Anger swirled and leapt in his belly like a badly cooked meal.
“He’s not there, is he?” said Caroline.
“No,” he bit out, turning and pushing past her to storm down the hallway.
“Stephen! Where are you going?”
But he ignored her, his legs moving faster and faster until he rounded a corner and discovered an upstairs maid attending to a pile of linen.
“You there!”
The girl jumped a foot in the air at his tone, and casual dress. “Y-yes, m’lord?”
“Have you seen Mr. Taff? Did he take an early breakfast? Is he reading in one of the small libraries?”
“Why no, sir,” the maid replied, blinking in confusion. “We thought perhaps he’d met a nice lady somewhere, because he never came home last night.”
A vicious curse escaped, followed by a sense of profound dread. Something terrible was about to happen, and as with the runaway cart, he couldn’t get out of the way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Caroline’s nerves were stretched to breaking point.
An entire week since Rochland’s murder. Six days since they had written Mr. White a comprehensive note informing him of Taff’s disappearance and all prior events including the kidnapping attempt at the Bruce estate and the cart incident. The intelligence coordinator sent a brief reply, virtually ordering her and Stephen to remain inside Forsyth House. So as Taff remained unaccounted for, she spent her days wondering who might be discreetly loitering outside and her nights counting the ancient ridges and cracks in the cream plastered ceiling.
Wincing, she rubbed gritty eyes. But even through the thick damask curtains rays of sunshine were already brightening the earl’s bedchamber.
“Not much point asking how you slept, wife. You’ve been staring at the same swatch of four poster fabric for hours.”
Caroline rolled onto her side and smiled half-heartedly at her husband. The one positive aspect of the current debacle was their increasingly intimate togetherness—including sharing a bed each night. He’d not said a word the day Taff went missing and she crawled in beside him and attached herself to his chest like a piece of dampened muslin. Nor any of the subsequent occasions. Sometimes she reached for him in the candle-softened darkness, needing the reassurance of his touch, to feel him alive and inside her. Sometimes she woke to find herself tightly cradled in his arms, as if he needed her in a similar fashion. Either way, it was thoroughly addictive.
“Fabric?” she sighed. “Hardly. No, I’ve been studying a particularly fascinating crack in the ceiling. If you half-close your eyes and tilt your head a little it actually resembles…”
“A crack in the ceiling?”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps White will be in touch today,” said Stephen running a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair, although his tone was less than convincing.
“You say that every morning. I don’t…I don’t honestly know how much longer I can remain housebound. People are going to become very suspicious soon if this, er, spring head cold we both came down with continues to drag on.”
“I don’t know, the looking glass reveals two rather eerie visages at the moment. If Mrs. Radcliffe stopped by for tea, she would be most inspired.”
“Be serious, Stephen. We need to go out in public, talk to people. See what they are saying. I know Mr. White promised there would be no adverse coverage of Major Rochland’s murder in the newspapers, but that won’t matter a jot if the gossips are in full voice.”
“We were very fortunate there were so few witnesses. Especially female witnesses.”
Caroline smacked him hard on the arm. “Excuse me, I’m a female. I was a witness.”
“Oh, come on, you’re hardly the average woman. Imagine if some silly debutante and her mother had seen what happened. One of the Almack’s patronesses. Or any one of Prinny’s set. The news might have been halfway around the world by the following day.”
“What do you mean, ‘might’?”
“True,” he snorted, tugging on her elbow until she collapsed onto his warm, bare chest. Then he curled a heavy, muscled arm around her shoulders, and for a long moment she allowed herself the luxury of snuggling against him skin to skin, to feel and hear the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat under her ear. Eventually she eased free of his hold, sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“Come on, husband. Get up.”
“Why? I was just pondering how pleasant it might be to stay in bed with my delightfully naked wife.”
Caroline bit back a smile at his irritable tone. “Perhaps later. But right now, we are going to get dressed, have breakfast and go for a nice, healthy ride in Hyde Park.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a nice, healthy ride here?” he murmured, sliding his hands around and over her breasts, stroking and plucking her nipples while kissing a wicked trail along her spine.
She closed her eyes as drugging pleasure teased her senses, luring her towards surrender. How on earth did he do that, make her respond so easily? For heaven’s sake, her body was still sticky and tender from when he’d had her hard and deep several hours before. As if he could feel her weakening resolve, his hands left her breasts to slide down her body, over her hips and along the outside of her thighs. She shivered. Any closer to her already pulsing center and all would be lost.
“Yes…No,” she said breathlessly, pushing herself to a standing position far away from his luscious importuning. “Clothes. Food. Rotten Row. Now.”
Stephen scowled and grumbled the entire time, but an hour later, their stomachs sated with toasted bread, honey, and strong cups of tea, they trotted side by side on horseback along Rotten Row. The popular riding track wasn’t overly crowded, mid-morning was too early for those who came here to see and be seen, but there were still plenty of people to greet, or stop and share a brief discussion of London on-dits with.
She couldn’t help comparing each man to Stephen. Despite slightly pale skin and circles beneath his eyes, he was still the best-looking in England. No one filled out fawn trousers and a slate gray jacket the way he did. Hopefully her lavender and cream-striped riding habit offered her figure a similar kindness, although a jaunty matching hat at least averted curious gazes away from her sallow complexion.
“See,” said Caroline as they left another young couple with a cheerful ‘good day’ ringing in their ears, “isn’t this nice?”
Stephen harrumphed and shifted on his polished leather saddle. “I suppose it’s pleasant enough to see people and get some air. Still know what I’d rather be doing though.”
“Drinking?”
“No.”
“Visiting Tattersall’s?”
“No.”
She put a finger to her lips as if deep in thought. “Aha! I’ve got it. You want to create a chart about something. Well, it has been a wee while.”
“How true,” he mused. “I have just the topic. All the places you like to be stroked and sucked and a corresponding graph on the likelihood of you screaming the house down for each.”
“Stephen,” she hissed, heat scorching across her cheekbones.
“What?”
“Don’t you ‘what’ me in that choirboy voice. Somebody might hear.”
“Damned horses and their delicate sensibilities. Not to mention propensity for gossip. But you did insist on coming here, Caroline. I’d rather be coming in my bedchamber.”
“Stephen! Oh that’s it, we’re leaving.”
“So soon?” he asked, his brown eyes glinting like liquid chocolate.
“Not for the reason you think, you terrible man,” she replied, leaning sideways to rap him with her riding crop, “I…”
“Well, well. If it isn’t London’s favorite recently-weds, the Westleighs.”
Caroline jerked her head around at the horribly familiar drawl and she repressed a shudder. Sir John Smythe, in a startling combination of puce jacket and pale yellow trousers, on a dappled gray stallion. Lord Avery W
ynn-Thorne’s black trousers and jacket were infinitely more muted as he sat astride a beautiful dark brown mount, but their expressions were identical.
Freezing cold hatred.
“Sir John,” said Stephen, inclining his head the merest inch. “Wynn-Thorne.”
“We’ve just returned from Northamptonshire,” said Sir John.
“Private burial for our dear Rock, but a beautiful memorial service,” added Wynn-Thorne. “Terribly difficult for his mother and siblings, naturally. Don’t remember seeing the two of you amongst the mourners, though.”
Caroline shifted her horse closer to Stephen’s, hoping the two Society members couldn’t hear the frantic pounding of her heart. “Regrettably we’ve both been unwell, my lord. But Westleigh would be the first to sympathize over losing a sibling in terribly tragic circumstances.”
“Terribly tragic circumstances, Lady Westleigh?” snarled Sir John, tiny drops of spittle flying from his mouth. “Is that what you saintly folk call murder nowadays?”
“Keep your tone civil in front of a lady,” said Stephen coldly.
“A lady? Ha! No matter how fancy the jewels and clothes, she’s still as common as they come. Especially considering her dubious parentage. But a perfect match for a cowardly scoundrel, yes?”
Acute tension practically emanated from Stephen. She felt it, his glossy black stallion clearly felt it, the way it was tossing its head. Unfortunately it appeared the small crowd beginning to gather could feel it too. No one scented impending high drama from a mile away like a Londoner.
“Excuse me—” Caroline said stiffly, furious at the slur.
“Sir John,” interrupted Stephen. “If you wish to discuss a certain topic, then let’s by all means go somewhere and discuss it. In private. Not here.”
“What is wrong with here?” shouted Sir John. “Perfectly decent setting to talk about how you stabbed Major Lionel Rochland to death!”
Scandalized gasps rippled through the ever-growing crowd.
“That is complete nonsense,” said Stephen angrily. “If I were a murderer I’d be in the Tower awaiting trial, not riding along Rotten Row.”
“The Tower for some minor peer, perhaps,” scoffed Wynn-Thorne. “But who would dare arrest the great and powerful Earl of Westleigh? And to compound the crime, despite the blood on your hands you have the gall to accuse others behind their backs. Are you going to murder me next?”
“What?”
“It’s a serious question. Like Rock, I also received a note outlining your grotesque lies about Clara Matthews. So ironic, coming from a man with such an…unlucky…history.”
Stephen went rigid. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he said, very, very quietly.
Sir John laughed, the ridiculous high-pitched sound grating on Caroline’s last nerve. He was playing to his audience like the most seasoned of actors, projecting his voice, allowing his hand gestures to become more and more wild, his eyes glittering madly.
“Why nothing at all, my lord! Wynnie was merely making conversation. But you must admit being connected to you is extremely hazardous to one’s health. In the past two years you’ve lost your brother and your father to accidents. Now a business acquaintance is dead, and the last person to see him alive was…you.”
Speechless with horror, Caroline stared at Sir John. Had he lost his mind? An accusation like that in front of so many witnesses practically insisted Stephen call him out! No one took honor and family more seriously than her husband. She held her breath, hardly daring to move. Dueling was illegal and taken very seriously by the authorities. Would that be enough to overcome the idiot dandy’s words?
It seemed so. Stephen’s handsome face might have been carved from stone. “Grief has turned your mind, Sir John. Again, may I offer my sincere condolences on the loss of your friend. Come along, Caroline. Good day, gentlemen.”
Together they trotted their horses forward on the gravel path. After a swift glance sideways she mirrored Stephen’s stance exactly, head high, back rigid and gaze straight ahead as they left the two men and the rest of the crowd behind.
Relief surged through her body, until a furious bellow sounded behind them.
“Damn you to hell, you guttersnipe bastard!” screamed Sir John. “This is not finished! Not by a long way!”
~ * ~
“I’m sure I advised you and your wife to remain inside Forsyth House.”
Stephen gritted his teeth at White’s words and shifted on the padded chaise in his blue drawing room. Sure they might be technically correct, but it felt like he’d gone back in time to age thirteen and a master’s office the way the man was pacing and glaring. All the scene needed was a length of birch, although if White produced a cane he’d be heaving the much smaller man out a window rather than assuming the position.
“The head cold story wasn’t plausible in the slightest. Besides, we—”
“It’s my fault,” burst out Caroline in a rather miserable tone, her constant squirming on the chaise next to him, indicating she was reliving similar occasions at Miss Ashley’s Academy. “I couldn’t stand being indoors for one more minute. Waiting for information is unbearable.”
White’s stern expression didn’t waver. “Of course it is, but the instruction was for your own protection. You were extremely fortunate someone didn’t put a bullet in your backs as you rode away.”
“Except if we hadn’t have gone to Hyde Park, we never would have learned that Wynn-Thorne also received a note alleging I accused him of Clara Matthews’ murder,” Stephen pointed out coolly.
“Hmmm. Talking of notes, it seems your elusive former houseguest borrowed pen, ink and parchment from a footman the night of Ardmore’s ball.”
“So you think Taff wrote and sent the notes to Rochland and Wynn-Thorne?”
“Perhaps. I’m not sure. I have Rochland’s note, but alas no handwriting sample from Mr. Martin to compare it with.”
Stephen twisted his fingers together. It was either that or start one of Caroline’s porcelain smashing sprees. “So what do you know? Have you or your band of merry men discovered anything helpful to the investigation? Anything at all?”
“Of course,” White replied, gaze narrowing in affront. “We are the intelligence arm of the government after all.”
It took a mammoth effort, but he didn’t roll his eyes. “Well then. Will you please share?”
“I don’t usually, but in this instance I believe it is in everyone’s best interests.”
“Wonderful,” muttered Caroline and Stephen nearly smiled at his wife’s obvious irritation with White’s dissembling. It really was uncanny how similar their thoughts and reactions were, especially to blatant waffle.
Finally White ceased his pacing and elegantly folded himself into a high-backed chair. “I’ll begin by saying Mr. Captain Tavistock Martin is a very interesting creature.”
Stephen felt his brow furrow. “Mr. Captain?”
“Yes. His late parents must have been rather playful types. Captain is his first name, not a rank. We thoroughly searched our records and he never served in the military at all. Unlike his father, also a Tavistock Martin, who belonged to the British East India Company and fought under Cornwallis. Unfortunately Martin the elder was killed in an attempt to put down a rebellion in Mysore. His body was brought home by his dearest friend and long-time comrade, one Sergeant Bruce.”
“Sergeant Bruce?” gasped Caroline. “As in Sir Albert Bruce?”
White nodded in approval. “One and the same. It seems Sergeant Bruce distinguished himself in several skirmishes, heroically saving the lives of quite a few British soldiers and was well rewarded for his trouble. He made a lot of money in India and bought himself a baronetcy, although as you know, he’s been unable to purchase husbands for his daughters.”
“So the entire poacher debacle at the clearing was a complete fabrication,” spat Stephen, his fists clenching. “Lady Bruce knew exactly who ‘rescued’ me.”
“Well, the po
achers may or may not have been real, but Nora Bruce’s reaction to Taff was certainly false. She and her husband took young Martin and his mother in somewhere around 1791. Mrs. Martin died of a fever the following year, so the part about him being an orphan was accurate enough.”
“This is all very interesting,” said Caroline, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hands. “But it still doesn’t explain why Taff hates my husband so much he’d frame him for murder.”
“I’m getting to that part,” replied White in a decidedly miffed tone.
“My apologies,” said Caroline. “Please continue.”
“As I was saying, young Martin was raised by the Bruces alongside their own children. By all accounts, over the years he became particularly close to the eldest daughter…”
“Hermia,” breathed Stephen, his heart beginning to pound.
“Yes. Many of the neighboring landowners, and the villagers for that matter, believed Martin to have romantic feelings for Miss Bruce. It’s unclear whether she felt anything in return, but the point became moot when she started stepping out with a young and extremely eligible nobleman in mid 1809.”
“My brother.”
“Correct. Hallmere and Miss Bruce spent a great deal of time together and were seen frequently in the Dover area, although not in London. The liaison was cut short a year later when she died after slipping and falling from a particularly treacherous cliff path. Although to put it plainly, despite an investigation at the time, I am not at all convinced that was how events proceeded.”
“Do you think…” whispered Caroline, her eyes huge in a starkly pale face.
“White thinks,” said Stephen bitingly as he got up to pace the drawing room, unable to sit still for a moment longer. “That the local magistrate was either a fresh-faced fool or an elderly drunk who failed to ask some bluntly relevant questions after such a strange event.”
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