But of course she hadn’t seen anything, though he suspected that sometimes an imagined scene could be just as frightening. The urge to touch her washed over him; rub her arm or drape his arm over her shoulders, comfort her in some way.
“And I was so scared,” she added softly.
“I doubt trying to stop him would have worked,” he said. “Seems it would have only served in getting yourself killed as well.” Alex refilled her teacup, then went to stand by the window, needing distance from her before he did something foolish.
She sipped her tea and sat there quietly for a while before she spoke again. “You’ve been out earlier this evening,” she said. It wasn’t a question, more of a random statement, and one that decidedly changed the subject matter. “I would wager you attended an early soiree or perhaps a dinner party.”
He could ignore her comment and steer her back to the subject at hand, but he didn’t want to see her so vulnerable again. There was nothing he could do for her, his job was to help find the killer. Miss Danvers was merely a witness. Still he could stand to have some regular conversation in the midst of this evening.
“I have. I briefly attended the Farmington soiree.” He frowned, wondering at his revelation. With the business of the murder he hadn’t wanted to leave the house, but he thought it might do well to keep up appearances. Still he found himself somewhat curious as to how she’d known he’d been out. “How did you know?” He took several steps back toward the sitting area.
“I can smell perfume on you, a couple of varieties as well as scented waters for hair rinses. Decidedly feminine smells so it seems logical that perhaps you’d danced tonight,” she said.
He stopped walking, just stood still. The fact that she could know that simply by the smell of him felt awkwardly intimate. As if he stood before her an open book ready for her to peruse and discover any of his secrets. Not that he had any. He lived a reputable life. He was a good man with very few vices.
“I did dance a few times tonight,” he admitted and his words sounded very much the confession to his ears.
“You don’t enjoy it?” she asked.
“Not particularly. Can you smell that, too?” he asked, irritated. Even though he’d allowed her this concession, to pry into his personal life as a distraction, he found himself quite put out by the turn of their discussion. He’d wanted her to take a break so that they could continue, allow him to ask her some additional questions, but now he was feeling very much like she could see into his soul, which was quite ridiculous.
“Of course not,” she chuckled. It was the second sign of humor she’d displayed and he found himself wanting to see more of that side of her. “I can simply hear it in your voice. It seems as a ‘highly regarded peer of the realm,’ if you didn’t want to dance, you shouldn’t have to,” she said, tossing his words back at him.
“It doesn’t work that way,” he said, his voice coming out gruff. He took a deep breath. There was no need to punish her simply because she was more astute than the average person. He returned to his seat and forced his tone to be more calm. “I am searching for a wife, and dancing is generally required for that sort of thing.”
“I see. Well, I suppose I should wish you luck, then. Finding the right wife can’t be an easy feat,” she said.
Her words echoed around him like a challenge. He should have liked to have selected his own wife, but once he’d assumed the title, that had been decided for him as well. Oh, he could have defied the wishes of his deceased father, gone against the constant pestering of his mother and ignored the wishes of a highly esteemed family, and had a woman of his choice. But the truth was he had yet to stumble across any woman he found remotely interesting. If he had to marry some empty-headed, pretty face, he might as well marry the one who would make a good alignment for his family.
Mia abruptly came to her feet. “I suppose I should return now,” she said. “Rachel should be home soon.”
“Who is this Rachel to whom you keep referring?” he asked.
“She was my governess before . . .” Mia shook her head. “She lives with me now. I suppose one could consider her a servant, but the pittance I pay her doesn’t really amount to her being a servant.” She smiled. “She is my dear friend.”
“A moment more, if you don’t mind,” he said. Mia’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “I realize you’ve been through quite enough, but I should like to make certain I got all of the details down to share with the inspector in charge of the investigation,” he said.
“I would be more than willing to speak to him myself, if you could make arrangements for a meeting,” she said.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Alex said.
She stood in front of him now, her lithe figure taller than most women in London. The heavy fabric of her wool dress hung on her, ill-fitted and loose, either from her not eating enough or simply not being able to afford a made-to-fit gown. Either way, it looked dreadful on her. She cocked her head to the side. “You are concerned they will not find my account credible. Or do you simply not want others to know of my connection to Danbridge?”
“In case it has missed your attention, you’re blind, Miss Danvers,” Alex said. “And that is not the sort of witness the police are generally looking for. I will merely take all the details you’ve given me and I’ll make certain they receive it. But I believe I missed a few things and simply want clarification.”
“Perhaps the police should not be so selective,” Mia said tartly. Indignation flared in her blue eyes and the delicate muscles in her cheeks tightened. “I can assure you, if I were ever to be in the same room with that man, I would know him. I would know that killer.”
Chapter Three
Mia listened as Alex’s quill scratched across the parchment. He would ask a few questions, then he’d pause to write something down. She wondered what he would tell the police regarding the source of his information, but she decided not to ask. He was a peculiar fellow, very starchy and proper, bordering on rude. He was arrogant, as most men of wealth and title were, but he seemed to truly relish in such behavior.
She found herself yet again somewhat thankful for her accident. Had she not lost her eyesight, she would have been pushed to marry a man such as himself. One who would prevent her from exploring statuary parks at night (which she shouldn’t do, but still no one else need tell her that) and who would forbid her from having opinions.
Still Mia couldn’t deny the fact that she enjoyed the way he spoke, liked the cadence of his speech, the rhythms of his words and the deep timbre of his voice. It seemed to take on a life of its own. When many people spoke, their voices felt detached from them and instead became almost like floating words to her ears. But with Lord Carrington she could feel his very person in his tone. Knew he was near, felt the warmth of this body even though he was not close enough to touch.
She didn’t enjoy reliving the details, but she had to admit that every time she told the story she remembered something new: a small detail, a hitch in the killer’s voice, the smell of his soap, the sound of his footsteps. He’d been wearing boots, she’d decided, heavy expensive boots by the sound of them. The way they’d crunched the rocks beneath each step, they’d been solidly made.
Or perhaps he was a large man, broad and heavy. She shivered at the thought. Lord Carrington had been right. Had she revealed herself, it was quite likely she, too, would have been slaughtered. Still she couldn’t shake the guilt that she should have tried to save that girl.
But it was over, she couldn’t do anything now to help except assist in finding her killer. Somewhere in London, her killer roamed free. Helping to send him to the gallows would perhaps give that girl a modicum of respect and peace.
“I think that should do it,” Lord Carrington said after a particularly long moment of writing.
Mia nodded. She wanted to ask him something, or at least wanted him to say something, anything so she could hear his voice one more time. She wanted to hear him say som
ething other than the details surrounding a gruesome death. He’d spoken briefly about finding a wife; though he had said it so casually he could have been talking about how he was searching for a good sturdy traveling carriage.
She knew that most of their class did not marry for love; it simply wasn’t done in polite Society. People married to increase property or pay off debt or merge businesses. But love simply wasn’t a part of the equation. It certainly hadn’t been a part of her own parents’ marriage. Though they’d always been civil to one another, it never seemed as though there had never been love between them. Admittedly, her mother had never been particularly warm to anyone, though she had always appeared to favor her oldest daughters.
She couldn’t help but wonder now if her sisters had married for love. Mia knew they had both married. Rachel had read the notices in the newspaper to her. Each of them had married their first year in Society. Both had married quite well. Cleo had married a viscount and Fran had snagged herself an earl. Certainly those accomplishments had made their mother proud.
A feat Mia knew she’d never be able to do and not simply because her mother was now deceased. No matter what, she doubted her mother would have ever approved of Mia’s choices. Thoughts like those would solve nothing, so she forced her mind to something else. Namely the man in the room with her.
Mia didn’t know if she should stand to leave or not so she simply stayed where she was. It was odd, this feeling of not wanting to leave. She did not know him, nor had he been exceptionally kind to her, still the conversation had soothed her unsettled nerves. His reminder that she couldn’t have done anything hadn’t been said to make her feel better or to give her any measure of peace, but was simply a matter-of-fact truth he shared. Still it had given her some measure of comfort and for that she would always be grateful.
“You mentioned earlier that you didn’t come right away because you were busy with something—may I inquire as to what was so important?” he asked as if he sensed she needed additional conversation.
“I was in the middle of a sculpture and I simply can’t walk away at certain stages of the process,” she explained.
“You sculpt?” he asked, his tone doing very little to hide his surprise. She could almost see, in her mind, raised eyebrows, parted lips and a widening of the eyes.
“I do. I’ve sold my work to a handful of people around London, though it’s very slow business. Right now I can only find customers by recommendation because I haven’t found a shop willing to carry my pieces. But I keep working and hope that I’ll find the right person.”
“I see,” he said. But he added nothing to indicate what he thought of her chosen field. It was odd enough for a woman of her station to be pursuing any profession, yet alone one of an artistic nature. She waited to hear the disapproval in his voice, but was surprised that it didn’t come.
He came to his feet, the chair creaked as his weight lifted. “I suppose that shall be all,” he said, clearly dismissing her as he would a servant.
She was used to the dismissive attitude of others, though she gave him credit that he spoke to her at all, and not as if she were a simpleton, but as if she were his intellectual equal. The combination was intriguing enough that she longed to speak with him again.
How many more ways could he surprise her? What a pity that she would likely never know.
***
“Alexander,” his mother said as he entered the dining room.
“Mother, you are looking well.” He bent to kiss her cheek as he’d been taught to do since he was but a boy. It was customary for them to share breakfast one morning a week. The other mornings the Lady Carrington broke her fast in her bedchamber after sleeping half the morning away.
She waited to speak until he had prepared his plate and taken his seat. “I’ve heard some disturbing rumors,” she said. She looked up at him across the table. “I do hope you can dispel them for me.”
Alex draped the napkin across his lap. “What sort of rumor?” He slathered butter across a piece of bread, then topped that with jam. “If it has anything to do with Drew, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him in a few days. You could check his townhome, though.” He took a bite, then set the bread down and turned his attention to his eggs.
“No, this does not concern your brother.” Her features were severe, tight by her anxiousness and years of being proper. Decades of not smiling. Smiling caused the skin to sag and wrinkle, she’d always said. She held her teacup in both hands, took a thoughtful sip, then set it back down. “Has the cottage girl been here, into our home? Twice in the last two days?” She punctuated the last sentence by holding up two fingers.
The vulgar nickname of “cottage girl” irritated him, though he owed Miss Danvers nothing so much as coming to her defense. Still she spoke as if she’d been reared in a good home and the temptation was great to chide his mother for her nastiness, but he bit back the retort. “She has,” he said instead, and continued eating. He didn’t owe her an explanation, he reminded himself. She was his mother, the dowager, yes, but his mother nonetheless. He was the Duke, the head of the family now.
“What is that about?” her voice was shrill. “Her visiting here as if she belonged.”
“I don’t see why her visits are of your concern, but if you must know, Mother, it has to do with that unfortunate business of that recent murder on our grounds. That was rather close to Miss Danvers’s cottage.”
“It is a tragedy that the poor girl got herself killed. And next to our home, no less. Scandalous.”
“I’m certain if the girl had had a choice she would have preferred to not be murdered at all. Next to our house or anyone else’s,” he said.
“I still don’t see what this has to do with that Danvers girl,” she said. She picked up a piece of bread and dropped a dollop of butter on it, then added a smearing of fruit preserves.
“It would seem,” Alex said, “that Miss Danvers might have witnessed the crime. I was merely getting her account to give to the inspectors.”
She pointed her bread at him. “I hardly see how the police could benefit from such a witness.” She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then added, “The girl probably heard them arguing, nothing more.”
“I was getting her account to share with the inspectors,” Alex said.
She bristled for a moment, then her pursed lips relaxed. “I should say that is a good plan, for you to speak to them and not allow her to do so.” She shook her head. “I simply can’t imagine she would make a very credible witness. You’re not planning to tell them, the police, that she was involved at all, are you?”
“No, I wasn’t planning on it. I do not believe they would take her account serious considering her condition,” he said. He’d only known her for two days, and he found that though he should have qualms about believing her, he didn’t have any. Of course he had that first night, but perhaps that was on account of his mother leading him to believe Mia was headed for Bedlam. Instead of her being the poised, well-spoken, though obstinate woman she was.
His mother took a small bite of egg. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin before she spoke again. “I’m glad you haven’t taken leave of all of your senses. For heaven’s sake, the girl isn’t even supposed to be alive.”
Alex looked up from his plate. “I beg your pardon?”
She eyed him for several moments, saying nothing more.
“Mother, what did you mean by that?” Alex asked. “That’s a very curious thing to say.”
“The riding accident she was in. Or was it a carriage accident?” She shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
“That is how she lost her sight?” he asked. And suddenly he wished he were speaking to Mia instead, to hear her story of how she’d come to be blind.
“Precisely,” his mother said. “And now everyone believes her to be dead. So dragging her into this police business would only complicate matters.”
“But she’s clearly not dead.” He frown
ed. “Who is everyone?”
“Everyone in London.” She waved her hands about impatiently. “It was her family’s choice.” She looked at him pointedly. “We must adhere to that. Support their decision.”
“Her family told everyone she died in the accident?” Alex asked. He shook his head. “Why must we support their decision?”
“Why does it matter, Alex?” Her tone was so laden with exasperation he nearly expected her to lean back against her chair, but she would never do something so pedestrian. She would sit as straight as possible until her back split in half. “It was her family’s decision and who are we to argue with that?”
“Well, I hardly agree with that sentiment. If we were to see people abusing their servants, would we not intercede? We cannot turn away from an injustice simply because it is inconvenient to interfere.”
“It is not our concern,” his mother said again.
“Of course it is. She lives on our property. Precisely who is her family?” But before she could answer, the truth hit him. “Danvers, as in the Danvers sisters. Their country estate bordered ours. Their mother was always trying to push her girls on me and Stephen,” Alex said.
“Precisely. She was a pushy woman.”
It was on his tongue to point out the obvious, but he supposed there would be no point. But now he knew precisely who Mia was. He remembered her sisters from several years before. The Danvers sisters had entered Society together, though they’d been a year apart. And they’d been quite appealing to many men. Pretty and poised, they’d been snatched off the market both in that first Season.
Why had he never made the connection before? He’d known a woman lived at the edge of his property. A deal his father had made with her parents, a favor given. But Alex had never really thought about this woman when he’d seen her sisters dance and smile and wave their fans. But she was, in fact, one of those Danvers. They had the same lithe figures and delicate features. Though he didn’t recall the other Danvers women having such startling beautiful eyes.
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