry of ages. I trailed my fingers over the cold granite, grateful to have my atmospheric sanctuary back.
Turning the corner at the grand staircase, I could see through the windowpanes the pink and yellow streaks of light on the horizon presaging the sun. I blew out my candle and set it on the ledge, worried that the shaking of my hands would be too noticeable if I carried it with me. Turning toward the stairs, I made to descend the first step, but then hesitated with my foot at the edge of the riser.
For a moment, I considered turning back, returning to the warmth and comfort of my bed, and allowing Gage to skulk off into the misty light of daybreak as he wished. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t use the rest. I had tossed and turned most of the night, sore and uncomfortable because, as Alana predicted, I had overexerted myself the day before. Not that I would admit such a thing to her, even on pain of dismemberment. There were some things I just did not confess to my sister, and acknowledging that she was right in such a dispute was one of them.
Besides, my wound’s tenderness had really only been a small part of my unease. More disturbing had been the loss and hurt I felt upon hearing that Gage was leaving in the morning, summoned to Edinburgh by his father on some matter of business. According to the gossip Lucy relayed, he intended to set off at dawn. And as the hours of the evening crept slowly by without a knock at my door, it had become distressingly apparent that Gage intended to set off on his journey without addressing the issues between us, without even saying good-bye.
I had been wrestling with my feelings for Gage since the day Sir Graham interviewed me, uncertain what they meant and whether I welcomed them. There were simply too many unresolved questions between us, too many things left unsaid. And though I was no closer to knowing what, exactly, I wanted to say to him when we did speak, I had always believed that there would be a time when we did, whether or not I was prepared for it. Apparently, Gage was more of the inclination that it was better to leave things left unsaid.
It depressed and bewildered me. It tied my stomach up in knots. And it made the blood boil in my veins.
What right did he have to decide for the both of us that we would not speak? He was the one who had belittled and dismissed my concerns over Lady Stratford’s guilt. I didn’t care whether he was embarrassed by that now, or chagrined by his shortsightedness. Whether he’d saved my life or not, he owed me an apology and an explanation, because I did not believe for one second that he was normally so obtuse when it came to his investigations. He was too intelligent, too skilled, to make such an amateur mistake. Maybe it was painful for him to contemplate his error, maybe he regretted it deeply, but for him to skulk off into the dawn without so much as a by-your-leave was cowardly. And of all the faults I could lay at Gage’s feet, I had never thought cowardice would be one of them.
But now that I stood poised at the moment of confrontation, I felt my own daring slipping through my clenched fingers. What if I was wrong? What if Gage didn’t care one whit for me and his leaving did not pain him in the least? What if it was not cowardice that kept him from coming to me, but indifference?
I was not familiar with the workings of the heart, especially when it came to romantic entanglements. I had no experience with them, and had never thought to, until Gage disrupted my world with his dashing good looks and charming smile. With his arrogant manners and obstinate determination to have his way. With his willingness to believe in my innocence despite the discovery of the bloody apron in my studio and the words of all my naysayers. Until Gage had held me while I cried and rejoiced to see me smile, I had never known any of the tender emotions swirling about my chest, or experienced the hollow ache his leaving left behind. I wasn’t certain I could handle it if I saw only apathy in his eyes as he quit Gairloch, and me.
Breathing past the sharp pain in my chest, I forced my foot over the rasping carpet runner and down onto the first step. There was only one way I was going to find the answers to my questions, and that was by confronting Gage. I just didn’t understand why this impending confrontation seemed to cause me so much more dread than the interrogations I had faced with the suspects during our murder investigation.
The stairs creaked under my weight and the banister felt icy cold under the tight grip of my fingers. I shivered as I neared the great hall, the cold morning air tickling over my skin and creeping under my skirts as it spilled through the corridors. When I crossed the threshold to the entry hall, I could see Gage standing before the outer door, deep in conference with Philip. The sight of Gage’s golden hair limned by the predawn light made the breath catch in my chest and my pulse pound hard. I had not forgotten he was attractive, but somehow the knowledge that I might never see him again made his face seem all the more beautiful.
I knew I was being fanciful. I would see him again. Likely across a crowded ballroom, as he danced and flirted with other women more suited to his standing, scarcely noting my existence. After all, he was a charming, lovable rakehell with a budding career, whose attendance was sought after at all the most exclusive events, and I was a quiet, eccentric artist on the fringe of society, often feared and berated, and barely tolerated. We were two completely different people living two completely separate lives. That our paths had ever crossed in such a meaningful way at all was the true mystery.
Arms crossed over his chest, Gage shifted to allow a servant to pass carrying one of his belongings out to the waiting carriage. His gaze lifted to me and he stiffened. Such a reaction in no way comforted me, though it did a great deal to convince me that he was far from indifferent. Whether his apparent concern meant something good or bad, I could not tell.
I hovered back as Philip finished whatever he was saying to Gage and then shook his hand. Philip paused to lay a hand on my shoulder as he passed by, offering me a cryptic smile. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to encourage me or offer his sympathy. I gritted my teeth against the surge of embarrassment that it might be the latter. Then, before I could say anything, he slipped away, leaving me alone with Gage.
His posture stiff and unwelcoming, Gage stared out at the mist-shrouded courtyard, watching as his carriage was readied for his departure. If not for the sudden tightening of his coat across his shoulders, I would have believed he was ignoring me, but I knew he was aware of each and every step I took in his direction. Nerves tightened my stomach, and for once I was grateful for his stubborn pride, for I wasn’t certain I could have crossed the space between us if he had turned to watch. I was using the anger and hurt I felt at his displeasure in seeing me to spur me onward.
The sound of my skirts whispering over the flagstone floor was broken only by the jangling of the horses’ harnesses as the beasts stamped and pawed at the muddy drive outside, clearly as eager to be away as their passenger was. As I neared, I could see that the luggage was loaded, the driver in place, all that was left was for Gage to climb inside and be whisked away, gone from my life, perhaps forever. The realization twisted like a knife in my chest.
My steps faltered and I stumbled to a stop behind him. The chill of the dawn air seemed to seep through my bones, and I wrapped my shawl and my arms tighter around me, suddenly certain that the thin material and the grip of my hands around my upper arms was all that was holding me together. A ragged breath escaped through my lips, and I willed my limbs to move, to take me forward or backward, anything but to stand here and stare at Gage’s back knowing I was as much a silly fool for this man as all those women I had berated.
I knew not what expression was on my face, but I feared that everything was written there, every hidden emotion shining in my eyes. And when Gage turned to me, I could not wipe them clean. All I could do was stand there dumbly, staring at the contradiction he posed. His deportment remained aloof, but the regret and uncertainty shimmering in h
is eyes, and the warmth of his gaze as it trailed over my features, told me he was not as unaffected as he wished me to believe. His entire bearing was tightly restrained, even the rasp of his voice as he spoke, as if he was afraid of what he might do if he did not maintain control over himself.
“I’m leaving for Edinburgh.”
“I know.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “My father asked me to look into a dispute there.”
I swallowed and whispered, “I know.”
Silence fell between us, charged with the words neither of us seemed to be able to say. I knew I should admonish him, that I should demand answers, but none of it seemed to matter anymore. Not if he was going to walk away without looking back.
He inhaled sharply and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it tightly with a frown. However, either the silence or my muteness seemed to be too much for him, for he forced the words out. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
I raised my eyebrows, surprised by his words.
“I know it may be difficult to believe, but I did not do so lightly.” He scowled, and I could tell the displeasure was directed at himself not me. “I do not normally ignore legitimate concerns.”
“Why did you?” I asked, more interested in hearing his reasoning behind dismissing my uncertainties over Lady Stratford’s guilt than hearing his apology for doing so.
His lips compressed and he stared down at his polished Hessians. “I assure you, my motivation for doing so was not out of pride or malice.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “But you won’t tell me what it was?”
His gaze lifted to meet mine, and a shadow seemed to pass over his eyes. “No.”
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